The Billionaire's Proposal Page 5

  Wisely deciding not to ask, I quickly navigated back to my original question. “So, uh, not that it’s not great to see you and everything, but...”

  I had hoped that would do it, but she returned my questioning gaze with a blank stare. I’d have to be a little more direct.

  “It’s still like six in the morning...”

  Still nothing.

  “A little early to come calling...”

  Silence.

  Oh for fuck’s sake.

  “What the hell are you doing here?!”

  “Oh!” Her face brightened cheerfully, as she set her gigantic bag down in the middle of the living room floor. “Nick sent me. He didn’t tell you?”

  Why the hell would he tell me? It’s not like it was my apartment or anything.

  I shook my head quickly, trying to catch up.

  “I’m sorry...Nick sent you?”

  Why the hell would Nick send his stylist to Brooklyn? At six in the fucking morning?

  “He called me about twenty minutes ago.” She poured herself a mug of coffee from the kitchen, before ripping open the curtains to let winter daylight spill into the room. “Said that we needed to get an early start if we were going to be ready for the event by tonight.”

  “Ready for the—”

  In an act of sheer desperation, I threw caution to the wind and actually snatched the coffee mug right out of her hands. Anything to stop her perpetual motion.

  “I’m sorry, but you need to please tell me what’s going on.” I held the caffeine just out of reach, trying to ignore the way her eyes were dilating like an angry cat. “Nick sent you over to my place to help me prepare for an event? What event? And if it’s at night, why the hell do I need to start getting ready right now? And why would he send you here to help me?”

  My voice rose in panic with each question, flailing as things spiraled further and further out of my control. By the last one, I was nearly shouting—sending little drops of coffee flying in every direction.

  “And...and how the fuck does everyone know where I live?!”

  Most people would have cringed to be on the receiving end of such a tantrum. Most people would have had the good sense to avoid the scalding drops of liquid shooting like shrapnel through the air.

  Stacy simply looked bored.

  “Are you finished shouting?”

  I sucked in a quick breath, considering the question.

  “For now.”

  Her lips twitched up in a rare smile.

  “Good. Then I’ll tell you what I know.” She ticked things off her fingers, one by one. “To start, Nick sent me over here because you’re no longer ‘Abigail Wilder his publicist,’ you’re now ‘Abigail Wilder his girlfriend.’ That means you’re not a behind-the-scenes puppet-master anymore, you’re center stage. The leading lady. And in this town, at Nick’s level, that means you officially relinquished the right to dress yourself. That’s where I come in. With me so far?”

  Strangely enough, I was. When Nick had first proposed the idea in Barcelona, it hadn’t really occurred to me that I would have to look the part if I was to play it.

  “Yeah...I guess.”

  “You’re going to be on breakfast television. You know, Good Morning America.”

  My jaw dropped. “Say what?”

  “It’s just a little segment. Not long at all. A few minutes tops.”

  I let out a long breath. “Okay, I can do this.”

  “Yes, you can. So make our Nikey look all shiny and clean.”

  A few women burst out in laughter.

  “As if that’s possible,” one muttered.

  I chuckled. “I work in PR. I know how the game works.”

  “Great, then let’s get started, shall we?”

  I glanced down at the bag she’d brought with her, suddenly seeing it in a whole new light. For the first time in my entire life, someone was here to do my makeup. They were here to curl my hair and pick out clothes. For the first time ever...that bag was here for me.

  But Stacy was just getting started.

  “As for the rest of it, I don’t know what the event is. Rumor has it that Nick planned the whole thing out himself—and you know how secretive he gets when he’s planning a surprise.”

  I didn’t, actually. Most of the time, I was planning it with him. Going through all the logistics while he monologued excitedly from the sofa. Never once had the surprise been for me.

  A sudden stir of excitement fluttered in my stomach, but it was instantly countered with a wave of nerves. I might not know exactly what Nick was up to—but I did know Nick. The man was a fucking poster boy for the perils of ‘getting a little carried away.’

  Case and point: he had once launched a hot air balloon off the top of the Empire State Building, just because his friends bet that he couldn’t land it in the Hudson. (He couldn’t.)

  Without me there to rein him in...who knew what the lunatic was planning.

  “Maybe I should have pushed for a long-distance relationship,” I murmured, wondering whether it would be prudent for me to go out and update all my shots. “You know, something that kept me...out of range.”

  “Out of range?” Stacy repeated with a grin. “Of Nick Hunter? Is there such a place?”

  Good point.

  “So why are you here so early?” I asked, ignoring her question as I focused again on the bag. “Six in the morning for an evening event? Even you can’t possibly take that long.”

  Instead of fighting back like usual, her lips turned up in a dangerous smile.

  “Aw sweetie, I probably can’t...”

  As if on cue, the elevator dinged open, and the sound of a dozen or more voices floated inside from the hall. A second later, they were followed by a dozen or more footsteps. A second after that...there was a knock on my door.

  My eyes widened in disbelief, but Stacy simply grinned.

  “...but I’m not the only person who knows where you live.”

  Chapter 6

  You know the huddle that sports teams do at the start of every game? Right before they run out onto the field? Dozens upon dozens of people all packed together in a tight circle, all straining as far as they can to reach their hand toward the center?

