Kitty Valentine dates a Billionaire Page 3

  The second he and Phoebe are out the door, I grab for the clothes folded neatly on a chair near the bed. They’re freshly laundered and everything. This guy … what’s his deal? I can’t get a handle on him.

  Now’s not the time for that anyway. I grab the clothes and my computer, sitting at the bottom of the pile, and don’t even bother getting dressed before hauling my embarrassed ass across the hall and collapsing into bed.

  Maybe I’ll get lucky, and by the time I wake up, my problems will have cleared themselves up. A girl can dream.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The second time I wake up, the sun isn’t a problem anymore. Whoops. I slept the day away. One of the benefits of being a full-time writer. There are lots of benefits to it really.

  Except I can’t think of any others off the top of my head since I have the same problem I had before I fell asleep. I have no product to sell to my editor.

  There are a few texts on my phone, which came in while I slept, along with three missed calls from my best friend. I know Hayley’s not going to stop calling until I acknowledge her, so I take care of her first while sipping a bottle of water. Matt was right. I need a lot more of this.

  “You sound like you were asleep,” Hayley observes within three seconds of answering. “You forgot to call me yesterday, you know.”

  “I did?”

  “Sure! You were supposed to tell me all about the celebration at your editor’s yesterday. So, how much bigger is your advance this time?”

  Ouch. “It’s … not.”

  “Not bigger?”

  “Not at all,” I sigh. “It didn’t go well. The whole day was one disaster after another.”

  I know better than to expect long-drawn-out professions of sympathy by now. Hayley’s not that sort of girl.

  “It sounds like you need a night out,” she decides, and I can tell from her tone of voice that she’s not kidding around. No excuses will be accepted.

  Though I’m still tempted to give her one. Do I really feel like going to the trouble of getting dressed up and socializing? Maybe she’ll buy it if I tell her I’m sick.

  Except, physically, I feel better than I have any right to feel after the night I spent. Hours of unbroken sleep will do that for a person, I guess. And she’s not wrong. I could use a little fun in my life after the events of the last day or so.

  The well-timed growling of my stomach seals the deal. “So long as it includes dinner,” I reply rather than turning her down.

  She knows me well, rattling off where she wants to meet up like she knew in advance I’d make dinner my condition. “See you in an hour. Look hot.”

  Hmm. Hot’s a pretty subjective adjective, but I’ll do my best.

  The trendy, new restaurant she named is nearby, so I have time to fuss with my hair and makeup after showering. Sleeping all day has its perks for sure since I feel much more clearheaded than I did yesterday before the drinking started.

  If only there was a message from Maggie when I woke up, telling me she was wrong about my work, that everything would be fine. No such luck. I’m still stuck between a rock and a hard-on.

  Hayley’s sitting at a high-top table near the bar when I arrive, and she’s already surrounded by men.

  I swear, if she wasn’t my best friend, I’d hate her.

  For one thing, she graduated at the top of our class in college and then did the same thing at Columbia Law. She’s now working at a big Manhattan law firm while studying for the bar exam.

  For another thing, she’s gorgeous, hence the men crowding around in hopes that they’ll win her attention. Long, shiny blonde hair. A megawatt smile, almost too perfect to be real. Big green eyes that can widen in innocence just as easily as they narrow dangerously.

  Oh, and she has a body built for sin. Her words, not mine.

  “There she is!” she announces loudly, waving a hand over her head.

  I suddenly feel underdressed in my sequined tank and leather pants even though her clothes are more modest. She has the curves to fill out just about anything and make it look deadly.

  “Kitty, this is Sean, Dylan, Drake, and Jackson,” she rattles off.

  It’s amazing the way she can remember the names of four guys she met a few minutes ago while I need to meet a person at least a few times before their name is cemented in my mind.

  The name Matt floats through my awareness, but that’s different. He’s unforgettable. Of course, the thought of him makes me remember this morning and the awkwardness from last night, and now, I wish I’d never heard of the man.

