Dating the Billionaire: A Standalone Romantic Comedy

by Poppy Dunne

  Maybe…just maybe…that’s all right. After all, I’m not going to go overboard and throw everything about myself to the wind. Even if I kind of want to now. Spending all this time with Jack hasn’t done what I thought it might, show us our differences, make us annoy each other. It’s brought us closer.

  I think I’m catching feelings for this man. Catching them hard.

  And I realize, with a kind of blooming, unfurling warmth in the center of me, that I don’t mind that at all.

  Better talk to him, Dahlia. Better ask if he thinks he might feel the same. No, no, that’s too strong. Remember, he’s supposed to make the first move when it comes to relationship discussions. How do I nudge him to admit that, though? Hmm. Maybe fall into a swoon as soon as the plane lands? Blame it on the air pressure? Then force him to give me mouth to mouth resuscitation, while bemoaning about how he can’t live without me and then, once he revives me with brandy, we embrace and he whisks me off to the Riviera?

  That’s a little too 1980s Harlequin romance, but I’m going to give myself props for thinking of it in that much detail.

  Thank you, me.

  You’re welcome, brain.

  The jet lands, smooth as silk, while the words cluster in the back of my mouth and start shoving each other around. My tongue’s tangling just as I’m thinking about what I’m going to say. Play it cool, Dahlia. You know what to do. You know what to say.

  “Well. That was a good flight,” Jack says casually, unbuckling himself. Here we go, nice and easy—

  “Me am like you, Florence,” I manage, before wondering if I should maybe go lie down on the tarmac right in front of the wheels and ask the pilot to guide the jet a few feet ahead.

  Jack blinks. “No one’s called me Florence since I was a little boy,” he deadpans.

  Florence?? Where the hell did Florence come from? Oh, right, as I was trying to formulate the correct words, an image of Jack and me having sex in Florence with a killer view of the river Arno in the distance flooded into my mind. Sort of like that movie A Room with a View, but the classy porno version.

  I went to college for this, folks.

  “Er, scratch that part. In fact, scratch all of it. That wasn’t what I meant. Me am liking you, psah. Grammar, am I right? No, I meant Florence. I, er, well, I love Florence. The city of Florence. Not Florence, a person. Any woman named Florence would probably be at least eighty years old by this point, and I’m afraid that’s too old for me. Hah. You know. Settling down. Not that I want to settle down, oh no. I mean, not with an aging woman in a nursing home.” Oh my God it’s still going, how do I make it stop?

  “Dahlia.” Jack gives me his hand to help me out of my seat. I’m standing in front of him now, flustered and probably splotchy all over, when he brushes my hair aside and whispers in my ear, “Me am like you, too.”

  Never were more beautiful words spoken under weirder circumstances.

  “Oh.” My tongue feels five sizes too big for my mouth. This will clearly end well. “Do you also…like Florence?”

  “Only as a friend,” he whispers, catching my mouth. The instant spark between us, the delicious sizzle in my blood, it’s all I need to get swept away. Only my Hogwarts uniform is keeping me grounded, as I wrap my arms around his neck, as his tongue strokes the inside of my mouth. Remember, I need to act like a good honor student right now. No sex until after we’ve deplaned.

  We have to break apart when Jack’s pocket buzzes. No, it’s not an emergency erection. He pulls out his phone, and his face lights up. “Gabby. Hold on, I need to take this.” Indeed. I never get in the way of an adorable nine-year-old girl. Some things take priority.

  Jack hits the FaceTime accept button, and the beaming little girl appears. She waves enthusiastically, still wearing her cloak and pointed witchy hat. Man, she’s really attached to that look. Not that I have any right to judge, what with my infamous Hello Kitty galoshes that I insisted on wearing all through kindergarten. School, sleep, you name it, I wore them. Bath time was awkward.

  “Thank you for my present, Uncle Jack!” Gabby beams. “He’s the prettiest!”

  “He?” I mouth at Jack, who shrugs.

  “Every little girl wants a pony. Some little girls actually get one.” He winks. Oh dear.

  “Mommy said she’s speechless!”

  Yeah, I’ll bet she is. I’m sure taking care of a pony is a headache in its own right, and I should be sympathetic, but I find it a little hard to pony up any sympathy for Evelyn.

