The Player + The Pact = I Do (New York City Billionaires #2)

Chapter 5

FIVE

Jules

I kick off my shoes as soon as I get inside the apartment, relishing the cool of the AC. “Why is it so hot out there? It’s October. Almost.”

“Climate change,” Sophia calls from the kitchen.

Sophia is the perfect roommate. She’s tidy, an excellent cook, works at Saks and gets a twenty percent discount she’s more than happy to share, plus she has a long-distance boyfriend who works on yachts, so he’s never around.

“I’m making paella. Want some?” she calls.

I sigh contentedly. “There’s nothing I want more.”

“Apart from a chilled glass of white wine and a job managing The Mayfair?” she suggests.

I step into our combo kitchen-living space. “Oh yeah. And those two tiny things.”

She presses a glass of wine into my hand and sweeps her gaze up and down my body, shaking her head. She doesn’t approve of my work closet .

“Thank you. Maybe we should get married. I think you’re my perfect match.”

“I wouldn’t marry you because you dress like shit.”

I raise my glass and take a sip. “I told you, I want to look older than I am. There aren’t many twenty-nine-year-olds managing five-star hotels. Especially ones that don’t have college degrees. I need to look older than I am. And more… qualified.”

“You’re not just dressed older, you’re dressed like someone who inherited Hillary Clinton’s wardrobe in December 2016.”

“Maybe I did.” I glance down at myself and the trousers that are too short to wear with anything but flats. “How tall is she?”

“Shorter than you. And several sizes bigger. Not that either of those things is bad. But your work suits don’t fit you.”

“Sure they do.” When I got the interview for the position in Leo’s office, I stopped by Goodwill to try to find something to wear. I found a perfect, mid-blue trouser suit. Yes, it was a little on the large side, but I sewed on some belt loops and created a paper-bag waist with my favorite belt I’d saved up and bought from Saks in the spring. Then I’d turned up the sleeves on the jacket and paired it with a high-necked shirt and flats—because the trousers were a little short. I looked cool during the interview, and the outfit still hits today. “I’m giving hipster vibes.”

“You’re giving Granny not-so-chic vibes. Any minute now you’re going to take up crochet.”

I tap my finger against my wineglass. “What a great idea. Think of the throws and blankets I could make for our apartment.”

She grins. “How’s the asshole? ”

I slide onto the counter next to the stove where a pan of rice sits. Looks like the paella is coming along nicely. “He’s asshole-ish. In fact, he went up a gear today.”

She laughs. “Really? Buy himself a new sports car?”

I groan at the thought. I’m not quite sure what he drives, but I bet it’s overpriced and over-accessorized. My dad turned up in an old Porsche one time after he’d been gone six weeks. I’d been so excited to see him. And the car. A yellow car seemed like the coolest thing your dad could ever drive. Looking back, my mom’s heart probably sank when she saw it. I didn’t know it at the time, but she had a hard time making rent when my dad wasn’t around to flash whatever cash he had. A Porsche was not on her list of priorities. “Probably. He also wants me to organize a date for him.”

“Oh,” she says, adding some kind of liquid to the pan. I’m not going to ask what it is, because I absolutely never cook and I’m sure it will taste amazing. “So you have to arrange something romantic for his latest conquest.”

“Oh no,” I say. “It’s much worse than that. I have to find a woman for him.”

She glances at me. “I thought you said he was super handsome and rich and charming. Does he have a problem getting women? I mean, you were pretty smitten with him after a couple of hours at that party.”

I sigh. I’d thought I met my soul mate that night. “Right. And no, he doesn’t have a problem.” He’s all the things Sophia described. And he also has that thing that you can’t put your finger on—he’s sexy. Maybe it’s confidence. Or maybe it’s the way he looks at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Whatever it is, he’s got it. “But he wants to go to—” I stop myself. He’s asked me to keep this confidential.

“What?” she asks .

I shrug. “It’s more of a professional role.”

“You’ve got me intrigued,” she says. “You’re hiring him a prostitute?”

I groan. “No! Promise not to say anything?” She nods. “He has this awards thing coming up and for some reason he wants a fiancée.”

“Did he say why?”

Did he? I can’t quite remember. “He says it’s for business. Maybe the women he fucks all have some kind of weird tic—I don’t know.”

“Maybe he thinks he’ll get taken more seriously if he has a fiancée. Like more relatable to the older guys, the industry stalwarts. He’s young, right?”

“Early thirties,” I say. “A couple of years older than us.”

“So we have a couple of years to make our billions, then?”

I laugh. “Right.” That’s the thing with Leo; he doesn’t strike me as the kind of cutthroat go-getter I would have thought a self-made billionaire has to be. How did he get so successful so young? Maybe by understanding that an awards ceremony like the one coming up requires a fiancée? Who am I to question his business methods? Apart from when it comes to The Mayfair, which he seems completely disinterested in.

“So… you want some extra cash to be my boss’ fake fiancée for one night?” I ask jokingly, but as soon as I catch Sophia’s reaction, I regret asking, because she doesn’t look horrified.

“Maybe,” she replies. “How much cash?”

“He was a bit vague about it. But I figure you could get at least a thousand bucks.” Fact is, I’m sure Leo will pay more than that.

She mouths wow . “Tell me what I have to do? ”

Jealousy twists in my chest. Leo isn’t mine. He was never mine, apart from the two hours I spent with him at the party. Leo’s exactly who I don’t want, so me being jealous makes no sense. Sophia would be a perfect fake fiancée for him. “You just have to be charming and sweet to everyone and look pretty. I mean, I don’t have a full job description worked up. You just have to be free the night of October twentieth.”

“I mean, if I can fake being charming and sweet, I can fake being a fiancée, right?”

“Exactly,” I say. “Are you around tomorrow or are you working?” Inexplicably, I want her to be busy.

“I’m around in the morning. I don’t go in until noon.”

I pick up my phone. I have Leo’s calendar on it. “He can see you at ten if that works?”

“See you at ten,” she says. She glances head to toe at me again. “What kind of thing should I wear?”

I shrug. “Something that says you’re a billionaire’s fiancée,” I reply, and I can’t help but wonder what that might be. Finding Leo a date for the awards is not what I want to be doing with my life. I should be managing The Mayfair. I’d be much better at that job than being Leo’s assistant, though I’m pretty damn good at that, too. He knows it. He’s seen how hard I work, how efficient I am.

Then what am I waiting for? I hate working so closely with him. Every day is a reminder that I can’t hold a man’s attention until the end of a party, let alone a lifetime. Maybe I need to ask for the job I want. The job I was born for. The job that means I’m not ten feet away from Leo Hart at all times.