Dating the Billionaire: A Standalone Romantic Comedy Read online

  Dating the Billionaire

  Poppy Dunne

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. Dahlia

  2. Jack

  3. Dahlia

  4. Jack

  5. Dahlia

  6. Dahlia

  7. Jack

  8. Dahlia

  9. Jack

  10. Dahlia

  11. Jack

  12. Dahlia

  13. Jack

  14. Dahlia

  15. Jack

  16. Jack

  17. Dahlia

  18. Jack

  19. Dahlia

  20. Dahlia

  21. Jack

  22. Dahlia

  23. Jack

  24. Dahlia

  25. Jack

  26. Dahlia

  Extra Credit

  Also by Poppy Dunne

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2017 by Poppy Dunne

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Dedicated to he who blurs the line between love and madness.

  1

  Dahlia

  Books are sexy. You can throw all the champagne dinners and limousine rides and sharp, well-cut Armani suits at me as you like—and I would like, so we’re clear—but nothing provides the same tactile pleasures as books. Think I’m kidding? Not a chance. Pick up a book, riffle through the pages, and breathe in that certain, wonderful, nerdy perfume. Slip off the dust jacket, and you have a very naughty and nude volume at your fingertips. But like any good partner, it’s what’s inside that counts. A good book? Same thing as a good man: never let it out of your sight, and don’t let your friend borrow it unless you want the pages to come back all crinkled and the dog to have chewed on it.

  That metaphor ran away from me, but my point stands.

  So when I tell you that I’m sitting in the public library, waiting for my new client with a steaming cup of cherry hibiscus tea beside me and my black leather planner all spread out before me, I’m a happy girl. And when I find out that my new client, a sweet, blushing thirty-two year old with Warby Parker eyeglasses and chipped nail polish, is a librarian? Well, I have to help this girl find happiness, on behalf of book lovers everywhere.

  That’s what I do. Professional dating expert, helping happy ever afters manifest for the last ten years. I started at Vassar during my senior year, ever since I got Dwayne Rees and Becky Collins into a romantic clinch outside the rose garden.

  “Ms. Rossi?” the librarian asks as she sits down opposite me, hands right in her lap. Okay, she’s shy. No problem.

  “Please, call me Dahlia.” I give her a warm smile, and she loosens right away. This is (check my notes) Amy Jacobs, and I’m about to make her extremely happy. That makes me happy.

  “Wow, that’s such a pretty name.” She’s totally sincere, which melts my type-A heart.

  “It’s what happens when you have an Italian American father and a Southern lady for a mother.” It’s true. From my dad, I get a head full of thick black hair and a stubborn disposition. From Mom, it’s the name and the unwavering belief in everlasting love. Deadly combination, that. I’m just glad every single day that Dad managed to talk Mom out of the name Magnolia when she was nine hours into labor with me. The drugs probably helped his case. Dahlia Rossi sounds like a lady professional; Magnolia Rossi sounds like a martini.

  Of course, the downside of an Atlanta belle mother is that, now I’m past thirty, she’s poking me a lot more about my own happily ever after. “Dahlia, don’t you know how I yearn to see my grandchildren?” I can hear her saying with a gentle, decorous sigh. Then I imagine her standing on an antebellum porch and waving a lace handkerchief into the breeze.

  Mom sharply told me to stop romanticizing Gone with the Wind at a young age, but old habits die hard.

  Okay, back to reality and Amy Jacobs.

  “So. How can I help you?” I watch her twist a turquoise bead bracelet around and around on her wrist. She’s a fidgeter, which means she’s going to need someone who makes her relax.

  “I’ve never done anything like this before.” She blushes hard, and I take out my emergency stash of chocolate covered blueberries, offering her one. Something about the soothing embrace of chocolate tends to make women open up. This trick never fails. Amy happily takes a couple, rolling her eyes at the taste. I like a lady who appreciates the sugary finer things in life.

  “That’s fine. Whenever people come to me, it’s because whatever they’ve tried so far hasn’t been working. After a little time with me, they never have to go back out into the dating world.” Not that dating isn’t and can’t be a lot of fun, but different folks need different things. There comes a point when settling down is just what people want. Humans need stability and predictability to feel safe, and that extends into romance.

  I haven’t quite hit that point myself yet, but I recognize it in others.

  Amy nods, finishes her chocolate, and says, “So there’s this guy who comes to the library. I’m usually tucked away in reference, but I came out one day to help him. He’s, well.” Her eyes actually sparkle. This is a woman in the mad grip of a crush. Much fun as those are, you want to make sure there’s compatibility. A whirlwind romance with an underwear model is no bad thing, but if you’re Amy Jacobs and want something stable, it might not be in the cards.

  “What’s he like? Did you talk to him?”

  She nods. “He’s a PhD student at Columbia. He wants to be a clinical psychologist.” She sighs like she’s said the dreamiest thing in the world. So, the intellectual equivalent of an underwear model? For Amy, we can work with this. “He’s really nice, too. I didn’t expect him to be so nice. And the next time he came in for a book, he asked for me by name. Since I’d been so helpful before, I guess.” She says that last line and drops her eyes, her energy dropping with it. Instantly, I get a read: the guy seems to like her, since he went out of his way to ask, but Amy’s got bad self esteem. She thinks the only reason a man would be interested in her would be to get something from her.

