Page 5 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 3

Chapter 3

If I thought that being an invited guest in Nixon Blake’s bed would change anything about our arrangement, I was dead wrong. Sure, now I get to see him first thing in the morning, with his bedhead, like a normal person. But that remains the only normal thing about him.

The man is like a machine. He rises with the sun, cranking out several sets of pushups and sit ups as soon as his feet hit the cold floor. He showers and shaves with military efficiency. And by the time I’ve crawled out of bed and tracked down my clothes from wherever they’ve been discarded from the previous night’s orgasms, he’s ready to walk out the door. I don’t even bother to carry spare clothes or toiletries in my bag, because there’s no point in getting ready for work at his place. He goes in so early that I have more than enough time to get back to my apartment in Cambridge, shower and get ready, and then hop on the T and head back into the Scour offices for another day. No one’s the wiser.

Except for Elise, of course.

She wanders out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, when I stroll in after another marathon night with Nixon. Everything about me screams I had multiple orgasms last night!, from my matted hair to my bee-stung lips.

“Eventually you’re going to have to tell me who this mystery guy is,” she says, arching an eyebrow at me.

I had to abandon the “emergency at work” ruse when I stopped coming home at night. I wasn’t even going to try to convince Elise that I was camping out at Scour every night (Although one night, I did meet Nixon back at the office after midnight, where we fucked on the intern conference table. What I would give for Amber to know that.).

“I know,” I reply, hoping I can shrug her off for another day. I’m not ready to let anyone into our little world yet. Partly because I love the secrecy of it, and partly because I’m afraid that Nixon will find out that I’ve told, and that will be the end. After seeing his apartment, I know he’s not messing around when he talks about despising clutter. I know that extends to his personal life, too. And I’m not ready for this to be the end yet. “We’ll have drinks soon, and I’ll tell you all about him. I promise.”

She gives me a look that says she doesn’t quite believe me, but I don’t have time to reassure her further. I have to get to work.

* * *

We’ve fallen into a routine.

I come over every night. We have epic sex all over his apartment. We crawl into bed. We sleep soundly beside one another. We wake up, Nixon has breakfast delivered, and we actually chat like adult humans before heading off to work (separately, of course).

It’s perfect.

Almost.

Amber has been sniffing around a lot lately. I think she can see that my work is growing stronger every day, and she can no longer count on trouncing me in the final presentation. She’s taken to trying to tear down everything I do, in an effort to throw me off my game. But it’s not working. Sex with Nixon is stronger than that. It’s like some kind of super power. I’ve never been so happy and relaxed and productive.

But Amber’s attention means we have to be even more careful about where Nixon and I meet up. We’ve stopped having sex at the office, because the risk is just too high. Luckily, I’m at his apartment every single night, so it’s like no time has been lost.

Still, the seed of an idea has been germinating in my mind. I know that no one at Scour can know that Nixon and I are together, at least not until the internship is done. Maybe once I’m an actual full-fledged employee (after I rock the presentations, which I definitely will), we can reassess, but right now, I know it’s a no go.

But there won’t be any Scour employees at my sister’s wedding in two weeks. Hell, there won’t even be anyone from the tech scene. My sister Miranda is a kindergarten teacher; her fiancée Brad is a firefighter. None of them are going to have any idea who Nixon Blake is, and if they do, none of them will care.

Miranda’s been pestering me about a plus one for months, ever since I told her I’d definitely be flying solo.

“Oh come on, you’ll meet someone, and then you’ll be sorry that you turned down the invite,” she said, glaring at my RSVP card, which I’d hand-delivered. “You know what? Big sister knows best. I’m putting you down for a plus one, to be determined. He’ll have the steak.”

“You’re going to be the one who’s sorry when there’s an empty seat at your reception, and you’ve paid for a steak dinner that no one’s going to eat.”

“Whatever, you can take it home to your roommate,” she’d rolled her eyes at me.

“Hey, there’s an idea! Elise can be my plus one!”

“No,” she snapped. “Bring a man, or bring no one. Unless you’re having sex with Elise, in which case, I’m thrilled.”

“Elise’s boyfriend would be very disappointed to hear that,” I tell Miranda, even though Elise dumped Kevin last week after finding out that he planned to backpack in Europe for two months without her.

“Oh fuck off, he’d be thrilled.”

I’d promptly forgotten about the soon-to-be-empty chair next to me at Miranda’s impending nuptials, and she’d forgotten to hound me about it, what with being so busy organizing a wedding like she was plotting the invasion of Normandy. But yesterday, a text had popped up from my older sister.

DOING PLACE CARDS.

I NEED THE NAME OF YOUR PLUS ONE.

My fingers were poisedover the keys to tell her there would be no plus one. But what if there was? Nixon could come as my date. We could drink champagne together, eat cake, dance a little. It would be great to see him away from all the stress of work, where he always seemed wound so tight. Miranda and Brad are getting married on the Cape, on the beach in Wellfleet. Their reception will be at this amazing oyster house. Nixon and I could get a hotel room and spend the whole night in a place with actual furniture.

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