Page 9 of Falling For The Billionaire Rockstar

It’s not that I’m promiscuous—that’s a very strong word. I’m just very fond of beautiful young women, as long as they’re not Russian.

I gave up on trying to pronounce her name as another text came in from my mother.

Mrs. Steele: Make sure to take something to your aunt. She’s really excited to see you.

I let out a soft sigh as I read the message. I knew my mother wasn’t going to give up, but I did have hope she’d give it a rest eventually. But from the way she was going about it, I was sure they’d set up another blind date.

I sent a text to Layla, asking her to cancel my return ticket. There was no escaping it. If I left New York without seeing Aunt Margaret, she would just hunt me down, and then I’d have to answer a query from two old and very annoying women.

I looked up at the time. It was way past five minutes, but I didn’t bother because I really wasn’t in a rush. I looked at the briefcase on my left.

All I had to do was do a quick presentation, explain my pitch, and then leave the contract for the company to consider and eventually sign. It wasn’t tedious work, but it wasn’t exciting either.

My eyes moved to the TV. On it was a quite ostentatious wedding invitation video. I recognized the groom; although I’d never done business with him before, Gregory Hathaway was a well-known name in the world I lived in.

The bride, on the other hand, was absolutely stunning, and her radiant smile warmed my cheeks. “Lucky chap,” I murmured to myself before returning my attention to my phone.

Twenty minutes passed before I began to get anxious. I looked up to see if perhaps she’d come to look for me but somehow hadn’t found me.

I scanned through the area in front of me, making a headcount to see if there was anyone new sitting in front of me. Passengers from my flight and others had joined us at a point, but most of them had left already.

Then I turned to my left and saw her standing next to me. I wasn’t sure at first. She dressed formally with her hair tucked under a cap and a mask on. I could only tell her hair was black from the strands that fell over her face.

I didn’t understand why she had a suitcase, but Layla had mentioned her having something for me. She hadn’t gone into detail, so I wasn’t expecting something big.

She was looking at me, her icy blue eyes running over me as if she, just like me, was wondering whether she had found the right person. Deciding to confirm, I stood up and walked over to her.

I saw the conflicting emotions that played on her pretty features as I got closer to her. I couldn’t make much of it, but I could sense she was grappling with internal struggles.

There was a familiarity to her that I couldn’t quite figure, so I decided to shake it off. She wasn’t very beautiful, and she looked like she was some sort of spy or covert operative.

I smiled. Very Russian.

I hoped she wasn’t as stern as she looked, so I offered her my best smile as I approached her. However, she turned out to be worse than stern—she was rude, confusing, and packed a mean slap.

I couldn’t believe it when her palm hit my face, leaving a sting as my head turned to the side. I couldn’t entirely blame her; perhaps grabbing her like that was a bit over the top.

Nevertheless, it didn’t change the fact that a woman on my payroll had slapped me in the middle of a waiting lobby of an airport. Everyone heard it because, by the time I looked up, everyone was staring.

I was confused and angry, but I wasn’t going to give her the reaction she desired. I took a deep breath and straightened my suit. She defiantly raised her chin, and her eyes darkened as she braced herself for my next move.

However, there was no move. Clearing my throat, I walked right past her and toward the exit. Screw the fucking contract. A part of me wished she would call after me and try to apologize.

But she never did.

***

I sat at a private table in a restaurant down the road from the airport. My eyes narrowed on my phone as I glared at the contact name. In my five years of working with Layla, I had never found a reason to lash out at her.

However, the anger and embarrassment boiling in my veins were too intense to overlook. This was her fault. I had paid her to find someone to stand in her stead as my secretary, guide me through my itinerary, and point me in the right direction.

It was a simple job, and hiring a Russian seemed entirely unnecessary. I understood it wasn’t fair to attribute what had happened to the woman’s nationality, but I couldn’t think of another reason why someone on my payroll would lay a finger on me.

In this case, it was five fingers, and I hated that it still stung after so much time had passed.

I tapped the dial button and brought the phone to my ear. The line cracked open on the third ring. “Mr. Steele, I wasn’t expecting you to call so early. Is the meeting already over?” Layla inquired.

I remained silent, still debating whether I should end the call and walk out of the restaurant. However, I felt the need to set an example. I was never the kind that tolerated tardiness or disrespect, and I had made her an exception—look where it got me.

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