Page 7 of Don't Fall for the Billionaire
I cupped my hand over my mouth in shock, my eyes wide with mortification. “Oh my God. I am so sorry.” I grabbed a napkin and handed it to him.
“Do you know how expensive this suit is? And now it's covered in frosting!” he shouted, brushing at the frostingsmeared across his designer pants. “Who the hell just randomly throws cupcakes at people? What is wrong with you?”
“I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. It's just—” The tears fell as I cupped my face in my hands.
I felt the bench shift as he sat down next to me, attempting to get out the grease stain the pink buttercream frosting had left on his charcoal-gray pants.
Ashton
“Fuck. I just picked this suit up from the dry cleaners yesterday,” I said, staring into her teary blue eyes.
She was obviously upset about something, but I knew it had nothing to do with her ruining my expensive Armani suit.
“Whatever you're crying about, just stop. This suit costs about $50 to get cleaned. Do you have that on you right now?”
She opened her purse, took out her wallet, and removed a ten-dollar bill.
“This is all I have. I'll need to go to the ATM.”
“Do you have a piece of paper and a pen in that purse?” I pointed.
She reached inside, pulled out the bakery receipt and a pen, and handed them to me. I wrote down my address.
“This is my address. You can go to the ATM and bring the money to me after six o'clock. Actions have consequences.”
She grabbed the receipt from my hand, shoved it into her purse, and stood up.
“Got it.” She began to walk away, and I stopped her.
“Excuse me. I need something from you.”
“What do you mean?” She turned, her brows furrowing.
“Do you have a driver's license?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to me.”
“What? No way.”
“You'll get it back when you bring me my money.”
“You're crazy, mister!”
“I don't know you, and I can't trust you. That way, if you decide to skip out on the money you owe me, you won't get your driver's license back.”
“I need that to drive,” she said.
“Somehow, I don't think you drive very much in this city.” I held out my hand, palm facing up. “Go on. Hand it over.”
She inhaled a breath, grabbed her license, and handed it to me.
“Let this be a lesson—” I looked down at her license. “Charlotte Campbell.”
I stood and stared at her as she turned and walked away. She stood five feet six inches, with long, brown hair and cascading, soft waves that framed her face. Her eyes were a mesmerizing shade of blue, full of tears and sadness. But I imagined they sparkled when she was happy. Her figure didn't go unnoticed, and my mind went wild with ideas on how to explore her body.
My phone pinged. Pulling it from my pocket, I had a text from Olivia, the babysitter I hired to watch Eloise tonight.