  There’s another reason I love her. It doesn’t matter how crowded a bar is; Hayley can get a drink with no effort. She only needs to make eye contact with the bartender and twirl her finger around in the air, and then drinks appear like magic.

  You’d think I wouldn’t want to touch a drop after my lengthy visit with Mr. Patrón, but you’d be wrong. A martini is just what the doctor ordered.

  At my first sip, Hayley shoos the men away. “It’s girls’ night,” she announces with something that might pass for a pout. She doesn’t apologize.

  “I’ll never understand your confidence,” I have to admit. “I guess having every man you’ve ever met fall at your feet makes it easier to turn them away. You know there’s always another guy waiting his turn.”

  “Oof.” She grimaces. “It must’ve gone awfully bad yesterday if you’re already this low. So, what happened? Did you not hit number one this time?”

  Have I mentioned I also love her discretion? The gentle, delicate way she approaches a situation?

  “I didn’t hit at all,” I sigh. It’s not getting any easier to admit that. “The book was a flop.”

  “You can’t win them all. Just write another one.” She shrugs. When I gulp down the rest of my martini, she adds, “Does the publisher want you anymore?”

  “In a word? No.” I whirl my finger around like she does. “Could you use your magic to order up another? I feel like I could use it.”

  She leans in, brows lowering as she gets serious. “Listen, you’re Kitty fucking Valentine. Get another publisher. Anybody would be lucky to have you! It’s not like you’re starting from scratch and you have no fan base, for God’s sake.”

  “That’s true …”

  “Although I have to admit something.” She frowns. “I enjoyed the book like I enjoy all your work, but I did end up wishing there were a little more sex in it.”

  I tap a finger to the tip of my nose. “Ding, ding! That’s the problem. That’s what they want. I need to write more sex. I need to write according to popular tropes.”

  “What’s a trope?”

  “You know, like a theme or a storyline used to identify a type of book. Or a type of main character, the sort of men women love reading about. There are popular tropes and unpopular ones. Here’s a hint: I’m writing the unpopular ones.”

  Hayley wrinkles her nose. “Okay, so Maggie wants you to write the popular ones. Like what?”

  “Well, here’s the thing.” I have to lean in because this is way too humiliating to announce out loud in the middle of a restaurant that’s growing more crowded by the minute as people get out of work. I’ll either come off looking like a total weirdo or like a girl looking to score a date. I’m not sure which of the two possibilities is less appealing. “She asked me the last time I got laid. I was mortified.”

  “Ouch.” Hayley cringes.

  “She said I should start dating different types of men to use them as inspiration for each new book. She wants to serialize it, like a TV show or something. Can you imagine? And get this. She called them my sexcapades.” I can barely get the word out of my mouth without gagging a little.

  I wouldn’t consider myself a prude, no matter how few sexual positions I’ve used in my life. But sleeping around for the sake of writing books?

  Hayley takes a sip of her martini. She’s a thinker, for all her beauty and charm. Men often underestimate her smarts, which sucks for them. I, on the other
hand, appreciate her thoughtfulness.

  “It gets worse,” I continue. “The publisher wants to sell my new books for less than four dollars a pop. That’s the literary equivalent of stripping—except once the publisher and Lois take their cut, I’ll earn maybe a dime. I’m not even a stripper. Strippers don’t work for dimes. I might as well panhandle on the street.”

  “Kitty …” Hayley sighs.

  “It’s true! Do you know how many books I’d have to sell to earn a hundred thousand dollars?”

  “A million,” she fires back without even blinking.

  “Right. And, if that’s not bad enough, they want me to use my name. Kitty Valentine is synonymous with sweet romance. I feel like if I write something steamier, it needs to be under a pen name. Don’t most strippers use stage names? Can’t I even get that last bit of dignity.” Maybe I’m feeling self-indulgent and morose, but I can’t help it. There hasn’t been enough time to wrap my mind around the situation.

  “I’m sure some strippers do,” Hayley agrees while reaching over, plucking her designer tote from the seat between us. She pulls something colorful from it and places it on the table.

  “What’s this?” I ask, eyeing it with suspicion.

