Billionaire Romance Box Set: Weeks Complete Collection: Weeks Romance Series - The Complete Collection

by Sarah J. Brooks

  We slept, me in his arms. When I woke up, he was gone, but he’d left a note saying that he’d had a business meeting. I was sad, but I trusted that was part of the territory.

  I grabbed my phone and checked my messages. There was one from Dr. Evans saying I needed to come to her office ASAP. She sounded so angry. I hung up the phone, pale and shaky. I looked at the clock; it was nine. She had called a little past seven. Had she found out? What had I done?

  LOVELY Weeks

  5. An Alpha Billionaire Romance

  Sarah Brooks

  Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Brooks

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Facebook: Sarah Brooks

  Becka

  I walked into the food science building, hurrying past the underclassmen lounging near the doors. My advisor, Dr. Evans, had wanted to see me and had seemed really upset, angry? I wasn’t sure. I felt anxiety surging through my body; it was likely, though I had no idea how, that Dr. Evans had found out that Oliver Weeks and I had begun an affair. Though there was nothing wrong with it—we’re both unmarried, consensual adults—I was pretty sure Dr. Evans would see it as a breach of trust, unethical, a bad career move for me. And, on that last one, she may not be wrong.

  I walked quickly up the two flights of stairs. My fling with Oliver was still quite new. We’d only had sex once, and, while I definitely felt that I was being courted in a way by Oliver, I really didn’t see our relationship going much past sex and a few dates. After all, he was the CEO of a major food science company, and I’m basically a graduate student. We had very little in common, I imagined, outside of a shared interest in the altruism behind food science, the potential of science to cure the world’s hunger problem through experimentation, funding, research… I found myself smiling in spite of the stress I was under. Oliver’s face flashed through my mind; his piercing, moody eyes, his cut jawline, his lips. His lips especially, and the way he moved them all over my body, kissing every bit of flesh he could find. We had spent last night together and, though I was nervous to talk to Dr. Evans, I was still feeling the afterglow of our time together.

  I wiped the smile off my face, though, when I walked down the hall to Dr. Evans’ office. If she did know about Oliver, I was in huge trouble. And, if she didn’t, but suspected anything, I needed to keep my cool and not give her any further reasons to suspect. Walking in like I was floating ten feet above the earth would certainly tip her off.

  I knocked on the door, which was partially cracked open. I could see her sitting at her desk inside, her head in her hands. I swallowed hard.

  “Dr. Evans?” I asked, quietly knocking my knuckles on the door. In spite of my attempt to not scare her, she jumped, lifting her head from her hands and turning her head to the door.

  “Come in, Becka, have a seat.” I looked at Dr. Evans carefully, trying to assess exactly how much trouble I was in. Just remember, you’re an adult, I thought. But, as it turned out, I didn’t need to worry. Dr. Evans turned to look at me and she seemed upset. She looked like she had been crying, actually, and she had a huge stack of papers on her desk that she had clearly been sorting through more than once; the pages were wrinkled and folded and stacked every which way.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine what would have happened to upset her in this way. Even if she’d known about Oliver and me, she would be angry. She seemed devastated.

  “I can’t believe this is happening. I just got word from the president’s office; he’s canceling the funding on the Protame project.” She shook her head as if she simply couldn’t believe the words were coming out of her mouth.

  I felt my mouth drop open. The Protame project was a research project Dr. Evans had been in charge of since before I got into college. The goal was to find a healthy substitute for aspartame, something that would work in diet sodas where other sweeteners wouldn’t. Dr. Evans was developing the compound from its barest essentials. She had invited me in on the project the year before, and my research was going to be the cornerstone of my dissertation.

  “Why?” I asked, stunned.

  “Budget cutbacks,” she said. She sighed. He told me at the onset that it was a possibility of the project being cut at any time, but that was back before any of the real work had been done, back before it became a major potential boon for the university.” She slammed her fist on her desk. “Damn it!”