  Well that sports field was my tiny, tiny living room.

  And that thing everyone was grabbing at in the center?

  ...that was me.

  “I’m sorry,” I blinked in amazement as a three thousand dollar massage chair was wheeled into the room, “how did you even fit that in the elevator?”

  No one answered me. Most of them didn’t speak the language, and the rest were far too focused on the task at hand. The most I got was a silencing pat on the head.

  In the four minutes it had taken me to make a fresh pot of coffee, my living room had been transformed into a virtual spa. The original furniture had been either shoved aside or exiled unceremoniously to the bedroom, soon to be replaced with massage beds, hot wax machines, one of those old-fashioned hair domes, and a million other pieces of equipment I had never seen.

  My clothes were yanked off and as I perched atop a wooden stool—draped in a terrycloth towel designed to relax—no less than thirty people buzzed in and out of my line of sight. Trimming. Buffing. Polishing. Preening to their heart’s content.

  It was every girl’s dream. To be treated like a queen by a host of willing subjects. Fussed over and pampered by an Eastern European mob trained to do exactly that.

  But at the same time...all the attention was a little much.

  “Okay, seriously?” I pulled back my hand, as a woman I’d never seen before walked toward me with a little jar of something simply labeled youth. “Is that a joke? What do you even do with that?”

  More importantly, where did she get it? They weren’t kidnapping forest maidens somewhere, right? Draining them dry to moisturize the skin of the Upper East Side?

  “You cry into it, then we offer up your tears as a sacrifice to the gods,” Stacy answered matter-a-factly.
“It’s basic science.”

  It was a testament to how crazy things had become, that she was my rock. Twice, she had vetoed things deemed too extreme. (My vetoes apparently didn’t count. Even when it came down to something ominously referred to as a ‘vampire face lift.’) Twice, she had been met with a shrieking hailstorm of Russian.

  Fortunately, Stacy was more than up to the task.

  “Science. Right.” I bit down upon my lip as a strip of waxing cloth was ripped from my leg. My other leg was hiding instinctively behind the chair. “You know, I always thought that spa days were supposed to be relaxing. Women always talk about them like they’re a treat.”

  “Women also paint their faces, pierce their ears, and pretend they enjoy walking around on miniature stilts all day,” Stacy replied, disassociating completely. “Women are crazy.”

  An ironic condemnation, considering I was talking to one of the foremost stylists in the country. Even more ironic considering that she dated women exclusively, ignoring the other sex.

  She caught my sarcastic look with a wry grin.

  “Men are even crazier.”

  I snorted under my breath, flashing back to a showdown over a lobster tank. A hang-gliding incident involving powerlines in Bolivia. An unfortunate run-in with a renegade swan.

  “You’ve got that right.”

  And speak of the devil...

  My phone buzzed away in my pocket, and I hastened to dig through the designer threads draping me to respond. No less than six women scolded me in various languages as I did so, but in the end, I came up triumphant—giving each one of them a winning smirk before peering down at the screen. Sure enough, it was Nick.

  You get my presents? Told you, I like to spoil.

  I shook my head with a little grin and held the phone closer to my chest, shielding the conversation from anyone who might be looking in.

  You call this spoiling? I’m covered head to toe in wax, a woman I don’t know is rubbing some sort of paste into my scalp, and I’m nursing a chemical burn from a woman named Helga.

  There was a brief pause, followed by:

  Please send photographic evidence at once.

  I choked back a laugh, then had a miniature tug-of-war with a fierce-looking woman who was trying to claim my hand. In the end, I surrendered it—typing with my other.

  Lol. Next time you want to spoil, try sending chocolates. Not the 23rd Battalion.

  Another pause. I could picture him grinning down at the screen. Sipping his morning cup of coffee from out on the balcony as he gazed out over the entire city. Completely oblivious to the girlish hell that had settled over my little apartment.

  You like chocolates?

  I perked up with dread at the smell of fresh wax and quickly angled my body in the opposite direction, tucking my other leg up beneath me for safe keeping.

  Everyone likes chocolates.

  There was a miniature scuffle as someone grabbed my other leg—the one that had gone into hiding—and began mummy-taping it over with hot wax. I braced against the arm-rests of my chair, preparing for the worst. And just as the strip pulled away from my leg, a high-pitched yelp burst through my lips.

  The price of beauty...

  Thirty minutes passed when I received another text from Nick.

  Get the door...

  Knock. Knock.

  I looked up with sudden curiosity just as Stacy answered the door. The doorman handed her a medium-sized box and she thanked him.

  She glanced over at me. “Hey! You got a present! Truffles.”

  “I did?”

  “Aw, it came with a card and everything.” She flipped it open, oblivious to the laws of privacy, and started reading the message meant for me. “Wow—this is some pretty adorable stuff. It’s even written in Nick’s own hand.”

  I twisted free of the women holding me, and held out my hand.

  “Please give me that!”

  She did so. Only after removing a chocolate for herself.

  The card was on simple stationary stock. But yes, it looked like it had been written by Nick himself. I marveled at this silently—baffled by the perfectly timed delivery with his texts.

