The Bad Boy Billionaire's Girl Gone Wild (2 page)

“I thought you would be out until later,” I had said, wanting equally to run to the comfort of his arms or run out of the house.

“Plans changed,” he had replied.

Here we were—late at night in New York City and I was looking fabulous when he dropped the bomb.

“Actually, Jane, one of the positions I’m interviewing for is at New York University.”

“Really?” I hoped my voice sounded light, and politely interested. I hoped he couldn’t hear how my heart started beating faster. “We’d be neighbors then.”

My fiction writer’s brain immediately started spinning stories of us getting back together, sharing an adorable one-bedroom apartment in the West Village, visiting cafes together on Saturday where I would write novels and he could correct term papers. Then we’d head off to catch the latest exhibit at the Met (never mind that I’d lived here for months now and hadn’t gone once), followed by dinner at the hot spot of the moment.

Then my brain came to a screeching halt. My plans and determination to settle down into a quiet routine of domesticity are what sent him running before. And my life had gotten a hell of a lot more interesting once I started acting first and dealing with the consequences later. As I took a sip of my champagne, I realized that for the first time in my life I was really living in the present rather than in some abstract, never-to-be-realized future.

“How are things at the New York Public Library?” Sam asked. “Are you enjoying your work?”

“It’s a step up from the Milford Library,” I answered, declining to mention that my position was not and my small salary didn’t go too far in the city. What was more important right now was the way Sam looked at me, as if I were impressive. A catch.

Was it really so wrong to enjoy that over drinks? I decided it wasn’t.

“Wow, Jane . . .” he said dreamily, looking me up and down and smiling faintly. “I just can’t get over how you’ve changed.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” I answered. He had loved me for years—until he didn’t. And now?

“It’s good. If I had . . . If you had . . .” He shook his head, chasing away the thought. “Never mind.”

“If I had dressed like this and lived the fabulous life in the city, we might not have broken up?”

We both seemed shocked that I had actually said that.

But four glasses of champagne had a way of disabling my filter and shutting down my inhibitions. Plus, I had changed. I was no longer cautious, play-by-the-rules Jane. I had already lost Sam—and possibly Duke, too—so what did I have to lose now? It was time to just be
me,
whoever that may be.

The way Sam was looking at me did nothing to steady my nerves. He hadn’t looked at me like that since high school. Under the stadium bleachers. Across the classroom. In the back of his Ford truck after school senior year.

“It’s funny,” he said, smiling slightly. “You’re not the girl I broke up with. If that makes sense.”

“I am. Just in high heels and a short skirt.”

In a few hours I would go home and put on an oversized T-shirt and boxer shorts before watching an episode of whatever reality TV show was on. I kept that to myself so I could perpetuate his idea that I was a different girl now.

“Fabulous girl living in the big city,” Sam mused. “Engaged to a billionaire tech guy.”

I sipped my champagne. If Sam really knew the truth, he wouldn’t gaze at me with that mixture of wanting and thwarted desire. The engagement was a sham. The hot heels and mini skirt were a distraction. I was still plain Jane who freaked out at uncertainty, wanted to be loved, and was desperate for everyone to like her.

“How is the book going?” he asked.

I smiled. I
might
have told everyone back home that I was moving to New York to write a novel. I thought it would sound less like I was running away from the wreckage of my life, and more like I was starting a fabulous new chapter. But it wasn’t until Duke and I kicked off our fake engagement that I had an idea of what to write.

“Historical fiction, right?”

“A historical romance novel,” I corrected.

“Like one of those bodice rippers you always kept under the bed?” Sam asked, grinning.

“You knew about that?” I gasped.

“Of course.” Sam said with a laugh. “How is it going? Are there lots of heaving bosoms and throbbing members?”

I rolled my eyes. Comments like that were why I had always told him I was interested in historical fiction. It sounded much more respectable and less likely to be mocked for, say, heaving bosoms and throbbing members.

“Oh yeah,” I whispered.

“So tell me all about the research for one of those naughty books,” Sam murmured, leaning in close. I took a deep breath. I had missed his scent.