  There are a lot of gentle women who get used like this, and it makes me mad. Well, we’re going to fix things, and right now. Call me the Fixer. Except don’t, because I’m pretty sure that was already a TV show.

  “Sounds good to me. Sounds like you caught his eye.” The way her face lights up makes me smile.

  “Really?” The fidgeting stops. Confidence, baby. You only need a little.

  “Really. So, here’s what we’re going to do.” I slide her a paper I’ve been scribbling on while we talked. It’s got a few rules on it. “First thing you do, go buy yourself a nice bath bomb. Light some candles at home, enjoy a sensual bath, and feel comfortable in your own skin.”

  Amy giggles. God, she actually giggles. This woman is sunshine and sweetness.

  “I mean it. Feeling good about your femininity, and feeling sexy, it makes all the difference. Next thing, do you know when he’s coming back?”

  “He—that is, Dan—he always comes in on Saturdays for a couple of hours. He uses one of our private reading rooms.” She all but sighs when she says it.

  Saturday’s tomorrow. Perfect. She won’t have time to analyze and second guess and generally psych herself out.

  “When you come t
o work tomorrow, wear something that’s appropriate but makes you feel beautiful. Do up your hair. Put on your best makeup. If they don’t hurt, wear some wedge sandals or something. Nice blouse and skirt. The works. The point isn’t to be what he wants so much as it’s to wear what makes you feel desirable.” When women feel confident, they project outwards. I’ve seen men who would never give a certain girl a second look suddenly turn around, their eyes wide, to watch her walk by after a minimal transformation. Beauty’s in the mind as much as in the body.

  Amy’s taking notes, bless her. “Okay. Then what?”

  “When he comes in, engage on what he’s studying. Talk about it. Here’s the most important part: try to get him to be the one to ask you out.” This is part of my Commandments for Dating, which is sort of like the Ten Commandments except it’s Xeroxed and not in stone. Also, instead of ten, it’s like, four. Also, God didn’t give them to me; in fact, he’s probably up there somewhere taking notes. I give very good advice, what can I say?

  Dating rule 1: Get the man to make the first move.

  I’ll admit I’m not thrilled that it’s my first tip, but it’s a tried and true one. I’ve definitely seen women ask men out and it ends up being perfectly fine, but there’s something about the “traditional” (in hard air quotes) arrangement that tends to work more often. I recognize people’s behavior patterns real fast, and the evidence mounts up when you pay attention. Mom always said I was too intuitive for my own good, normally after a couple of Mint Juleps and listening to Barry Manilow’s greatest hits for an hour.

  I have no idea why Barry Manilow, but it was another pattern.

  “How do I get him to make the first move?” Amy bites her lip.

  “If he’s into you—and it sounds like he is—he will. If he sees you looking and feeling pretty, and if you’re interested in him and enjoying the conversation, he’ll want more time with you. Mention how much you like a new bar or restaurant, or how you’re going to swing over and grab some coffee on your break and there’s a great new shop you want to try.” Generally, women can get away with being a little less than subtle, especially if the guy is bookish as well.

  “So if Dan asks me out, what do I do then?”

  “Well, what would Jane Austen say?” I feel a little book talk can only be good for a lady in her line of work. And besides, who doesn’t love a bit of Regency romance in the day to day?

  “Early or latter Austen?” Amy frowns, suddenly consumed by the task. “Something more like the lessons learned by the archetypal characters in Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility? By which I mean, overcoming the one key character flaw to become a whole person? Or along the lines of Persuasion, where the journey is learning from the mistakes of the past?”

  I mean, I was honestly thinking more Colin Firth jumping into a pond in a studly fashion. But then again, that’s why she’s the librarian and I carry chocolate covered fruit with me everywhere I go.

  “Whichever works best for you. Point is, Jane would probably have you over for tea and give you this same list of the four golden rules.”

  Dating rule 2: Make sure the man pays for the first date.

  Dating rule 3: Never have sex on the first date.

  Dating rule 4: Play hard to get, but not too well.

  I know, I know, some of these seem a little old fashioned. Sue me, but it works. Like I said, I’m built to see patterns. I’m like a mini…pattern…seer…that way. But people like to play by the rules, so it’s important to know what the rules are.

  I have to suppress a shudder as I remember living life before I had a million ironclad rules. I was a mess, literally and figuratively. When I was younger, the world and its endless possibilities were thrilling to me. I wanted to do everything, be everywhere. But that unbridled enthusiasm, that YES! tattoo on my forehead (figuratively speaking, although I was very close to a literal tattoo once) came with some unpleasant consequences. Mom used to be in the principal’s office day in and out, worrying over my grades, my messy locker, my inability to concentrate. They put me on a million different pills, worried that there was something really wrong with me. With maturity, and enough hard lessons under my belt, I took matters into my own tentacles, got a daily planner, and forced life into line.

  It’s worked ever since.

  Amy reads over the notes, biting her lip and fidgeting again. Uh oh, this is a little information overload. I offer the blueberries, which do the trick.

