Wild Card (Billionaire Bachelors Book 3) Page 2

  There’s a horrifying moment where I start to put two and two together, but it’s like I can’t force my brain to finish the thought before two hands with long pink nails like talons land on my shoulders.

  “Surprise!”

  I whirl around and there’s Vanessa suddenly looming over me like a Disney villain, as if she’d appeared in a puff of smoke. “Guess what, Livvie,” she trills, baring her teeth in a wide, white smile. “I’m going to be your new mom!”

  2

  Olivia

  “So that’s the grilled salmon, plain, with a side of steamed mixed vegetables,” Vanessa instructs the waiter, not caring that there isn’t a grilled salmon nor a side of mixed vegetables on the menu. She’s always been a maniac about food. I remember her peppering the line cooks in the dining hall at college with questions about their culinary bona fides, and the years have only made her more ridiculous. She’s been ordering for the better part of ten minutes. “Now, those are truly steamed, right? Absolutely no butter or oil?” She frowns—or rather, she would be frowning if her forehead wasn’t smooth as a porcelain mask. “Are you writing this down?”

  The poor waiter turns to me. “And you?”

  “Just the Ceasar salad,” I say quickly. “And another glass of wine. In fact, bring the bottle.”

  I’m going to need it.

  Sure enough, the moment he’s fled, Vanessa turns to me and smiles that blinding bleached smile. “Now,” she says, “tell me absolutely everything that’s going on with you.” She motions to my left hand. “Still single, I see!”

  Oh, here we go. “You know, it hasn’t really been a priority,” I say smoothly. “Work has been going really well, so—”

  “Your little dating service!” she coos. “Your dad told me all about it.” She lays a possessive hand on Larry’s arm and giggles, while he gazes at her adoringly. “I think it’s the cutest thing ever, since you never could get a date in college. What’s that saying? Those who can’t do . . . become matchmakers?”

  “I wouldn’t say I couldn’t get a date,” I say, clenching my jaw, even though she’s not wrong. My social life wasn’t exactly on fire back then. I was desperately shy in school, and spent more than one wild Saturday night in the library reading classics and drinking herbal tea. But that was a long time ago. And so what if my romantic prospects haven’t exactly improved in the last ten years? That’s none of Vanessa’s business. “I’m selective, that’s all.”

  “Right, right,” Vanessa says. She’s hardly listening, waving her pink-talon manicure at the waiter. “Excuse me!” she trills. “Did I mention that I’m gluten-free?”

  She did—twice, actually—but the waiter nods gamely and trots off to the kitchen to remind the poor beleaguered chef.

  “So what about you?” I ask politely. “What have you been up to?”

  Vanessa pushes back her mane of honey-blonde hair. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” she says vaguely. “I’ve been really working on building my personal brand on social media.”

  “Your brand?” I blink, then shoot a look at my dad, but he’s just smiling and nodding happily along.

  Vanessa lights up. “Oh, yeah,” she says, then whips out her phone and proceeds to show me her Instagram, her Snapchat, and her Pinterest—all of which feature about a million pictures of her drinking green juice and doing handstands in bikinis, and not much else.

  Vanessa’s personal brand, so far as I can tell? Self-tanner.

  “So obviously I’ve been super busy,” she concludes once our food has finally arrived. “But not too busy to fall madly in love with this hunk of yum!” She smiles toothily at my dad before turning back to me. “Now, the wedding is in two weeks,” she says, “so you’ll want to book your tickets to Key West ASAP.”

  “Two weeks?” I almost choke on my drink. That’s fast, even for my dad. I guess Vanessa doesn’t want to waste any time before locking it down. My dad isn’t loaded, but he’s got a couple of lucrative engineering patents that keep him comfortably retired. I’m guessing Vanessa fell for them as much as his warm personality.

  “I know, it’s a whirlwind!” she says, sounding delighted with herself. “But when you’re as madly, deeply, spiritually aligned as we are, there’s just no reason to wait.” She reaches out and walks two fingers up my dad’s arm, blowing him a kiss across the table. He smiles back indulgently, and I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes.

  Or go vomit somewhere.