  It looks like a spinning prize wheel, only miniature, and there’s a screen where I guess the names of prizes flash past until the wheel stops spinning.

  Hayley folds her hands on the tabletop. “I didn’t hear from you yesterday. I got worried. Then, I remembered meeting Maggie at one of your release parties. She gave me her card that night. I called her up, and she told me everything.”

  My jaw pretty much hits the floor. “Why did you make me repeat it then when you knew the whole time?”

  “Because I wanted to hear it from you. How you’re feeling about it. Literary stripping—it has a nice ring to it.”

  “Are you ladies talking about stripping?” A sexy waiter sidles up beside Hayley, and she giggles at his flirtation. “You two need anything besides a pole?”

  I have no choice but to lay my head on the table in despair. I don’t even have an appetite anymore.

  Though Hayley doesn’t know this. “We’ll start with the spinach-artichoke dip,” she announces. “Then, two burgers cooked medium. One with no bun, one with no onions. Fries. And another round of drinks.”

  I manage to lift my head off the table just enough to observe, “You ordered for me.”

  “Like I don’t know exactly what you’d order by now.” She smirks. “But you’re in way too dramatic a mood to think clearly. It’s not like you, Kitty. I know you love writing sugary-sweet romances, but this might be what you need to take your career to the next level. You could go from movies of the week to red carpets and box-office movie deals. You’re a good writer. You have a fantastic imagination. But I have to agree with one thing your publisher says.”

  “What’s that?” I ask with a sinking heart. Isn’t it always easier to ignore compliments and focus on the negative?

  “You need inspiration.” She pushes the prize wheel closer to me. “Which is where this gadget comes in. We’re calling this dating roulette. After talking to Maggie, I did a little research and looked up who’s hot right now. Each one of the types of men women want to read about is represented here. You spin the wheel, and the ever-wise wheel will tell you which type of man you’re going to date and write about.” She pats herself on the back. “Good job, Hayley. You’re the best, Hayley.”

  She’s adorable, and I love her, but I’m not quite at that point yet.

  “I’ve been thinking about that, and it won’t work. Readers expect happy endings in romance books. Even the super-sexy books. I’m not going to have a happy ending with all these guys.”

  I’m surprised her eyes don’t fall out of her head as she rolls them so hard.

  “Kitty! It’s not supposed to be autobiographical. These men are inspiration. They’re research. You’ll write a happy ending for the characters in your book, based off you and the lucky fella you choose.”

  There’s not a chance she’ll ever lose a case. Not once she flashes that smile of hers, which she’s turning on me right now. Full force. The girl could sell water to the ocean.

  “Take a drink and then spin the wheel.”

  I would, but our appetizer arrives. Just when I thought I had no appetite left, the sight of so much creamy, cheesy goodness went and barged into my life. The server doesn’t even have the plate set on the table yet before I’m grabbing for a warm tortilla chip and scooping an obscene amount. “I’m starved.”

  “Try to leave the bowl behind at least.” Hayley smirks. “Come on. You’re not leaving until you spin. Get to it.”

  And I will. First, I need another chip. I haven’t eaten since … before the meeting with Maggie and Lois. No wonder I could eat even the less savory parts of a cow right now. I hope Hayley isn’t committed to eating a majority of her fries when they get here.

  “I’m not easy to be friends with, am I?” I can’t help but ask, looking across the table at my best friend.

  She’s wearing a slight smile, like she’s just on the right side of amused but on her way to genuine irritation at the way I’m stalling. “What makes you ask that?”

  “I don’t leave my apartment for days on end. I get so wrapped up in my work that I forget where I left my phone half the time. But you never give me grief for it.”

  “Maybe because I’m just as hard of a worker as you are,” she suggests with a soft laugh. “I can relate.”

  She does work really long hours. The fact that she managed to find time to sit in a restaurant with me is a small miracle.

  “Thank you for taking the time to do this for me.” I smile. Here I am, complaining and stalling, when she was kind enough to call Maggie and go to all this trouble. “I appreciate it so much.”