  I understood her frustration. To a scientist, especially one who teaches at a college or university and is expected to regularly publish research in addition to teaching, there are enough financial obstacles as it is. To have the university pull the funding for the project could stall the project, at the best, or cancel the project entirely, at the worst.

  “Can you apply for a grant?” I asked.

  “It’s too late to do so for the remainder of the year. Most of the deadlines have passed. It’s possible to be able to find a few pennies here and there, but…” she shook her head again. “I can’t believe this is happening. I wanted to tell you myself because this will also affect you,” she said. “It means you may need to find a new focus for your dissertation.”

  I felt stress explode in my stomach and my chest constrict. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Can’t I just continue to research on my own?”

  “You can, but that won’t work for your dissertation. The university’s requirements for completion and defense of your dissertation require you to have active, lab research. What we’ve done will help, but it won’t be enough.”

  The reality of the situation started to sink in. “So,” I said slowly, “this project needs to be funded, or I need to start my dissertation over again.”

  Her silence indicated I had pretty much nailed it. I took some deep breaths. “Okay,” I said. “What do we do?”

  Dr. Evans looked as if she wanted to cry again. I was in shock and nowhere near tears, at least for the time being. “We’ll definitely apply for the grants that are still available. That’s what these are.” She gestured to the stack of papers on her desk. “And, I’m going to write a letter of appeal to President Shendon; perhaps you’d like to do the same?” I nodded. “And, then we’ll just have to wait.”

  “When is the funding stopping?” I asked.

  “The end of this term,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Seriously?”

  “I know,” Dr. Evans said. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m going to keep working on my dissertation. The funding will come. Give me some of the grant applications, and, of course, I’ll write a letter to President Shendon asking, begging, him to not prevent me from getting my dissertation.” I attempted a smile, but it seemed hollow even to me.

  I walked out Dr. Evans’ office feeling equally relieved and panicked. Relieved because she didn’t suspect anything between Oliver and me, panicked because… what on earth was I going to do? Now I felt the tears poking at my eyes. This dissertation, the development and hopeful implementation of Protame, was going to be my mark, my contribution to stamp myself as a serious scientist with a desire to have a serious influence on the scientific community and on the general health of the public. When I walked out of the building, my phone began to sound alerts. I sighed, no reception in most of the buildings led to everyone’s phones blowing up as soon as they walked outside. I had three texts, all from Oliver. I smiled.

  Hi lovely, how was your morning?

  Let’s do happy hour tonight?

  Then to my place or yours?

  I replied, Yes, definitely. I need about ten drinks after the news I just got. Tell u tonight. Where?

  He texted back the name of a bar far enough off campus I knew I’d have to drive, but that was fine with me. I was anxious to be as far away from the university as I could be that night. I got to m
y car and drove back to my apartment. I always did research when I was stressed out, reading the case studies of others, and, today, I sat down at my computer and brought up the library’s database, which connected to several other universities and government databases. My search today was for Neuotova, Oliver’s company. As I clicked through articles, most of which I’d read before, I found myself relaxing, the tension leaving my shoulders and neck. I lost track of time, and, when I looked up at the clock, it was almost time to leave to meet Oliver. I was still stressed out, though doing some research had definitely helped.

  I hurriedly took a shower and threw on a pair of skinny jeans, boots, and a tank top. I added a belt, settling it at my hips. I dried my hair but decided to wear it up so I didn’t have to straighten it. I put on some light make up, nothing fancy. I grabbed a jacket, my purse, my phone and my keys, and I hit the road.

  I arrived about five minutes late. Oliver was sitting at a table for two inside the bar against the back wall. A pitcher of darker beer—looked like a pale ale—sat in front of him with two glasses.

  “Looks like you’re waiting for me,” I said.

  “I was hoping this pitcher of beer would draw a beautiful girl,” he said. “And, look, it worked.”

