The Billionaire's Deal: The Complete Story: An Alpha Billionaire Romance
Read The Billionaire's Deal: The Complete Story: An Alpha Billionaire Romance Online
Authors: Crystal Kaswell
The Billionaire’s Deal
Crystal Kaswell
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Table of Contents
Episode One
Chapter One
The manager takes one look at my discount heels and faded pencil skirt, and he shakes his head. Not even polite enough to glance at my resume.
"Sorry, but the position is already filled."
A.K.A. No luck kid, this is called fine dining, not cheap-ass discount dining.
Expletives pop into my mind, but I hold my tongue. I can't afford to burn any bridges. "Do you know when you'll be hiring again?"
"It's very competitive here."
"I have a lot of experience." I thrust my resume into his hands. "I learn fast. I'll work any shift—holidays, weekends, even the slow ones no one else wants."
He takes the resume but doesn't look at it. "There are no slow shifts here. And we're looking for something specific. Good luck."
He turns back toward the office. The nerve of that asshole.
Something specific.
He's looking for someone prettier and thinner.
I take a not at all calming breath and walk out of the restaurant. Slow. Casual. Like I don't need the money desperately.
A rush of wind hits my face. Cold today. This won't be a fun walk. I dig into my purse for my phone. I need to check on Lizzy.
Another step and I bump into something solid. Or someone. My ankle shifts. My foot slips out of that stupid discount heel. Shit. I go down, palms flat on the concrete, purse in a lump beside me.
"Are you okay?" A deep voice asks.
Dammit, I was hoping I bumped into a mailbox or at least some normal New Yorker who wouldn't have the time to stop and help.
"Fine." I look up at the voice. Oh, crap. He's handsome. Tall. Broad shoulders. Square jaw and piercing brown eyes.
Embarrassing myself in front of a hot guy. A new high for the day.
"You look a little rattled." He leans down and offers his hand.
Okay. I take it and he helps me to my feet. He has strong hands, but they're smooth. No callouses. He's wearing a suit—expensive from the looks of it. Whatever the hiring manager wants to believe about me belonging at Lotus Blossom, the city's most pretentious Asian fusion restaurant, I know what money looks like.
This guy is pure money.
"I'm fine." I go to take a step. Shit. Pain shoots through my ankle. It's not quite sprained. Twisted, maybe.
"Sit down." He points to the bench behind us. "If you can walk."
"I don't need your help."
"Oh, really?" He raises an eyebrow and nods to my shoe as if to say
put it on then.
I shift my weight to my non-injured ankle, but it's in the other discount shoe, and I can't balance at all. "I don't have time for this. I have work in an hour."
"I'll get you to work on time." He slides his arm under mine, like a human crutch, and he sets me on the bench.
My heart races. It's been a long, long time since anyone has touched me like that, with all that care and attention. It's almost sweet. Maybe Money Guy isn't a total asshole.
I take a deep breath, trying to convince my body to calm down. "What's your name?"
"Blake. You?"
"Kat."
He collects the things in my purse, grabs my abandoned shoe, and kneels next to me.
Those piercing eyes find mine. He presses his fingers against my ankle. "You winced when you put your weight on it."
"I've dealt with worse sprains," I say.
He stares at me with a penetrating gaze. This Blake guy is impossible to read. It won't matter soon. I'm no one. He's obviously someone. He won't remember me tomorrow.
"I ran cross country in high school," I offer.
"What do you do?"
"I work at a restaurant."
"A lot of walking?" he asks.
"Yeah. I'm a server."
"You need to rest or you'll aggravate it."
"Are you a doctor?"
"I know injuries."
"So, no."
He stares at me like he's waiting for me to back down. The asshole is sure he knows best.
"I appreciate the advice, but I have to work. If I don't work, I don't make money."
"When is your next day off?"
"Tomorrow."
"Wrap it well today. Ice it tonight. You'll be in pain, but you'll heal okay." He slides my shoe back onto my foot.
His fingers graze my ankle. Something in my body, something I haven't felt in years, lights up. No one has touched me like that in so long.
He stands and offers his hands. "I'll take you to work. My driver is around the corner."
I pick my purse up off the ground and slide it around my shoulder. "I can walk."
"I'll walk with you."
I take a long look at Blake. His expression is impossible to read. The strong, silent type. Not that I care what type he is.
He seems safe. Maybe not safe, but not dangerous.
"Don't make me insist," he says.
I nod and take a soft step. As little weight on my foot as I can manage. It hurts, but only enough to be twisted.
Blake's voice is commanding. "You shouldn't walk on that."
"That's none of your business."
"I bumped into you. That makes your injury my responsibility."
"Nope, my ankle, my responsibility." My fists curl into tiny balls. Who the hell does this guy think he is? "Whatever your noble intentions are, I'm not a damsel, and I'm not in distress. So mind your own damn business." I take a faster step. The pain isn't so bad. I've dealt with far worse.
"Kat. Wait."
Fat chance.
He grabs my arm. "I appreciate your desire for discretion."