  ‘Truffles for the woman who never fails to take my breath away.

  Hoping they’ll butter you up for a little surprise I have for this evening.

  Also hoping you’ll wear a certain dress...’

  - Nick

  “What dress is he talking about?” Stacy asked, her mouth full of chocolate.

  I opened up the box and peeked inside, completely unsurprised at this point, to see that it was a compilation of all my favorites. The corners of my lips curled up into a secret smile as I reached down to extract a piece of caramel—popping it into my mouth.

  “I don’t know,” I answered evasively.

  She nodded and returned to her coffee, while I chewed on the caramel with a secret grin.

  Truth be told, I happened to know exactly what dress Nick was talking about. It happened to be sitting in a Dior bag underneath my bed. The same bag I hadn’t touched since the day the two of us went shopping.

  Before I discovered Ella and ruined the whole thing.

  Before he dumped Ella and replaced her with me.

  “So when exactly did this whole thing with you and Nick happen?” Stacy asked, waving the others away, as she looped my dark hair around a curling iron. “I’m assuming it’s some last-ditch publicity effort to replace that model from Oklahoma.”

  The smile faded from my face as I nodded quickly.

  “Yeah it’s...it’s just a convenience, you know?” I closed the lid of the truffles quickly and settled back in my chair. “He still needs a steady ‘relationship’ for the next three months.”

  Stacy chuckled under her breath, snapping her fingers for a sparkling water.

  “Talk about dedication to your job. I hope you’re getting paid overtime for this.”

  There was nothing wrong with what she was saying. Knowing Nick, her wry sense of humor was perfectly justified. And yet, I couldn’t help but chafe against the words.

  “It’s no big deal,” I said defensively, trying to keep my voice light as a woman popped up out of nowhere and began painting the nails on my other hand. “Nick and I have known each other for a long time. If he needs a favor—I’m more than willing to help.”

  “Yeah—but you kissed him,” Stacy countered. “And it was a very Oscar-worthy performance.”

  I paused a beat.

  “What can I say? I’m a very good actress.”

  “But you kissed your boss.”

  “So? It’s just a crazy day’s work. Do you know how many stunts I’ve had to put up with? It’s the price of working for Nick.”

  She snorted, wrapping another lock of hair around the iron. “So...you of all people should know how many places that mouth has been.”

  The defensiveness fell away, and it was my turn to laugh.

  “Oh—coming from you!” I shook my head, earning a slap on the wrist from the manicurist trying to get me to hold still. “The woman who slept with half Greenwich Village.”

  She chuckled as well.

  “But it’s not the same thing. It’s not about how many people he’s slept with—it’s about the fundamental way he approaches relationships.” She caught my eye in the mirror, studying me appraisingly. “Nick doesn’t date with any intention of a future. The man lives in the moment. In the seven years that I’ve known him, I’ve yet to see him take anyone or anything seriously. His last name sums him up perfectly...HUNTER. He’s a hunter.”

  My mouth opened, but for one of the first times, I could think of nothing to say.

  She was right. Absolutely right. Nick was a notorious bachelor. He had an international reputation for goodness sake. It didn’t matter whether he’d signed the chocolate card himself, it would be a cold day in hell before Nick Hunter found someone who could hold onto him.

  “Good thing it’s just a fake relationship, then,” I said.

 
“He’s gotta get tired of the hunt one day.”

  The others laughed.

  My throat tightened, and I pushed the truffles deliberately away—tossing them down upon the coffee table. “It’s not like I’d ever be crazy enough to do anything for real. This is strictly business—nothing more.”

  Stacy flashed me a grin. “Of course it is. But in the meantime,” she leaned down and retrieved the truffles, placing them squarely back in my lap, “it doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the perks. Right?”

  I forced a laugh.

  “...right.”

  She popped another one in her mouth before returning to my hair. After a second of looking at them, I did the same—snatching up the final caramel before a hand snuck out of nowhere, and the box was passed around by the others. A dozen conversations erupted around me once more, but I found myself quiet and thoughtful—thinking back over what Stacy had said.

  Then, as if on cue, my phone buzzed again.

  I bet you went for the caramel first.

  I stared down at the message, tracing the screen with the tip of a manicured finger, before typing a quick response.

  You don’t have to do stuff like this, you know.

  This time, the response was almost instantaneous.

  Stuff like what?

  I stifled a sigh.

  Sending me chocolates. There aren’t any cameras around, just our people.

  The pause was much longer. Much longer. As Stacy babbled on somewhere behind me, styling my hair to perfection, I stared down at the screen. Waiting for a reply.

  When a full minute went passed, I almost texted him again. Worried that I’d upset him or appeared ungrateful. But then, just as I was reaching for the screen, the phone dinged again.

  I thought we agreed, I get to treat you like a girlfriend.

  Before I could reply, he followed it up.

  Girlfriends get chocolates. Amongst other things...

  A reluctant smile lit my face, and I cupped the phone protectively against my chest. The last thing I wanted was for Stacy to grab the thing and read it out loud.

  Oh yeah? And what might those ‘other things’ be?

  A single message followed. The last one I’d receive.