  “Is your family going to be there?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but Vanessa whips her head around, locking her gaze on me like a python about to swallow a mouse in one gulp.

  “You mean Tristan?” she asks with a knowing smile. She turns back to my dad. “Livvie had such a little crush on my brother when we were back at school. She used to practically whip her panties off and toss them at him every time he walked through the door. It was the most adorable thing.”

  “Oh, that’s not what I meant,” I protest. “I mean, of course it would be nice to catch up with Tristan, but I’m actually, uh. Seeing someone.”

  The lie is out before I can think better of it. It’s an amateur move on my part, and I know better, but let’s be real: I’d tell her I was engaged to Justin fucking Timberlake if I thought it would wipe that smug, obnoxious look off her face.

  Vanessa lifts one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Really?” she asks, her voice dripping skepticism. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Uh, I didn’t want to interrupt your celebration,” I say, poking at my salad instead of looking across the table. “It’s new, and we’re taking it slow, but he’s great.”

  “Well, that’s super!” she chirps. “You’ll have to bring him to the wedding so we can get a look at him in person, won’t we babe?” She nudges my dad and giggles. “I’ll have to give him the parental stamp of approval.”

  The wedding? Shit.

  “Oh,” I take another gulp of wine. “You know, I don’t know if he’ll be able to make it on such short notice. He’s pretty busy with work.”

  Vanessa smells blood. “Livvie,” she says, tilting her head to the side. “You know you don’t have to lie to me. We’re going to be sisters, after all!” She frowns. “Or something like that.”

  Thankfully the waiter arrives with the check before she can pry any deeper into the dirty details of my supposed new relationship. I kiss my dad and Vanessa goodbye, waiting until I’m out of sight to wipe her sticky pink lip gloss off my cheek.

  ‘Til death they do part? Lord help me. At least when it comes to my dad, he’ll probably get bored and move on in a few years, but the thought of spending happy family holidays cozied up with Vanessa?

  I’d rather hug a stingray. At least then, I know I’m getting attacked.

  I decide to walk home to clear my head—and get rid of the tension from forcing a smile all afternoon. The summer streets are busy with tourists and people on their way home from work, and I cut through Central Park to reach my apartment building on the Upper West Side. I was lucky enough to buy my place a few years ago, right when the business was taking off, and it’s my sanctuary: cool and sleek, with minimal furniture and a soothing white color scheme. I let myself in and barely resist the urge to take a running leap at the mound of pillows in my bedroom and check out for the rest of the day.

  Instead, I head into the kitchen and pour myself a sizeable glass of wine before toeing my heels off and sinking down onto the couch. I open my laptop, scrolling through email and sending off some inquiries about a Dungeon Master for Jason before giving in to temptation.

  Search: Tristan Simpson.

  I haven’t looked him up in years, and as the results load I cross my fingers that he’s gotten a beer belly or lost all his hair. Gender reassignment surgery, perhaps.

  No such luck. Not only is Tristan very much still a man, but he’s better looking than ever, with dark hair and a runner’s body. His eyes are a deep, Pacific blue. His Instagram is public and I spend the better part of a vaguel
y shameful hour scrolling through his posts: Tristan at brunch with friends, Tristan on vacation in Cabo, Tristan chilling out on the balcony of his condo in DC. For a second I let myself imagine myself into the photos, picturing the two of us sipping wine at his patio table or strolling hand in hand along the National Mall.

  Then my finger slips and I accidentally hit the like button.

  On a photo of him shirtless by the pool at his apartment complex.

  From eighteen months ago.

  Oh. My. God.

  NO!

  I freeze, panicked. Should I click again to “unlike”? But that would send a notification too, wouldn’t it?

  Shit, shit, shit!

  I slam the laptop shut like it’s bitten me and flop back onto the sofa.

  Real slick, Liv.

  I lie there for a moment, indulging in a good old-fashioned wallow. I hate to admit it, but Vanessa had a point about my nuclear wasteland of a love life. Hell, Chernobyl is probably more fertile grounds these days. I literally set people up for a living—and I’m damn good at it, if I do say so myself. It’s just my own romantic affairs that are DOA.