“Ladies don’t kiss and tell,” I replied demurely.

“And the inspiration for the hero?” He leaned in closer. Instinctively, I leaned in close, too. His lips . . . a familiar kiss . . .

I couldn’t tell him the truth: The novel was about a heroine desperate to win back the love of her longtime suitor who may or may not have been inspired by Sam (ok, totally was). So desperate that she agrees to a sham relationship with the Duke of Ashbrooke (who was inspired by Duke, obvs). With whom she falls in love.

Though Emma, the heroine, is damn tempted when her longtime suitor rolls back into the picture. Or she would be, when I got home. I’d gotten stuck in my book and now knew what I had to write next.

“You’ll see when it’s published,” I replied, feeling quite flirty until I imagined, for a moment, what would happen when I published it. What if Sam read it? I felt a wave of embarrassment, which didn’t compare to the horrified feeling when I imagined Duke reading it.

Then again, boys didn’t read romance novels. Everyone knew that.

“I know writing a book has been a longtime dream of yours,” Sam said. “I’ll take you out to celebrate when it’s published.”

“Are you asking me out?” I asked coyly, flirtatiously tilting my head.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Sam replied with a grin and fleeting touch of my leg.

“Remember when you did ask me out for the first time?”

“Junior year. In the library after you had checked out
War and Peace
for me, which of course I never intended to read. I only wanted to impress you,” he said, and I burst out laughing. “God, I was so nervous.”

“Really?” I was incredulous. “But you were so popular and—”

He was good looking, kind, made the honor roll, and played for the football team. One of those rare, perfect guys.

“You were the pretty and brainy girl who I kept encountering in the stacks,” he said. “And it was the first time I had asked someone out.”

“Ah, memories,” I sighed, taking a sip of my drink, hoping it would chase away all the bittersweet feelings.

“But I guess it wouldn’t be a date now, if I asked you out. What with your engagement and all.”

About that . . .
I twisted the ring around and around.

Should I take it off? Duke and I had left everything so vague tonight. I wasn’t sure if we were still pretend-engaged, or if we’d truly broken up, or if we were in some weird, endless, grey area.

“Are you seeing anyone?” I asked, even though I knew full well that he was.
Curses to Facebook.

“Yeah. It’s not really serious or anything,” Sam answered, now looking grim.

“Anyone I know?”

“I’m afraid so.” He looked pained.

“You sound weird,” I said. “Like when you have news you don’t want to tell me. Like that time you broke the porcelain cat sculpture I inherited from my Grandma.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “And it truly was an accident. Even though it was the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I grinned and rolled my eyes. It had been ugly but it had sentimental value. “Who are you seeing, Sam? Don’t tell me it’s Kate Abbott,” I joked.

He didn’t say anything.

Involuntarily, I flexed my hand, remembering the time she slammed a door on my fingers so I wouldn’t be able to do the piano solo in our middle school recital. She got the part instead. She got everything—blonde hair that could be featured in a shampoo commercial, a gorgeous figure that would never need to be Photoshopped, and the adoration of everyone. More than once I heard her say she just didn’t get what Sam saw in me. Of course, she had wanted him for herself.

His silence was answer enough. It seemed she finally got him.

Of all the girls in the world . . . . Sam
knew
how I felt about her. More to the point, how she always made me feel terrible about myself.

“Wow. I was kidding,” I said dryly, sipping my champagne.

“You’re the one marrying a billionaire,” he remarked. My head snapped up. Was he dating my worst nightmare as some sort of
revenge
? Had I hurt him with my relationship with Duke?

Suddenly, things felt tense. What if we were with the wrong people? What if we were revenge-dating and were actually meant to be together? Such were the inevitable thoughts of an avid reader and romance novelist.

But why was I so attuned to my phone, desperate to hear from Duke?

“I never imagined this. Never ever,” I said.

“Me neither,” Sam said. He took another sip of his beer. “It feels intense to see you again. I thought I wanted something new. But I’ve missed you. And here you are, like the best of both worlds. Strange and familiar all at once.”

