The Billionaire and the Virgin

by Jessica Clare

  Recognition dawned on her face. “And this is why you stood me up yesterday. Because Logan would see you and know you were spending time with me.”

  “Yup. And I never wanted to hurt you at all. Not in the slightest.” The look on his face was fierce. “But I was trapped. Logan thinks I’m using you to get to him, and that’s not true.”

  She didn’t know if she believed him. She wanted to, desperately, but years of long, lonely experience had taught her that hot, interesting guys didn’t go for the six-foot-tall chick. So she was leaning more toward Logan’s suggestion, too, which hurt. Bad.

  “So Logan thinks you’re using me.”

  He nodded.

  “And yet you slept with me last night, knowing that today I’d find out who you were?”

  “Can’t blame a guy for wanting a little taste of paradise before being condemned to hell.”

  Her jaw dropped. “That is repulsive.”

  He rubbed his face again. “I wasn’t going to touch you, Marjorie. I really wasn’t. Hell, you wouldn’t take no for an answer, and you were so sweet and so fragile that I felt like if I turned you down, I’d have hurt you even more.” The smile he shot in her direction was bitter, tormented. “I was fucking stuck. Either love you and leave you, or just leave you. I chose to get one night out of things, at least.”

  He was right, she realized with a sick feeling in her stomach. She’d been so relieved when he showed up and made her feel pretty again that she’d all but begged him to take her virginity. Oh sweet mercy, it was so shameful. “You must have had a good laugh at the ignorant virgin who thought you were her knight in shining armor.”

  “I never laughed at you. Not once,” Rob said, his face solemn. “I never cared what anyone thought about me until I met you. I grew up thinking I was completely unlovable and didn’t give a shit. Everyone in the world could think I was some sort of douchebag in a business suit and I didn’t care a whit . . . until I met you. You’re the only person I’ve ever cared about what you thought of me.” He reached for her hand and tugged it between his. “And I love you.”

  Funny how the “I love you” didn’t come last night in bed when she’d told him how she felt. It only came now, when he felt cornered, trapped. Hot tears blurred Marjorie’s vision and she swiped at them angrily. “How can you sit there and tell me that you love me when all you’ve done is lie to me?”

  “I was trying to protect you.”

  “From who you really are? Who’s going to protect all those women from you? The women you pay to debase themselves for your viewers?”

  “Marjorie, it’s not like that—”

  “It’s exactly like that,” she cried, pulling her hand from his. “How would you feel if those men showed up right now and I felt pressured to take my top off? And then it showed on TV?”

  His jaw clenched. “I told them to leave you alone.”

  “Because you’re the boss,” she pointed out. “If you weren’t and they harassed me, I might have done it just to make them go away. Then how would you feel?”

  He said nothing. Just gazed at her with wounded eyes.

  “Those women are someone else’s daughters. Their sisters, their girlfriends. You’re profiting off of bullying them.”

  “What do you want me to say, Marjorie? I love you. I never intended on falling in love, but I’m crazy about you. If you want me to say I’m sorry, I will. If you want me to sell the network, I will. I love you. I’d do anything for you. I loved you from the moment I saw you.”

  “I don’t know if I can still love you, Rob. The man I loved was a lie.”

  “No.” His nostrils flared and he glared at her. “I’ve been me with you this week. That’s who I really am. That wasn’t a lie.”

  “The man I fell in love with wouldn’t hurt women. He treats me like gold,” she said softly. “I loved the man who was kind and gentle to me, who held my hand and rescued me from creeps. Not the man who hires the creeps.”

  “Marjorie, please.” He grasped her hand in his, pulled it to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “I adore you. I adore everything about you. I’ve never met someone like you and I can’t wait to spend every minute with you. Give me another chance. Let me redeem myself in your eyes. Please. I want you with me. When I go back to California, I want you to come with me and give me another chance. I can change.”

  Her heart was breaking at the pain in his handsome face, his smoky green eyes. How many times had she dreamed of having a man tell her that he loved her and wanted her? And how was it that Rob—who was so perfect for her in so many ways and made her feel so cherished and loved—could turn out to be so awful underneath? She felt utterly betrayed, and stupid . . .