That's a strange way to apologize for being nosy, but Blake doesn't strike me as the apologizing type. I offer him my polite smile, the one I use with customers. "Thank you."
"Don't fake smile at me. I can't stand it."
"Then let me continue on with my life."
He pulls something from his pocket and presses it into my hands. A business card. "Give it a few days and let me how you're doing."
"You mean how my ankle is doing?"
He holds my gaze. There's something in his eyes—some tiny hint of vulnerability. I look at the pavement, then back to his eyes. That vulnerability is gone. Replaced by pure determination.
"That's my personal number. Text or call anytime." He takes a step back. "Be careful."
I nod. "Thanks."
He turns, walks around the corner, and he's gone.
I look at the business card.
Blake Sterling. CEO of Sterling Tech. They're huge, the biggest competitor to Google. Lizzy is obsessed with their web services. Uses them exclusively.
Blake is the CEO of one of the biggest companies in the country.
And he wants to know how I'm doing.
***
It's a long night at the restaurant. By the time I collapse on the subway, my ankle is throbbing. Two people squeeze into the corner of the bench, lip locked like they'll die if they come up for air. Must be nice to want someone so badly you're desperate to dry hump on the L train.
I doubt Blake would go for that kind of thing. Not that it matters to me.
Four stops later, they're still going at it. I step off the train, onto the platform, with the lightest possible movements. My work shoes—thick, black, non-slip sneakers—aren't quite as precarious as the cheap heels, but they don't ease the pain as well as I hoped.
It's eight long, cold blocks to our place. Same little apartment where we grew up. First floor, thank God. I check the mailbox on my way in.
Great. The bill for the mortgage is already here. The horrible thorn in my side is a steal compared to rent anywhere halfway decent in the city, but it's still too much. I could afford it if I got a job like the one I lost out on today. It would be tough but worth it.
Junk mail. Catalogue. Electricity bill.
From New York University.
Lizzy's letter. And it's thick-leg pad sized.
She got in.
This must mean she got it.
I rush inside, half limping. "Lizzy!"
Her bedroom light flicks on. She pulls the door open, sleepy look on her face. "You're supposed to be the one who warns me it's a school night."
I wave the letter.
"What? Hold on." She steps into her room and returns wearing her glasses. Her eyes go wide. "I can't open that."
"You have to."
"But what if I didn't get in? I won't be able to sleep. And if I did, I'll be too excited." She takes a step towards me, almost tripping. Her eyes pass over the return address
.
"Open it."
"It's yours." I offer her the letter.
"Please!" She presses her palms together. "I can't. I can't even think."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." She bites her lip. "Do it."
I tear the envelope open and unfold the letter.
Dear Ms. Wilder; We are proud to offer you acceptance-
She got in. I press the letter to my chest. Thank God.
"What? Is it bad?" She frowns.
I shake my head. "Good. Really good."
She scans it carefully. "Oh my God." A smile creeps onto her face. "Kat! I... I can't believe it!"
"You worked so hard." I wrap my arms around my little sister. She got into NYU. Great school in the city. She can stay here, with me, as long as we find a way to stay in this apartment.
"But... we can't afford this? There's no way NYU is offering me a full ride. It's not like Columbia. That would have been something." She bites her lip.
The letter from Columbia came yesterday. A
sorry, but no thanks
letter. Apparently, my smart, hardworking little sister is still not good enough for Columbia, a school with need-based scholarships that would have covered almost all her expenses.
NYU is notorious for its crappy financial aid. No way they're offering a full ride. Which means there’s no way we can afford it. Not right now.
She sighs. She can see it written all over my face. And she knows it, too.
Lizzy crushes the letter into a tiny ball and tosses it in the trash. "A SUNY makes more sense. I still have my Stanford application. And USC."
And a bunch of other schools far, far away.
"We'll find a way to cover your tuition," I say.
"There isn't a way." Her voice cracks like all the hope is draining from it. "It's not the end of the world. The school in Albany is great and only a few hours on the train." She takes a step back to her room. "It's okay, Kat."
My heart sinks. The plan is supposed to be great school, great job, great life
—
not best school that offers a scholarship, okay job, okay life. Lizzy deserves this. She's been through so much.
"There must be a way," I say. I'll do whatever it takes.
***
Blake is sitting in my section. All smug and sure of himself like he specifically requested to sit there. Or maybe that isn't his smug look. I don't really know the guy. He has the same impenetrable expression he did last time I saw him.
Fine. I can still do my job.
I make my way to Blake's table and skip the usual formalities. "Hi."
He studies my expression. "Did you ice your ankle?"
"And I rested all yesterday." Not that it's any of his business. "Can I get you something?"
"Whiskey. Rocks."
"You'll get that faster at the bar."
"I prefer here."
"I'll have that right up." I step back with my best customer service smile. But the other day, he said he hated that. I drop the smile. Shit. I can't let some stranger dictate when or if I smile.
His eyes are on me the entire time I punch in the drink order. This time of day, middle of the afternoon, it's so dead there's nowhere else to look.
I pretend I'm busy, arranging the salt and pepper shakers so they're extra neat.
When the drink is ready, I drop it off without a word.
