Stranded With a Billionaire

by Jessica Clare

  Just saying it out loud made her chest ache. They’d had a whirlwind courtship. She’d fallen fast, and she’d fallen hard. Logan Hawkings was going to be a difficult man to get over, she realized. She felt raw, completely shredded on the inside. Part of her wanted to turn around and hear him explain, to have him soothe away her hurt, and to return into his arms. She would’ve done anything just to curl up against him again.

  Except he didn’t love her, did he? She’d told him that she loved him, and he’d given her a polite pat on the back. And then he’d tried to fix her, which rankled. Danica had been right. She’d blindly trusted him, and he’d tried to shove her into the mold of what he thought she should be.

  “You . . . huh?” Audrey paused. “Wait. You left him, and you’re calling me? His assistant?”

  A weepy little laugh escaped her. “You’re the only person I know in this town.”

  “Oh.” Audrey got quiet. Then she sighed, as if resigned to her course of action. “Where are you?”

  “The subway.”

  “Yes, but where?”

  Brontë curled up on the bench, feeling a little foolish. The subway map looked like a bunch of scribbly lines to her, and she’d never even taken as much as a bus in her life. “I honestly have no idea. It’s by Logan’s building.”

  “Okay. I’m pretty sure I can guess what station that is. Just wait there, and I’ll swing by to get you. We’ll talk.”

  “Thanks, Audrey,” she said softly. “I appreciate it.”

  “You bet,” the assistant said, and hung up.

  The violinist began to play a sad tune, and Brontë’s heart sank with every sorrowful note.

  Logan didn’t love her. She’d given him everything he’d asked for—her time, her attention, her affection—and he’d still thought she wasn’t good enough. A fresh onrush of sadness rippled through her, and she swiped at her eyes again, frustrated with her own emotions.

  Crying didn’t do any good. She was sad and hurt—okay, more like devastated—but she was also angry with herself. She’d let Logan control how their relationship had gone, and she’d gotten burned. If she ever dated someone like him again, she wouldn’t make the same stupid mistake twice.

  ***

  Audrey showed up a short time later, a rounded bundle in a stylish gray peacoat. She was always dressed as if about to head into the office, Brontë realized with a sniff. “Hi, Audrey.”

  “Hi,” she said, immediately offering a small packet of tissues to Brontë. “You look rough.”

  Eyes watering, she nodded. “I don’t seem to be taking this well.”

  “No,” Audrey said, a little troubled. “I don’t think you are. I suppose I should be offering you condolences, but I’m mostly just mystified. You broke it off with him? Are you aware he’s a billionaire? A really good-looking one? Was it truly that bad?”

  Brontë blew her nose. “He tried to give me a business.” Her face crumpled. “So I could ‘make something’ of myself.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I told him I loved him, and he ignored it.”

  “Double ouch. Okay, I can see why the lure of his money palls a bit in the face of his emotional assholeness.” She glanced down at Brontë’s suitcase. “Did you want to go grab a coffee and talk this out or something?”

  “I guess so.” She lifted her wet eyes to Audrey. “Then I guess I have to find a hotel.”

  “You do know how much most hotels in this area cost?”

  Brontë shook her head, her stomach sinking.

  Audrey sighed. “Brontë, listen. I really like you and I would love to offer my couch, but if Logan found out, he’d have kittens. So I don’t mind shepherding you somewhere as a Good Samaritan, but I can’t take sides in this. You know whose side I have to take.”

  “I know,” Brontë said miserably. “I really appreciate the help, Audrey. I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

  The assistant brightened. “However . . .” She snapped her fingers. “I know someone who needs a roomie. Were you planning on staying long?”

  “I hadn’t really decided,” Brontë said. She looked around the subway station and then back at Audrey. “I wouldn’t mind taking a few days off to clear my head.” Before crawling back home, she thought.

  “Well, if you volunteer to pay half of this month’s rent, I imagine you can stay with her a couple of weeks. I guarantee it’ll end up being cheaper than a few nights in a hotel.”