  Pony. Ha. I’m a riot.

  “Tell Mommy to take an extra Valium,” Jack says with earnest sweetness. Gabby nods.

  “I wish you and Daddy could’ve been there, though.” Gabby pouts, her little witch hat drooping a bit. Well, that’s weird. Pete didn’t ever drop his character? I mean, I know embodying Hagrid is very demanding artistically, but you’d think for his own daughter he’d let it slip.

  “Me too, sweetie.” Jack clears his throat and shifts, clearly uncomfortable. The hell? Why can’t he just tell Gabby?

  “Hi there,” I say, peeking in over Jack’s shoulder and smiling at the phone. Gabby’s mouth drops open and her eyes bug out at the sight of me. “Your uncle was—”

  “Uncle Jack! You know Hermione?” Gabby begins squealing, jumping up and down and clapping her hands in glee. She’s not the only Carraway to leap up, either—Jack rockets into the air, twisting and making sure to keep me out of the frame. Bewildered, I try getting closer, but he puts his hand up. Apparently, Hermione has to stay in her box.

  “Er, Gabby, keep that a secret from Mommy, okay? She might put two and two together. Think of the pony, Gabby.” He sounds desperate, and a little freaked out. Jack even glares at me, like I’m the one who did something wrong. Why can’t Gabby tell her mother? Why…

  Why do I suddenly have a bad feeling about this, in the most Han Solo way possible?

  “Gabby, I gotta go. Expelliarmus,” Jack says absently, like that’s the traditional wizard sign off.

  “Do you know Harry Potter?” Gabby shrieks, and the call ends. Jack runs a hand through his hair, looking at me warily. Perhaps he’s wondering if I’m clever enough to realize something is amiss right now. Oh, I’m clever enough, good sir.

  “Why can’t Gabby know we were at her birthday party?” I cross my arms, and when he tries to take a step towards me—a sexy, confident step, it’s true, but a step nonetheless—I put up a hand. Oh no. My hormones may be riotous of late, but that’s not going to distract me. I’m a stronger woman than that.

  “It’s Evelyn. You met her, you know what she’s like. She’s always looking for trouble,” he says, his voice soothing and rich. Only problem is I know how they’ve interacted in the past. Jack has zero problem pushing Evelyn’s buttons, and she’s more than happy to return the favor. Being afraid of Evelyn is new, which means something’s changed.

  “Jack.” This is my very best no-nonsense tone here. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  He stops smiling, and straightens his shoulders. He’s pulling himself together to declare pure, solid Alpha Male Power. He’s trying to take control of the situation. “Pete and I flew home to see the kids. I had a couple of drinks, and wanted to do something special for Gabby’s birthday. I went over to the house to decorate, but Evelyn didn’t appreciate that. So we were supposed to stay away.”

  “Hold on. You went to the house to decorate…while they were there?”

  Jack pauses. His lips press in a thin line. “They were coming back the next day. Gabby loved it,” he says, like that’s his get out of jail card.

  “But that’s Evelyn’s house. Look, I’m not much on her side in any of this, but you broke into her home and…and…turned it into a castle!” Admittedly that doesn’t sound bad, but in context, it’s terrible. “What about Pete? What did Evelyn say?”

  “Pete’s not in any trouble,” he’s quick to say. Then he pauses, but seems to make the decision to continue, because at this point it’s all coming out one way or the oth
er. “I have a restraining order, but—”

  “You have a what?” Every muscle in my body seems to freeze, like Han Solo in a block of carbonite. God knows why Star Wars is suddenly all I can think about, apart from the fact that this has been the nerdiest day of my goddamn life. “You had a restraining order, and you went there anyway? What would’ve happened if they discovered you? Jesus, what would’ve happened to Pete?”

  “I’m trying to help him, all right? Evelyn’s blocked him at every turn in this divorce, and she’s the one who left! Why does he have to be cut out of his kids’ lives because she wanted somebody else?” His voice rises, masculine and booming. He’s getting righteous now, but two can definitely play at that.

  “I agree! But getting drunk and making stupid decisions only puts Pete’s family in danger! It doesn’t help them if you decide you can’t stand Evelyn, and you make a huge fucking mess of things!”

