Page 13 of The Damaged Billionaire

“Here, I brought you a cupcake.” Placing a brown paper bag on my desk, she sits uninvited in the armchair facing me.

“A cupcake?” I question, not moving to grab it, my shoulders stiff. Nobody brings me anything. Aside from my brothers, I don’t even get birthday presents. I know this is her being sweet, trying to soften me up before she stabs me with a pen or something. I have to say, though, I like both sides of her. She is like a lioness, friendly until she pounces. She keeps me guessing.

“Yes, a cupcake. You know, the small little cakes with cute icing. Not only do they taste amazing, but they look adorable. This one is death by chocolate,” she says with a teasing smile. Isn’t she just a ray of fucking sunshine this Monday morning.

“Do you often provide baked goods to people?” I ask, trying to get more of a sense of who she is. She is firm, strong, and professional, but also soft, delicate, and feminine. A deadly combination.

“Sometimes. I like to bake,” she says with a shrug like it is no big deal.

“Is this what we are doing? Pretending we don’t really know each other, giving each other morning tea?” I ask, interested to see where her head is at. I let her get away with it yesterday because we had an audience, but now it is just the two of us, and I would prefer to use my lips to eat her rather than a cupcake.

“Yes. This is exactly what we are doing. Your brothers have hired me to do my job. That job is looking after the reputation of a man who has probably slept through the entire female population of Baltimore City,” she says matter-of-factly and in a tone that I am sure many others never question. But I see the hurt in her eyes before she regains her composure. It was fleeting; if I had blinked, I would've missed it. I feel like shit again. A common occurrence for me these days.

“Our night was different,” I murmur, taking a breath. I hate talking about my feelings. I hate reliving past events, but she has been on my mind every day without fail. She is not my past; she is very much my present. I don’t want her thinking she’s just like every other woman.

“Let’s just get on with it, shall we?” she says, a fake smile now plastered on her face, and I want to remove it. It doesn’t feel the same as the one she walked in with.

“You were the one who left me there. I woke to an empty bed, remember? And you didn’t mention you had a kid.” My tone is harsher than I mean it to be. We didn’t exchange too many personal details that night, so I shouldn’t be upset that she is a mother.

“We agreed no names, no strings, remember? Besides, he is not my child; he is my neighbor. But let's get back to the job at hand, shall we?” She obviously doesn’t want to relive our night.

“Fine,” I say, almost in a challenge, because I know what she is doing. She is trying to erase me from her memory, but I struggle not to smile, knowing that I am as much burned into her as she is to me.

I have spent months trying to find her, but meeting and not exchanging names or details about work or friends, I had very little to go on. But now she is right in front of me and will be managing me for months, so it is game on. I will have her in my bed again, a plan already forming in my brain.

“Grouchy already, this should be fun,” she says sarcastically.

“There is only one way to get me to smile, and since you have banished all women from my bed, then it is unlikely to happen. Unless you are offering your services?” I lean forward on my desk, quirking a brow. Because right now, I know that is what we both want. A repeat. A repeat of New York, preferably every night for the foreseeable future.

“I am a professional and have been hired to manage you. I don’t mix business with pleasure, Tennyson, and neither should you.” Any other woman would already be on their knees, or at least blushing, but not Willow. I admire her.

“Married to your job, I remember,” I say, my grin widening as I see recognition in her face again. But she collects herself quickly and launches straight into work mode.

“Okay… So, the way we will work together is pretty simple. I will meet with you regularly throughout the week. And I will arrange with your assistant, Melody, to approve or cancel any social outings—outside of business meetings—that I deem not appropriate. My team will manage your social media channels, and I will be managing your press and any endorsements that arise including charity events and the like. Your part in all this is to not drink, no women, and to do everything I ask of you, with cleaning up your image in mind,” she says without taking a breath.

“How often is regularly?” I ask, wanting to know exactly how much time we will spend together.

“Oh, well, I will pop in every Monday morning to see you and also every Thursday or Friday. You can call me at any time, though, if you need me. Melody has all my details and she has put them into your contacts.”

I smile. Twice a week and direct access to her is all I need. I will have her underneath me in no time.

“Great! Now, I have been over your diary this morning, and I have a few adjustments that we need to make this week.” She pulls out a small tablet from her large black handbag and taps it to turn it on.

“What kind of adjustments?” I bark back as the reality of what needs to happen sinks in all too suddenly. My weeks are busy, work is stressful, and I have a million other things I need to be doing this morning.

“Monday through Thursday is all fine. Friday evening, you have a scheduled dinner at the Latin Rose Club that we need to cancel. Golf on the weekend with your brothers is all well and good. I have also added in a business dinner coming up in a few weeks’ time that Beth mentioned to me that you will be encouraged to attend, but no after-party and definitely no drinking,” she says before she peers at me, waiting for my confirmation.

“Why no Latin Rose?” I ask because I love that club. I usually meet some business contacts there every Friday night to blow off steam.

“Because it is owned by an overseas conglomerate that has ties to slavery and child labor—none of which would look favorably to anyone associated with a potential presidential campaign,” she fires back quickly, but does so with a genuine concern in her eyes. I had no idea that was the case, but I guess it makes sense. I can tell she is passionate about that point, another puzzle piece about this woman now sliding into place in my brain.

“And what about the dinner? What am I meant to do, drink water all night? Turn up without a date?” I quip because that sounds like hell.

“Exactly!” she says with a bit too much pep, and I look at her like she is crazy.

“I can’t do that.” I shake my head, making my thoughts clear.

“Why not?” she presses. I am not used to a woman pushing me; they usually give in to everything I want. For some reason with her, it’s as irritating as it is arousing.

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