  And she just hurt, from head to toe. Her heart hurt the worst. “I can’t, Rob.”

  “I don’t want to lose you. How much is Brontë going to pay you? I’ll double it. No, I’ll triple it. You can be my assistant. Two of mine are fucking idiots anyhow.”

  She reluctantly pulled her hand from his, wanting to weep at how her body still wanted him even though her heart felt torn asunder. “I’m sorry, Rob. I have a rehearsal dinner to get to.”

  “Marjorie, please.”

  She shook her head. “Just . . . just leave me alone, okay?”

  As she walked away on wobbly feet, she kept expecting him to come after her. She looked back, once, and saw Rob still sitting at the bench, a haunted expression on his face.

  He could beg her to forgive him as nicely as he wanted, but in the end, she didn’t trust him. She didn’t know the real Rob. Did the real Rob go on moonlit swims with tall girls and take them out for ice cream simply because they wanted to spend time together? Did the real Rob want to impress a girl so much that he wore a sweater-vest and took her to bingo? Or was the real Rob a manipulator who wore a million faces and would say whatever she wanted to hear just so he could get into the wedding?

  She felt sick.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The reception dinner was lovely. Despite the fact that Marjorie sat alone, the seat next to her uncomfortably empty, her friends did their best to make her feel wanted and happy. She’d never felt more loved by her friends . . .

  Which was ironic, because all she wanted to do was run up to her room and have a good crying session. She couldn’t, though, because she didn’t want to ruin Brontë’s happiness. So she smiled and acted like she was fine. She laughed and chatted and shook hands, and gave her small, shaky little speech at the rehearsal dinner. Her smile felt pasted on¸ but if anyone noticed her stiff, frozen look, they kept it to themselves.

  And afterward, when all the women piled into several limos and headed out for the official bachelorette party, Marjorie was amongst them, doing her best to have fun. Somehow, she found a seat in the limo next to Brontë, who hugged her and didn’t say anything.

  And Marjorie hugged her back, tears threatening.

  They were quiet in each other’s arms for a long moment while the others chatted and drank around them. Then, Brontë leaned into Marjorie’s ear.

  “I just want you to know,” she whispered, “That the manager told Logan that Mr. Cannon and his people—all of them—left the hotel earlier. You don’t have to worry about seeing any of them again.”

  “Thank you,” Marjorie murmured woodenly. She knew Brontë was trying to make her feel better. And she supposed it should have made her feel better. Any more awkward confrontations were no longer something she had to worry about.

  But she wasn’t any fun at the bachelorette party, and she ended up sitting at one of the back tables with pregnant Audrey, sipping water and listening halfheartedly to the other woman’s baby plans.

  When she finally got back to her hotel room at three in the morning, she fell into bed and tucked her hands under her pillow . . .

  Only to find one of Rob’s shirts. She’d slept in it last night and had worn it this morning to return to her room. It was a soft gray t-shirt, and when she put it to her nose, it smelled like sex and sw
eat and Rob.

  Marjorie buried her face in it and burst into tears.

  ***

  A wedding was no place for someone with a freshly broken heart, so Marjorie did the best she could to hide her misery. The good thing was that she never had a moment to herself. From the time she woke up the next morning, she was part of the wedding whirlwind. The bridesmaids had breakfast together again, and gifts were exchanged with the teary—but radiant—bride. Then, the women had hair and makeup done, last-minute fittings and stitchings into their gowns, and then they all took a limo to the far side of the island, where a massive white tent had been erected to shelter the wedding party as the others arrived for the outdoor wedding. The wedding itself would take place on a white pier built especially for the ceremony, with tiers of steps for the bridesmaids to stand on. A cobblestone path had been created through the sand and smoothed over for the high heels of the women, and the chairs for the guests were carved wooden benches placed in the sand with white and red umbrellas dotting the aisles.