The love of my life was sitting here delivering the words I’d ached to hear. And all I could think about was Duke.

“But you’re with someone else,” Sam said.

Our gazes locked.

Was I? Or wasn’t I? Was I going to throw away a second chance at happiness with Sam because Duke may or may not want to keep up our grand fauxmance?
Was
this even my second chance, or was it just a case of a boy wanting what he can’t have?

Here’s what I knew: I had started falling for Duke.

Here’s what else I knew: To my great surprise, Duke was
here,
weaving his way through the crowds and looking around until he saw me.

Here’s the other thing I knew: When our gazes locked from across the room I felt it everywhere, body and soul.

“Hey,” Duke said with that grin that always made me think of the kind of rogue that made smart girls forget all sense and reason. He stood next to us.

“Hey,” I managed to say as two worlds collided right in front of my eyes.

“Hi, I’m Sam.”

“I’m Duke.”

“The fiancé. Congratulations.” Sam downed the rest of his beer. Duke rocked back on his heels and said, “Thanks.”

“I thought you were at your party,” I said to Duke.

He shrugged. “It got boring.”

I looked at him like he was daft. The biggest night of his life so far and
it got boring?
An hour ago “he just wanted to fucking enjoy his party.” Well, there was just no pleasing some people.

“All those people fawning over you. How tedious,” I said.

“Who knew that got old?” Duke asked, with one of his heart-melting grins.

I laughed. Sam smiled tightly as he looked from me to Duke and back again. Suddenly everything was super awkward, like there was a question hanging in the air of which guy I would go home with. Sam stood, and I watched the two guys size each other up.

“Well, I have an early morning,” Sam said. He signaled to the bartender for the check. He paid for our drinks and we exchanged awkward goodbyes. As soon as he could, Sam bolted.

“Do you want another drink, or do you want to get out of here?” Duke asked.

“Let’s get out of here.”

His driver and his Tesla were waiting outside of the bar to take us back to Duke’s spacious, modern penthouse apartment on the Bowery.

“I thought you were breaking up with me,” I said as the car slid off into the city night.

“I thought you were breaking up with me,” he replied.

“We say that as if we’re actually together.”

“Do you really want to talk tonight, Jane?” His voice was low, rough with desire, and it sent shivers dancing up and down my spine. I thought about it for a moment. More specifically, the four glasses of champagne I had drunk considered the matter and determined a response.

“No.”

His mouth crashed onto mine. We kissed until the car came to a stop in front of his building. Once the private elevator doors closed behind us, Duke demonstrated that he wasn’t just a brilliant computer developer or savvy businessman. He could add expert lover to the list of his accomplishments.

Weak knees.

Feeling dizzy.

Forgetting to breathe.

The way he touched me set my body on fire. Once we were in his apartment, my little blue dress was pulled over my head and dropped on the floor, only to be joined by his Project-TK T-shirt. I toyed with the band of his jeans and he growled.

My black satin bra was unfastened with one quick movement. That hit the floor, too, adding to the trail of discarded clothing that stretched from the entryway to the king-sized bed in the master bedroom down the hall. His hands found my breasts, cupping them possessively. I moaned, arching my back.

We stumbled together, a mess of tangled limbs and a passionate kiss, until we hit the mattress.

He was my rebound guy. My pretend fiancé. Our entire romantic history was a series of Photoshopped Instagram pictures, fabricated tweets, hacked Foursquare check-ins and fictional Facebook statuses. Nothing about us was real . . . until my back hit the mattress and his weight pressed down on me. That was the greatest feeling in the world.

How could we be fake when this felt
so good
?

Duke pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss against my neck. My legs parted and I felt his hot, hard cock pressing against me. He could be aloof, unreadable, and totally inscrutable, but when we were alone in the dark, there was no denying he wanted me.

Still, I had questions. The sort of annoying questions about feelings and where is this going. I may have only been with one other guy, but I knew that talking about Big Questions was a mood killer. Call me wanton, wicked, or just normal, but the only thing I wanted more than answers was him, inside me, and the intense orgasms that were going to follow.