  “Look, these are things to have in mind while on your first date. Within them, there’s a broad range of things you can do.” Like holding hands and kissing, but no oral. That’s good for two and a half dates in, in my book. Also, if he likes the same Marvel TV shows you do, you can shave off that half a date. Chances are if he’s into Jessica Jones, you should marry him and bear his children.

  Then my phone starts buzzing, playing the oh-so-subtle song my friend Chelsea programmed, It’s Raining Men. On the nose? You bet, but Chelsea really likes to screw with me. It’s one of the reasons I love her. I’m a sucker for pain.

  Also, she bakes excellent cranberry scones. I would not do Best Friend Afternoon Tea with anyone else.

  Crap, Men means my alarm, which means that I needed to be at my apartment putting on makeup and changing five minutes ago. I’ve got an event for another client tonight, and being late sets a bad precedent.

  “How do I pay you?” Amy asks when I start putting my books and papers into my admittedly overlarge purse. I’m pretty sure I could fit a baby and a golden retriever inside if I ever wanted to try. If I become a mom, I’ll keep that in mind.

  “The first consultation is always free. You start paying me once he asks you out.” I wink at her while hiking my bag up my shoulder. “We can arrange that tomorrow.”

  “You really think he’ll ask me tomorrow?” The bloom of panic’s spreading across her face. “What if he doesn’t?”

  “That’ll give you a week to perfect your sensual bath and fabulous outfit routine.” I know Amy’s type, and I’ve worked with it before. She thinks that because things haven’t worked out by now, they never will. So any step forward is just another reminder of how she’ll screw it up. This part of the process is as much about rewiring her as it is getting him to say and do all the right things.

  And speaking of the right things, the right thing for me right now will include getting an Uber and plunging into the back of it while it takes off at high speed. Finally, I get the chance to live all my B-movie car chase dreams. There are about five of them.

  I say goodbye and good luck to Amy, then race out of the library. The Anderson Center for Child Development is having a splashy dinner tonight, and my client needs to make a, well, splash.

  Which she will. I’ve got every step planned out, after all.

  2

  Jack

  Riddle me this: if a man’s windsurfing in Los Angeles, and he has to be in New York in five hours for a benefit, how fast should he get his ass back onto dry land and into a tuxedo?

  Answer: Whenever he damn well pleases, since he’s got a private jet that could make the Concorde’s trans-Atlantic flight time look conservative. The jet’s a prototype, of course, my corporation’s first foray into air travel. Flies like a dream. The goal’s to get the whole world cruising the great blue sky on Carraway Jet Airways, so they can make it from New York to Seoul in under two hours. For a while, I wanted to call it Carrairways, but saying it out loud sounded like being drunk. Which, if you work in air travel, is a bad idea. My jets will open up people’s lives, and not just the super wealthy; soon, even the economy class folk will be able to find quick, convenient, inexpensive travel. Elon Musk is desperate for my tech. I’ll consider letting him in on the ground floor if he promises I can be the first man on Mars. So far, still waiting to hear back on that, but I believe he’s tempted.

  I lean into the wind as my sail billows outward. The afternoon sun is still high, and the waves are cerulean blue and white capped. The ocean spray’s heaven on th
e backs of my calves, as I turn around and head back to the house. Damn, but I’d be happy to spend the rest of the day out here, the sun on my back and a pod of dolphins being adorable dicks to my board. But I promised the Anderson Center I’d make an appearance, and since they’re giving me an award for funding studies in early childhood autism, it’d be a shitty move not to show up.

  I could make some joke about me being an adorable dick to the Anderson board, but I’m not adorable. Dolphins are, but dolphins make bad billionaires. Sad, but true.

  I coast back onto the beach, waves breaking on the shore and foaming around my ankles as one of my guys runs up to take the equipment. Much as I love smelling like the ocean, I get the feeling New York’s less tolerant of combining brine and formal wear than LA is. Also, they don’t like it when you track sand into their gala events. Another reason why the east coast is too uptight for me.

  Means I’d better shower before the jet. Also, I’d better put clothes on somewhere in between those two steps.

  The door slides open with a hiss as I enter the living room. I’ve got a bit of Iron Man sci-fi high tech going on in the Malibu house, and I’m pretty proud of it. Most nerdy kids with roomfuls of Marvel comics don’t end up on the Forbes Most Powerful Under 35 list, but when they do, they take advantage of it. The whole western wall is nothing but windows, the ocean stretched out before me in a shimmering blue expanse. The wooden floor’s cool against my feet as I pad inside, toweling off my hair. And Liv Okamoto, who runs my Santa Monica office, is standing in the center of the living room. She’s a no-nonsense type woman with an impeccable bob of black hair and an ice-cold expression. With Liv, it’s either cold or freezing; cold means she likes you.

  It’s good to be liked, especially by the best. And Liv is the best. I pay good money for that.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be on leave? Hasn’t Karen had the babies yet?” Liv’s wife has been about to go into labor with twins for a seeming eternity. She’s gotten so huge that moons are beginning to orbit her. Liv only hands me a sheath of papers as I head for the winding stairs.