  It was a mixture of beach, extravagance, and wedding finery, and Marjorie had never seen anything like it. And yet, somehow, it fit Brontë and Logan perfectly.

  Strains of Pachelbel began to float through the air, and pair by pair, a bridesmaid went down the aisle with a groomsman. First was tiny Angie with taller, lean Jonathan. Then, it was Marjorie’s turn to walk with Cade Archer, a man as gorgeous as he was kind. They emerged from the tent, Marjorie towering over him in her heels. She probably would have matched Jonathan’s height better, but for once, she didn’t care. If Rob had found her beautiful in tall heels—and for some reason, she believed that he had—then she knew she wasn’t the hideous storky monster she’d always envisioned. So when she went down the aisle with Cade, she walked proudly, her head held high, the white roses in her bouquet clutched in a hand that did not tremble.

  They glided up the cobbled pathway down to the beach, then across the platform to the stairs. Cade led her to the spot where she was to stand, gave her a wink, and then moved to the opposite side to stand with the other groomsmen. Next up the aisle was sunny Maylee, white-blonde curls piled atop her head, beaming up at her fiancé, Griffin. The rest of the bridesmaids and groomsmen, Marjorie knew, were paired up in real life, and it was fun to watch them go down the aisle together, knowing they were picturing their own weddings. Maylee had a dreamy look on her face, while Griffin’s expression was carefully blank.

  Next came Audrey and Reese, and Marjorie’s heart melted a little at the sight of them. Audrey was heavily pregnant, and her dress had been refitted half a dozen times before they’d given up on the mermaid skirt entirely and changed her dress to an empire waist, so her belly could expand as needed. Her shoes were flats, and she looked small and round and very very expectant. In contrast, the man at her side was utterly suave and gorgeous, his tuxedo fitting to perfection. They looked like an utter mismatch, except for the way he looked down at Audrey as she waddled down the aisle—like she was the most precious, perfect thing in the world. There was so much love shining from his eyes that it made Marjorie’s own gaze grow misty.

  Then, Gretchen and Hunter appeared from the tent. Gretchen’s gown was a mirrored contrast to Marjorie’s own—white with just hints of red peeping from the skirts, and a red bouquet. The man at her side was . . . well, the kindest word was “disfigured,” Marjorie decided. One side of his face was twisted and reconstructed, and he looked extremely uncomfortable in front of the staring crowd. But as if she knew her own fiancé would be uncomfortable, Gretchen began to blow kisses, hamming it up for the crowd that laughed as she strolled up the aisle. Marjorie wondered how much of Gretchen’s obnoxious show was because of Gretchen and how much was to take people’s attention off of her man, who preferred quiet instead of crowds.

  Once Gretchen swanned her way down the aisle, she gave Hunter a quick kiss and a slap on the ass before he returned to his designated spot as best man, which made the audience laugh again.

  Then, the music changed, and all eyes went to the back of the path, anticipating the bride. Marjorie kept her gaze on Logan’s face—she’d seen Brontë in her all-white lace mermaid gown with a floor-length veil and a waterfall of red roses as her bouquet. She looked utterly gorgeous and serene, but what Marjorie wanted to see was Logan’s expression when he saw his bride coming down the aisle.

  She knew the exact moment the bride appeared, just by watching him. Logan’s cool expression changed. His eyes lit up like stars, and then shone with pride. A small, private smile tugged at his mouth, his gaze completely and utterly focused on one woman. Marjorie felt the insane urge to cry again at the sight of it. Would she ever have someone look at her like that?

  Rob did, her traitorous mind told her, but she shushed it. Rob was a liar and a horrible person. She couldn’t be with someone like that. Heart aching, she watched as Brontë glided up the aisle, and her father passed her hand to Logan’s. The groom still looked to be bursting with pride, and the bride radiant, as the minister began to speak.

  For all the preparations and endless weeks of work, it seemed like the ceremony was a short one. Logan and Brontë had made their own vows, peppered in with quotes from Plato, Aristotle, and a few more of Brontë’s favorite philosophers. The rings were exchanged, and then Logan drew his bride against him in a long, sultry kiss that made Marjorie ache all over again.