  “Who is this person?”

  Audrey smiled brightly. “My sister, Gretchen. Want me to call her?”

  Brontë thought about her savings account and the tip money she’d tucked away for a rainy day or a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She could cover half a month’s rent, she supposed, even if it was crazy-expensive compared to Kansas City. And she could take her time, see New York, and try to forget all about the man that had stormed into her life and taken over her heart so completely.

  She nodded at Audrey. “Can you find out if it’s available?”

  ***

  They took the subway to SoHo, a part of town that Audrey rolled her eyes at. “Such a cliché.”

  Brontë hugged her suitcase close, staring around her at the subway with wide eyes. It seemed . . . crowded. Maybe she just wasn’t used to it. “I don’t understand. Why is it a cliché?”

  “SoHo’s where all the artists used to live.”

  Ah. “Is your sister an artist, then?”

  “She likes to imagine she is,” Audrey said with a grin. “Artistic temperament, yes. Artist, no. She’s a ghostwriter.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s fascinating.”

  Audrey shrugged. “Some days she seems to like it. Some days she seems to hate it. I suppose it depends on who she’s working with.” When the subway announced their stop, she grinned and gestured at the door. “This is us.”

  They walked a few blocks to an older apartment building. Audrey jogged up the steps and pushed the call button.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s your sister. Open up. I got you a roomie.”

  The door buzzed, and Audrey grabbed the handle, motioning for Brontë to enter. Brontë followed Audrey up four flights, the suitcase getting heavier with each step. One of the apartment doors was open by the time they got to the top of the stairs, and a woman who looked just like Audrey was looking at both of them curiously. She was tall, her form hidden by baggy clothing. Unlike Audrey’s pale orange hair, this woman’s was a fiery dark red, and she had the brows and pale skin to match.

  “How’d you find me a roommate?” The other woman crossed her arms over her chest, looking suspicious.

  Audrey put her arm around Brontë’s shoulders, tugging her close and beaming. “Brontë, this is my sister, Gretchen. Gretchen, Brontë.”

  Gretchen studied Brontë with one raised eyebrow. “Bronty like . . . brontosaurus?”

  “Like Charlotte Brontë,” she replied.

  “I knew that. I was just fucking with you.” Gretchen adjusted square, thick-rimmed nerd glasses on her nose. She was the epitome of a writer on a deadline: Her red hair was pulled into a disheveled bun, her face was devoid of makeup, and she wore a pair of dark yoga pants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt that seemed a size too big for her. “So you want to be my roomie? You haven’t even seen the place.”

  “Brontë here just broke up with her boyfriend and needs a place to stay for a few weeks.”

  Gretchen flashed an annoyed look at her sister. “I need a permanent roommate, not a temporary one.”

  “Yes, but Brontë’s willing to pay half of the rent this month, and she can’t stay with me because the boyfriend she broke up with happens to be my boss.”

  Gretchen’s eyes widened, and she looked at Brontë like she was crazy. “Isn’t he rich?”

  “Too rich,” Brontë said defensively. “He’s let it go t
o his head.”

  The writer blinked behind her glasses. “Huh. Well, come take a look at the place.”

  The apartment was small but cheerful, with plants on the windowsill and bookshelves lining the living room. A computer desk covered in paper and books sat at the far end of the apartment, and more books covered the countertops in the kitchen. Brontë immediately liked it, of course. “How many bedrooms?”

  “Two,” Gretchen said, brushing past and opening the door to the bedroom down the hall. “It’s not very big.”

  That was an understatement. The room was the size of her closet back home, but there was a narrow bed against the wall and a small dresser, which was really all she needed. “Looks good to me,” she said. “I probably will only be staying until the end of the month, though. I still have an apartment back in Kansas City.”

  Gretchen shrugged. “I won’t take down my want ads, then. I do have to warn you about one thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have a pet. His name is Igor.”

  “He’s hideous,” Audrey said flatly.