  I sat down and he poured beer into my pint glass. We clinked glasses and I took a long sip. It tasted absolutely delicious. His eyes were smoldering, dark, and, in the dim light of the bar, he looked incredibly mysterious. I shifted in my seat, already feeling the beginnings of arousal moving within me.

  “How was your day?” he asked. I hesitated. I didn’t want to tell him about the project and Dr. Evans, but I’d said I would when I texted him earlier.

  “It was okay,” I said. “Like I told you when I texted, it was kind of stressful.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. I chuckled; this was part of the reason I loved talking to him.

  “Let me get one beer into me, and then I’ll fill you in. In the meantime, tell me about your day?”

  Oliver smiled and reached for my hand across the table. I interlaced my fingers with his and he trailed his index finger over my knuckles as we talked. He talked generally about his day… he’d had meetings, a negotiation, and he’d done a walkthrough on one of his labs.

  “I stop in unannounced, usually at least once a month, sometimes once a week. It keeps my employees on their toes, and it helps keep me connected to my business.”

  “And to the research, I imagine,” I said, taking a sip of the pale ale.

  “And to the research,” he agreed. “It’s part of what made me interested in taking you on as an intern based on Amy’s—Dr. Evans’—recommendation. I’m fascinated by the research aspect but it’s one of the parts of Neuotova that needs some pumping up. Quite honestly, I’m looking to build up the leadership in that department.”

  I thought for a moment about how it would be to intern for Oliver while I was sleeping with him. It seemed like a really bad idea. Of course, when I tried to imagine either not sleeping with him or not working for him, I couldn’t figure out which one I would rather give up. I sighed. How had I gotten it so bad so quickly?

  “Okay,” Oliver said, interrupting my thoughts. “That was quite the sigh. Why don’t you tell me what happened with your day.”

  So I told him all about the conversation with Dr. Evans, and how the ending of the funding for the Protame project basically meant a complete redo on my dissertation, or I didn’t even know what. As I talked I felt myself getting more and more upset as the full realization of what was happening hit me. The grants were never a guarantee, and even doing the applications for the grants was a time-consuming task that wouldn’t lend any forward progress on my dissertation. I paused to take a long sip of beer and Oliver squeezed my hand.

  “You’re getting stressed out,” he said. “What can I do?”

  “You’re sweet,” I said. “But there’s nothing. Unless you want to write a grant or something for me.” I laughed. There was a way he could help, but I wasn’t going to tell him what it was. If I interned at Neuotova, it was possible I could get the lab research experience I needed to complete my dissertation. That would mean, though, that I would be beholden to Oliver and his company to complete my degree, and I didn’t want to do that. So, I said all he needed to do was support me as I figured out a plan for myself.

  After happy hour, we decided we were both hungry and had dinner at the bar. I laughed as Oliver ordered a burger and fries and tucked his napkin into his shirt collar when the food came.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You’re funny,” I said. “When’s the last time you ate a burger and fries at a restaurant?”

  “I have no idea,” he said, shoving three fries into his mouth. “But I can tell you I wouldn’t be doing it now if I wasn’t with you, and I am loving this burger and fries. You’re a good influence on me, Miss Becka.”

  I blushed. We talked through dinner and, as we finished the pitcher of beer, I felt my exhaustion from our night together the night before and a stressful day today finally catching up with me.

  “You look tired,” he said as he paid the check.

  “I am,” I agreed. “I’d love to come back to your place, but you wore me out last night.” I smiled at him.

  “Then tomorrow night,” he said as if it was decided. I opened my mouth to object, but then I closed it. He liked to speak in statements, not questions. We could argue about if I was going to go to his house tomorrow night, but, the fact is, I was going to be there. We agreed to talk the next day and we left in our separate cars.

  ***

  The next day, Dr. Evans called me early in the morning. I heard my phone this time and answered immediately when I saw her name on my caller ID.