  Cheers exploded as the couple left the altar, hand in hand, and then everyone stirred to life once more. The wedding was over officially, but the party had just begun. And for a heart-weary bridesmaid, the day was far from done. Most of the guests returned to the resort to await the reception, but the bridal party remained for endless photo after endless photo. Marjorie’s smile began to ache and felt more and more forced. She wanted nothing more than to return to her room and hide, but this was Brontë’s day, and she was going to suffer in silence and enjoy herself for her friend’s sake.

  Eventually, they headed back to the resort, where the reception was picking up steam. The beautiful, ten-tiered cake was the centerpiece of the table, and there was an open bar and a dance floor. Marjorie looked longingly at the open bar—how nice it would be to get sloppy drunk and forget her heartache!—but she skipped it and sat at her assigned table instead.

  Logan and Brontë showed up, and the cake-cutting ceremony was held. Each delicately put a piece of cake into the other’s mouth, though Logan suggestively licked Brontë’s fingers in a way that made the bride blush. Marjorie began to re-contemplate the open bar.

  “Is this seat taken?” A voice said.

  Marjorie looked up and smiled at Cade Archer. It was hard not to like the guy. For one, he looked like an angel, all blond hair and blue eyes and gorgeous, friendly smile. She leaned over and examined the place card at the seat next to hers. “It looks like it’s taken by you.”

  “What a stroke of luck,” he said, and sat down next to her, grinning. “How come you’re hiding back here in the lonely hearts corner?”

  She gave him a halfhearted smile. “My date had to go to the mainland for a dialysis appointment.”

  His brows drew together. “What?”

  “My date was Dewey. A nice old man I picked up at the shuffleboard courts. He told me he loved weddings, but not as much as he loves his kidneys.” She smiled. “It’s all right. I’m bad company today anyhow.”

  Cade smiled and sat next to her. “I’ll join you in the bad company ranks, then.”

  “Where’s your date?” she asked politely.

  His friendly smile faltered, and for a moment, he looked incredibly sad. “She had a sudden and last-minute change of plans.” He shrugged. “I should have expected no more from her, but I find I’m still disappointed.”

  She knew the feeling. She knew she shouldn’t want Rob, but she still did. She still missed him, even though she knew he was bad news. Only time would heal this wound, and she hadn’t had a chance to properly grieve for her broken heart yet.

  “It’s a beautiful wedding
,” she said softly. “And Brontë and Logan look so very happy.”

  “They do,” Cade agreed. “I’m thrilled for them—for all of my boys, actually. There’s quite a few weddings coming up and I’ll probably be a groomsman at all of them.”

  “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride?” she guessed.

  He gave her a quick flash of grin, and then gazed back out on the dance floor again, his thoughts far away. Again, she got the impression that he was just as achingly lonely as she was. After a long moment, he turned and gave her another smile that didn’t quite catch his eyes. “I suppose so.”

  Poor Cade. He seemed almost as miserable as she was. She was poor comfort for a brokenhearted man when her own had been trampled to shreds.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  One Month Later

  “This is a super cute apartment,” Brontë gushed, carrying in a box of donated linens. “How on earth did you find such a score on the Upper East Side?”

  “Apparently by paying through the nose,” Marjorie teased, holding the door open for her. “And the bed is in one of the closets.”

  Brontë giggled. “But hardwood floors! Come on. You have to admit that’s a bonus. And you have a window! Maylee didn’t even have a window when she moved to the city.”

  “It’s pretty great,” Marjorie agreed, taking the box from Brontë and setting it down on her tiny, tiny kitchen countertop. “The city’s just a big adjustment from Kansas, you know? I’m pretty sure I could have gotten a huge house for this much back home.”

  “Probably,” Brontë agreed, opening a closet door and peeking in. “Huh. That is the bed. Well, that’s fine. The location’s good and the apartment’s cute. If the rent’s high, the trade-off is that you’re living in the greatest city in the world. Seriously—you’ll have so much to do that you won’t have time to sit at home and mope.”