  Another winning smile. “Okay, I’ll fess up. I had one of the assistants make it up for me. What can I say?” She laughs when I roll my eyes. “I’m good at delegating. Though I did go through and remove anything I knew you would’ve turned down flat.”

  “Like what?” I have to ask since I’m turning the wheel and watching as one trope after another goes past. There are so many! How could she have removed any?

  “Being a breeder, for one.” She snickers with a wrinkled nose. “No need to bring a baby into all this. No married men.”

  “Huh. It’s funny that you actually found married men as a trope since romance is generally a no-cheating zone.”

  “Well, I took it out anyway.” She shrugs. “Oh, and I figured a shifter or vampire might be tough to find, even in Manhattan.”

  I can’t help but laugh along with her. Maybe this won’t be such a big deal after all. I can do this. Right? What’s the worst that could happen? I might even have a little fun.

  “Here goes nothing,” I whisper, closing my eyes and flicking the spinner.

  “Ooh! You got Boss.” She claps. “You get to date your boss! How exciting will that be?”

  “Hang on. Wait up.” I laugh, waving my hands around. “I can’t date my boss—or rather, Maggie’s boss, which I guess means my boss. He’s married with three kids, and he has a belly and only half a head of hair. I just can’t—”

  “No, I’m talking the big boss.” She holds up her phone, where she was typing something in while I whined. “Blake Marlin, CEO and billionaire. Your publisher is only a portion of his media conglomerate.”

  Blake Marlin. Sure, I’ve heard the name. Who hasn’t? At the tender age of thirty-two, he’s managed to amass a stunning empire. Magazines, blogs, newspapers, radio and TV stations. Hayley’s right; book publishing is only one small part of the larger whole.

  He’s also handsome as anything. Big, soulful brown eyes. A killer smile. His sandy-blond hair is tousled in the picture she’s pulled up, like he just ran his hand through it. He’s an avid sportsman, and his fit body and tan skin reflect this.

  “He’s a little too hot for me.” I shrug. “And fabulously wealthy. W
hy would he want to go out with me in the first place? Besides,” I add when it looks like she’s about to slap me silly, “that’s two tropes in one book. Boss and billionaire. They should be separate. Right?”

  “I don’t know. What’s your imagination tell you, Kitty?”

  “That I need to spin again. Can’t I start small the first time?” I ask, hands clasped in prayer. “Maybe just this one time, I can choose my trope rather than spinning for it. Let’s see … there’s bad boy, best friend’s brother …” I shoot her a sly grin.

  “You know as well as I do, that would never work,” she warns. “He’s too deep in his frat-boy days right now. You’d practically be robbing the cradle.”

  “He’s twenty-one,” I tease. Let’s see how she likes it.

  She doesn’t. “Moving on.”

  “Okay, okay. Hmm. Firefighter, single daddy, cowboy, rock star, doctor, motorcycle club, actor, prince/royalty, lifeguard, race car driver, foreign lover, tattoo artist, police, boy next door … there are so many!”

  I have to laugh since I’m nowhere near halfway through the list. My social life’s about to get pretty interesting.

  Then, another option catches my eye. “Hot Santa?”

  She waves a hand at me. “I added that. I thought it would make a fun holiday edition. Plus, you’ll get to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what a naughty girl you’ve been.”

  “Do you have any idea what the chances are of actually finding a hot Santa?” I ask with a giggle. “Maybe a dancer in a Santa costume, but the type you see at the mall? Normally not that hot.”

  “You’re the writer.” She shrugs as our burgers arrive. “You’ll figure it out.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Here’s the thing about Blake Marlin, CEO of Marlin Enterprises. Billionaire extraordinaire. General hottie with a body.

  He’s not technically my boss. I mean, he is, but not really. He’s been tangentially responsible for my career, but even that’s the thinnest thread connecting us. I’m sure, to him, I’m small-time. Nothing important. A girl who writes romance books. He’d probably assume I was some starry-eyed cat lady if he ever gave me a moment’s thought, which I doubt he ever has.