  “Becka!” she said when I answered. “I have the most exciting news! The president just called me and said that the school received a donation specifically marked to keep our project going. It’s an ongoing donation, so we have all the cash we need to bring the product to fruition!” She was breathless with excitement. I, on the other hand, was suspicious.

  “Who made the donation?” I asked carefully. “I mean, that’s absolutely amazing. The generosity is incredible.”

  “That’s the crazy thing. The donation was anonymous. I don’t know how the donator would have even known; I told a few people, but no one with that kind of deep pockets. And I’m fairly certain you don’t have any of those friends either…”

  As a matter of fact, I did have that type of “friend” and I was mightily pissed. Of course Oliver had made the donation—there were no other options. And how dare he… was he trying to buy me? I tried to breathe and stay calm; I tried to think of any other possible reason. Perhaps he did it because he liked me, but the only gift I’d ever gotten from a boyfriend was a sterling silver ring in the ninth grade. The guys I dated weren’t typically the kind to donate over a million dollars to save their girlfriends’ dissertations. Or, I thought… maybe they were.

  “It’s an incredibly amazing thing; you must be so relieved! And, of course I am, too,” I said. We talked for a few minutes, Dr. Evans speaking animatedly about the future, about getting past this ‘little setback’ as she put it, and fulfilling the donor’s expectations with our final product.

  As soon as I got off the phone with Dr. Evans, I texted Oliver.

  I need to speak with you immediately.

  Oliver

  I spent the morning making arrangements for the evening with Becka. I knew she had been upset the night before and, even though I knew she’d likely be much happier tonight, I still wanted to treat her to something special. I made reservations at one of my favorite restaurants. I thought about it, then changed my mind and cancelled the reservations there, choosing instead to take her to a bar downtown. She was beautiful anywhere, but I especially loved looking at her when she was in her element. Last night when she was sitting across from me drinking her beer I had been so turned on by her I’d wanted to ravage her right th
ere in the bar. I sat at my desk and thought about Becka, saw her face in my mind, and knew that it was the fact that I was willing to forego my favorite Michelin star restaurant for a dive bar that made Becka someone I needed to hold on to. She was good for me. The bar felt exciting, like visiting another country, and I loved exploring places like that with her.

  As I stared out the window, my phone pinged. I grabbed it and looked; it was a text from Becka that she needed to speak with me immediately. I frowned. Tone is impossible to detect over text message, of course, but she seemed angry. I texted back immediately.

  I can call you, what’s going on? I looked at the time; it was almost ten o’clock in the morning. I thought about the donation I’d made to the school, but I was fairly sure it was too early for Becka to have found out. I wasn’t even sure Amy Evans knew about it yet.

  Two minutes later, my phone rang. I picked it up and was just about to say hello when Becka began yelling on the other end.

  “Who do you think you are? You think you can fucking buy me? Is that what you do?”

  “Slow down,” I said. Apparently she’d found out about the donation. “I did it for you, of course, but for Amy as well. I did it for the school and I did it for the future of food science.” I spoke calmly and slowly, using the same voice I used when I was trying to smooth something over with a difficult client.

  “I can’t believe you did that without telling me. Do you know how that makes me look?” Before I could interject, she went on. “It makes me look like a complete prostitute!”

  “Becka, please,” I said. “It was never my intention to upset you. Can we please talk about this tonight?”

  Thankfully she agreed, and we hung up. I sighed. I’d misjudged that business transaction big time. Normally I knew exactly what to do when money was involved, when there was a negotiation that needed to be handled. I thought Becka would be excited, grateful—not to me, but grateful for the opportunity to be able to continue her work—but of course I’d completely shut out the timing aspect. We’d had sex the night before, then I turn around and make a donation—small to me, but not to Amy and certainly not to Becka. Idiot, I thought to myself. Well, there’s one sure way to erase a deal, and that’s to erase it. If Becka didn’t want the donation, I would call and rescind the money immediately. I would offer that to her tonight and see what she said.