  “He is not!” Gretchen opened her bedroom door and picked a small lump up off of the corner of the bed and held it out to Brontë. “He’s just a cat.”

  Igor blinked enormous eyes at Brontë. Gretchen’s cat was hairless, apparently. It looked like a naked rat, if she was honest with herself. The thing had long, spindly legs and wrinkly gray skin. Enormous triangle ears jutted from the tiny, pointy face, and it stared up at her with wide golden eyes and then meowed.

  Brontë laughed at the sight of him.

  “Well, that’s a better reaction than the last potential roomie,” Gretchen said. “Welcome aboard.”

  ***

  Brontë curled under the blankets of her new temporary apartment. The bed was narrow and uncomfortable, with a spring sticking into her lower back, and she was pretty sure she could hear someone talking on the other side of the wall.

  She got out of bed and padded over to the small window of her room, pushing it open a crack. It eased open only about two inches, just enough to let the sounds of the street below carry into the room.

  The apartment wasn’t glamorous, but Gretchen seemed nice, and Brontë still had a curious fascination for New York. Being here in the apartment felt a bit like hiding from reality. Back home, she’d have to deal with the fact that she’d slept with the boss and then broken up with him. But for now? She could hide away in this tiny room with a bunch of expensive clothes that would do her no good, a jillion books, a hairless cat, and a writer who was, even at two in the morning, seated at her computer and working frantically on her manuscript. It still felt a bit like an escape.

  She’d left the diamond necklace behind, too. She supposed she could have sold it for rent money, but that would have been . . . painful. And unfair. And somehow wrong. It seemed to symbolize their relationship, and she couldn’t have sold it. She just couldn’t have.

  Brontë wondered if Logan would be looking for her. She hugged her knees close, a stab of pain in her heart. The night before she’d been curled in his arms, deliciously sated after a round of incredible, blissful sex. He’d pulled her close and hugged her against him, his fingers playing over her skin as she drifted off to sleep, and she’d thought that she’d never been held so tenderly.

  Funny how a day could put things into perspective. Fresh tears burned in her eyes, and she blinked them back. He hadn’t wanted her. Not really. He liked her in bed. It was just out of it that she was . . . lacking.

  Oh, Logan, she thought sadly. Why did I have to fall for you? You’re going to be a hard one to get over.

  But even as she said the words to herself, she knew. There were just some men you never got over, and she suspected that Logan Hawkings might be one of them.

  ***

  Brontë woke up the next morning reaching for Logan. Her heart sank when the realization struck her—he wasn’t there.

  Not the best way to wake up in the morning. She pushed the sadness away and got out of bed, heading to the kitchen. Maybe today she’d get out and explore the city. She needed a new focus to keep her mind off of Logan. Exploring would do the job just as well as anything else. Of course, she’d be alone, which was a little depressing, but there was nothing to do about that.

  Gretchen sat eating a bowl of cereal in the tiny portion of the apartment designated as the kitchen. She was dressed in a white T-shirt and black pants. Unlike the night before, she now wore makeup and her hair was up in a ponytail. The oddly naked cat rubbed against the leg of her pants, begging for attention.

  “Headed out this morning?” Brontë asked in a friendly voice.

  “Yup.” Gretchen picked up her bowl and went to the sink. “Off to work.”

  Brontë sat down at the small kitchen table. “Work? But I thought you were a ghostwriter.”

  “I am. I have a friend who owns a coffee shop. I barista to supplement my income and help him out.”

  Brontë smiled. “I wish your friend was hiring. I wouldn’t mind supplementing my own income.”

  Gretchen snorted, dropping her spoon into the sink and placing her bowl on the floor. Igor ran over at it immediately and began to lap up the milk. “He’s always hiring. I have to warn you, though, he pays me off the books. He’d probably do the same for you.”

  “I don’t mind. I need something to do.”

  The other woman gave her a sympathetic look. “Trying to get your mind off your ex, huh?”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “No, of course not,” Gretchen said. “I’m pretty good at figuring people out. Like I figured that since your eyes were all red and puffy from crying, you probably missed him.”