  What the hell have I been doing? What am I wearing? I’ve gotten so swept up in this man and his enthusiasm, I haven’t stopped to consider the real world. There’s a world out there where people don’t dress up as wizards or fly around in supersonic jets or have sex in said jets. There’s a world where actions have consequences, but not in Jack Carraway’s world. No, he gets a slap on the wrist and some fines to pay. Meanwhile, Pete could lose his entire life…all because of Jack’s impulsivity.

  It’s like I’ve been mesmerized for days, and I’ve only now started to wake up. I rub my eyes, groaning.

  “Dahlia? What’s wrong?” Jack touches me, tries to take me in his arms, but I shove him away.

  “What am I doing with you? This isn’t who I am.” Shaking my head, I fasten my robe (he even made me a Gryffindor, for God’s sake) and head for the door. The flight attendant is standing there, eyes trained on the ground and not saying anything. She meekly says goodbye as I step out onto the stairs to head down.

  “Wait!” Jack says. I turn to find him in the doorway, his hands gripping either side. The night wind tousles his hair. “This one thing got out of control, but that happens sometimes. I can fix it.” His snapping blue eyes seem to ice over. “If you can’t forgive people when they fuck up, how are you supposed to live?” He shakes his head. “You’re too judgmental, Dahlia.”

  I’m the bad guy here? Maybe he’s got a point; he got drunk and screwed up, and feels bad, and I should accept that. But I don’t want a life where I’m constantly afraid something wild is going to happen. I didn’t plan for that. And I like my plans.

  “Thanks for the fantasy, but I need to get back to real life,” I say. My voice falters, and my vision blurs, but dammit I’m not giving in. I rush down the stairs, Jack calling my name. I hustle faster, because I’m pretty sure he’s coming after me, and I don’t want him to.

  If he apologizes, I might not have the strength to walk away. And I know that I need to.

  As I book it out of the airfield and into a cab, I realize I never got my change of clothes. The guy turns around and looks at me, both eyebrows raised.

  “Wow. Lady, you musta been to a helluva party,” he says, adjusting the rearview mirror and pulling out into traffic. I bundle myself into my robes, trying not to sniffle.

  “Yeah. It was some kind of party,” I murmur, watching out the window as the lights speed past.

  That’s the worst thing about parties: they always have to end.

  20

  Dahlia

  Rule 1: Never date anyone. Ever.

  Rule 2: Write slam poetry about how much you hate your ex-maybe-boyfriend, and perform it at a college open mic night. Make the students uncomfortable.

  Rule 3: Learn to crochet.

  I take my pen and slash through all of the rules multiple times, scribbling so hard that my wrist hurts. Screw you, rules. You’re not specific enough. You didn’t protect me.

  Or maybe I didn’t protect myself. But who cares? The point is, I can’t just go for any simple rules any longer. I let myself get lax once too often, and look where I ended up. Sitting here, in my childhood bedroom in Long Island, with reams of my mother’s stationary at my disposal and a bearded poster of Aragon watching me from my bedroom door, judging manfully and soulfully.

  Viggo Mortensen was important to my teenage sexual awakening, and I will hear nothing bad about that statement.

  No, it’s not enough to scratch these stupid rules out of existence. I need to start completely anew. Grunting like a feral beast who hates paper, I shred the list into smaller and smaller pieces before sprinkling it into the waste paper basket next to me, a snowfall of shame. Poetry. I am nothing if not poetic.

  Then I slide a fresh piece of paper my way—this one’s got a watermark on it, very fancy—and start a new list.

  Rule 1: Take over the world.

  Rule 2: Forbid anyone from naming their child Jack.

  These are good rules.

  “Dahlia!”

  My head snaps up from my desk; Mom opened the door while I was busy constructing my Pinky and the Brain style doomsday plan. She’s got a plate in one hand—caprese sandwich, from the smell of it, probably courtesy of my dad. She puts it on the desk, clearing some paper out of the way, and looks aghast at the little pile of shredded mayhem in the basket next to me.

