Page 2 of Stuck with a Billionaire Rockstar

He lets out a deep chuckle after I share a story of my student, Brady, who argued with me for an hour that the moon was made of cheese. His laugh is warm and I wait for that sensation to course through me that tells me I’m attracted to the man sitting in front of me – it never comes. He looks around the dimly lit restaurant and asks, “Have you been here before?”

“Only a few times.” I’m not going to mention to him that it was because of dates before him that never lasted longer than thirty minutes – that would be embarrassing. “And you?”

“It’s one of my favorite places to eat, and the food is delicious.”

“Glad to hear it,” I say with a cheesy grin.

The white dress shirt he’s wearing is nice, but I notice something sitting at the edge of his collar that’s bothering me, and I lean forward to brush it off. He flinches away from my touch, so I let my hand fall with a shake of my head, and the first thing it hits is his glass of wine. “Shit,” I mutter, leaning forward further as I press my hands down on the red liquid inching closer to the edge of the table.

I wanted to keep it from getting all over my date. Except, when my hand comes down on the puddle of wine, it splatters all over his dress shirt and onto his face. “I’m so sorry!” As if everything else wasn’t going bad enough today, this had to be added to the list. The worst part is that I’d love to add his name to my apology, but I can’t remember it even though I double-checked before coming into the restaurant.

My mind is blank, and he’s looking at me as though I’ve grown a second head. He sighs and shakes his head, lifting slowly from the table. “I’m going to get cleaned up.” There’s nothing good about the grunt that follows his words, but he’s headed through the dining room before I can say anything.

After I get the wine cleaned up, my date clears his throat behind his chair with a frown on his face, and the hostess walks up to us.

I see the black book before she holds it out to him, and my heart plummets, my stomach churning in response. He grabs the pen the woman hands him, smiles at her much brighter than he’s done to me this entire time, and scrawls his name over the receipt. “This has been great, but I don’t think it’s going to work out.”

I blink in confusion and cock my head to the side. “But, uh, we didn’t order food, Owen.”

His jaw clenches, and he shakes his head. “It’s Oliver.” He nods to the hostess, who ignores the rest of our conversation and heads back to the front of the restaurant while I stay in the seat dumbfounded.

Again?

How many more times does this need to happen? Oliver shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants and looks toward the exit, then back at me with a thumb hooked over his shoulder. “Yeah, uh, I’m going to head out. The bill is paid for. Have a good night.”

I watch him walk away with my mouth dropped open in surprise, then my phone rings loudly through the dining room, and it receives scowls from the guests surrounding me. Before anyone can get angrier, I quickly swipe my finger across the screen and rise from my chair with a frown on my face. “Yeah?”

“Another one, Jules?”

Mallory’s groan makes me roll my eyes as I push through the exit and come to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “No,” I mutter.

“Is that so?” Mallory asks amusingly. “So, why are you answering the phone then?”

“Fresh air.”

She hums in response. “What did you do?”

“Maybe it was him. Did you ever think of that?” I ask, snapping at her much more than necessary.

“Jules, this happens every time,” she says softly.

“I know.” I blow out a rough breath and swipe the hair from my eyes, looking each way down the parking lot before hurrying toward my car. The lights blink as I unlock the doors, and I slide into the front seat, then let my head fall onto the steering wheel with a loud groan. “Why do I suck?”

“Well,” Mallory says. “What did you talk about?”

“I was late, so–”

She sucks in a sharp breath on the other end of the phone, and I can already imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. “You were late? How late exactly?”

“Twenty minutes,” I mumble before leaning back into the front seat.

“God, would it kill you to be on time?”

“I had papers to grade, and I didn’t even finish them!”

“What did you tell him when you got there?”

“The truth. I may have also added that one of my students puked all over my favorite heels,” I whisper, realizing where my mistake came about in all this mess. “Then I started rattling off facts about red wine.”

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