  Brontë touched her face, blushing. “Gotcha. At any rate, if you’d like the company, I could use the money and the distraction.”

  “Of course. Cooper’d love to have you. Do you have a white shirt to work in?”

  “I think so.” It probably was Gucci or something equally expensive and ridiculous. She thought of Logan briefly. Wouldn’t he just hate that she was wearing the designer clothes he’d bought for her and serving drinks? “Give me ten minutes and I’ll get dressed.”

  ***

  For a week straight, Logan had called the consultant that he’d left at the Kansas City diner. Every day, the answer was the same. Brontë hadn’t come back to work. She hadn’t called.

  She certainly hadn’t called Logan. It was driving him crazy, too.

  Logan rubbed a hand over his face wearily. He hadn’t slept as well without Brontë there. His empty bed just felt wrong, as if it were missing something vital. His apartment, too. He’d run across a stack of books she’d left in the library for him. Real books, not the fakes he’d had lining the shelves because he’d been too busy to bother. She’d cleared the false fronts out of one of his shelves and had begun to fill it with her favorites. He’d found a book on top of the stack with a yellow Post-it stuck to the dust jacket.

  The Post-it had a smiley face on it. The book? Plato’s Collected Works.

  Seeing that had made his chest ache. She’d clearly been thinking of him when she’d gone shopping. Thinking of him with love.

  And he’d been the asshole who doubted her. Even after everything they’d been through together on the island, he’d still not quite believed she liked him for him, not his money. When she’d gone, she’d left behind the necklace he’d bought her and taken only her clothes. He suspected that if she could have left those behind without going naked, she would have done that, too.

  She truly didn’t want his money. Just him. Except now she didn’t want him at all. He felt like an ass. And he wanted her back, because he wanted to explain himself. To try to explain why he’d done something that was clearly so hurtful to her.

  But she wasn’t anywhere.

  Logan called his private investigator again. “Any l
eads?”

  “Nothing. No tickets purchased at the airport. If she’s gone back to Kansas City, she hasn’t flown. Maybe she hitched a ride with a friend.”

  But Brontë didn’t know anyone in the city other than him and his friends. Worry made him grit his teeth. If anything happened to her, he’d go mad.

  He needed her back. She was the only thing that felt right in his life anymore.

  ***

  One Week Later

  “I am ready for the day to be over,” Brontë said with a smile at Cooper and Gretchen as she finished the whip on a soy mocha latte. “How’s our tip jar looking?”

  Gretchen leaned over the counter and peered at the tip jar. “Fat enough to order a pizza tonight. We could watch some total chick movies. You in the mood?”

  “I am,” Brontë said with a nod. “As long as it’s not Pretty Woman. Something New Yorky.”

  “Maid in Manhattan?” Gretchen teased.

  Brontë shot her a look. “Very funny.”

  “Cloverfield?” suggested Cooper. “I have it on DVD. I could bring it over.”

  “Not exactly a chick flick, Cooper,” Gretchen said, tossing a hand towel over her shoulder. “And you’re not exactly a chick.”

  Cooper flushed at her tease, heading back to the counter when a new customer lined up. Brontë winced at the adoring look that Cooper cast at Gretchen before smiling at the customers. After a week of working at Cooper’s Cuppa, two things had become extremely obvious to her: one, that Cooper was one of the nicest guys she had ever met anywhere, and two, that he was carrying a major torch for Gretchen.

  A torch that Gretchen seemed determined to ignore.

  “How about 300?” Gretchen asked, pulling out a mug and drying it with her towel. “That’s practically a chick flick, considering it’s filled with oiled-up beefcake. It’s not New Yorky, but with all that man-meat, does it matter?”

  “Works for me,” Brontë said. “Want to invite Audrey?”

  Gretchen shook her head. “She can’t. A certain someone is keeping her busy on a secret project.”

  “Oh?” Brontë feigned casualness, even though her heart sped up at the thought. “What sort of project?”