  “Dahlia, those were some of my nicest samples.” She shakes her head, those faint frown lines crinkling across her forehead. Mom’s got impeccable skin and hair—she barely looks mid-forties, nearly two decades younger than she really is. I hope I got her genes for aging, but I’m probably doomed to be like Dad: jowly, silver-haired, and constantly arguing with telemarketers.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, doing a dead on impression of teenage asshole me. It’s unreal how quickly I unraveled when I came home for the weekend, needing a place to heal my broken heart. I also needed to be in a space where Jack and I had not engaged in mind-blowing sex, and nothing dampens those kinds of stirring desires than a weekend of my Dad asking how his nose hair looks now that he’s trimmed it.

  Mom puts her hands on her hips and blows out her cheeks. Then she leans down and kisses me on the cheek, making me feel like even more of a child. Already, the bedroom looks like it did when I was in high school: the pink duvet comforter’s rumpled, the rose-colored pillows are on the ground. My closet door’s open, and all my yearbooks are spread out on the white carpet. I’ve spent the day going through pictures of old school friends, marking out which ones are married—most of them—and which ones have not had spiraling moments of failure. Pretty much all.

  I’m being a brat right now. I can feel it, my body knows it, I know it. But I can’t help it. I needed seventy-two hours free of thinking about Jack. Dreaming about him. Hating him. Missing him.

  “Baby, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Mom huffs and sits on my bed, tossing my stuffed tiger to the side. Hey, leave Hobbes out of this! “You won’t eat anything, you’ve hardly spoken to Dad and me, and I’m certain I heard some of that Mauve Five album playing. You know, the one you liked in college.”

  “Maroon Five,” I correct. “Songs for Jane got me through the breakup of 03. Remember, Mom? Steve Doyle? Dumped me by the river after making me pay for beer?”

  Rule 3: Never pay for a man’s beer.

  “Is that what this is? A break up?” Mom smoothes my hair out of my face, and I know what’s coming. I squeeze my eyes shut to avoid it, but here it is. “I know you’re worried about being alone, especially as—”

  “As I get older?” I feel like I’m becoming one of those Jane Austen spinsters everyone pities, which is ridiculous, because I am my own woman, dammit. I like having my own business, running my own life. But that doesn’t mean I want to do it alone. “Look, it’s useless, Mom. My brain’s just…I’m just too weird.”

  There it is: two fat, stupid tears drip down my cheeks, and my chin wobbles. I am a woman in her thirties, and I am not going to cry and make my Mom have to comfort me. I’m beyond that.

  “Baby, that’s not true.” Mom strokes my hair; okay, I
need a little of that, I’ll admit. “I know you had some bad times growing up…”

  I don’t mean to snort, but come on. I was the most disorganized person in the world in school, the one with the weird laugh, the messy locker, the ideas that made everyone give me the side eye and led to chaos.

  Maybe all those weird looks got to me on a deeper level than I knew. When I see couples happy together, it’s like I’m catching a beautiful look at someone else’s great vacation. They’re perfect together because they’re perfect. I’ll never have that, because I’m not perfect.

  “This man you were seeing. Did he make you doubt yourself?” Mom sounds cross. I shake my head.

  “No. He wanted me to loosen up. To feel free, I guess?” I sniffle. Go, adult me.

  “Well, that doesn’t sound too bad.” Mom sounds surprised. “A lot different than the tightasses you normally date. Oh!” She clamps a hand over her mouth, Southern surprise in full charming effect. “’Scuse my French.”

  Considering she married a man who once called an overheated engine ‘you sublime motherfucker,’ this is hilarious.

  “But he was too loose. Too wild. It made me feel like I used to, I don’t know, back in school.” I sigh and rub my eyes. “Unmoored, not knowing what was going to come next. I don’t want to feel that way anymore.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying, if he didn’t cheat on or hit you, and you like him, well…” Mom shrugs and stands, nudging my plate closer to my elbow. “Maybe you can work it out?”

  “So I can get married and not be a failure to you and Dad?” I mutter, uncharitable as all hell. I don’t like it as it leaves my mouth, but dark thoughts are bitches like that. Fortunately, Mom doesn’t take the bait. She only puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Baby, I know I worry about you. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you that much. But I wouldn’t be so unhappy about your personal life if you weren’t so unhappy about it.” Squeezing my shoulder, she adds, “Dad and I are always proud of you. I wish you could be more proud of yourself.”