  My friends tell me if I put half as much energy into dating as I did into building The Agency, I would have found a dozen perfect guys by now. But when it comes down to it, I don’t have the time for both. And since a random Tinder date is way more likely to end with me home, alone, after wasting two hours and a great meal on some guy who thinks Harvey Weinstein is a model of public decorum, I choose my business and my future, every time.

  If those guys were like Tristan, well, maybe it would be a different story . . .

  I force myself not to open my screen again, and decide to go run myself a bath. I pour some lavender-scented oil into the water and put a little Carla Bruni on the sound system, pretending like I’m the heroine of some fancy French movie with lovers lined up at her door. By the time I climb out and wrap myself in my super-soft terry robe, I’m feeling marginally less embarrassed about stalking my future brother-in-law. Or is that future uncle-in-law?

  Eww.

  I love my dad, and it seems like he’s happy, but I can’t believe I have to get along with Vanessa until he snaps out of whatever love spell she’s cast over him with her bikini pics. And my little white lie at dinner doesn’t help either, although hopefully with everything that goes into planning a wedding, Vanessa’s probably forgotten all about my fake boyfriend. I’m sure she’s already obsessing over some other super-important prenuptial detail, like teaching a choir of doves to coo a Katy Perry song as she walks down the aisle or a plan to have all her bridesmaids get matching bikini waxes in the shape of her new initials.

  Then I glance at my phone and realize she called while I was in the tub.

  “Hey sweetie,” she trills on the voicemail, “it’s your new mom! Hahaha! So much fun seeing you today, and don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll have time to tan and tone a little bit before the wedding. Carbs aren’t your friend!”

  I narrow my eyes, and head towards the kitchen—pulling out a bag of chips just to spite her. “Speaking of which,” Vanessa’s message continues. “Just wanted to know if you thought you’d be bringing your, uh, ‘new boyfriend’ to the wedding or not. I’ve got to get final numbers to the event planner tomorrow, so call me back and let me know if this mystery man is going to make an appearance ASAP. Love you! Byeeee!”

  So much for her forgetting.

  I sink back against the fridge and stuff a handful of cool ranch into my mouth. I can’t believe I got myself into this mess.

  I need a hot date to this wedding, pronto.

  I just don’t know where the hell I’m going to find him.

  3

  Olivia

  “Here,” my friend Katie says two nights later, turning away from the six-burner stove in her massive, professional-grade kitchen. She’s got a wooden spoon in one hand and a whisk in the other, and she’s whipping up something with enough calories to maybe make me forget the mess I’ve stumbled into. “Taste this. It’s a play on a chicken marbella, but I’m going for more ‘upscale New York bistro’ and less ‘suburban dinner party in 1992.’ ”

  I reach out from my perch at the kitchen island and do as she tells me, tasting the rich, buttery sauce. “Amazing,” I pronounce, licking the spoon. “Seriously, Katie, I’d bathe in it if I could.”

  “You’re easy,” she laughs, lowering the heat to a simmer and reaching for her wine glass. “Still, it’s an idea. They say you need to have a good gimmick to keep a restaurant afloat in New York these days.”

  “They’d totally feature you on Food Network,” I tell her. “A chicken marbella soaking tub sounds like exactly the kind of thing Guy Fieri would be into.”

  Katie almost snorts her pinot. “Well, thank you for putting that particular image in my head, Olivia. If you need me, I’ll be washing my brain out with bleach.”

  I laugh, settling back into my leather barstool. Katie and her husband Seb have lived across the hall since before I moved in, and their apartment is as warm and inviting as they are. A tapestry from Morocco hangs above the huge leather sofa, and the Gypsy Kings croon while the slinky black cat, Bourdain, snoozes on the tufted ottoman in the living room. And the cozy ambiance isn’t the only draw—Katie and Seb run a restaurant that’s one of the few truly delicious, cozy spots to eat in Midtown, so I’m always happy to help with taste-testing.

  “You definitely owe me a distraction,” Katie continues now, nudging a perfectly thrown-together cheese board in my direction. “Tell me more about this wicked stepmother. Is she really Cruella in the making?”

  “She’d skin the dogs alive and livestream the whole thing if it would get her hits on YouTube.” I make a face. “Wait, I don’t want you to think I hate her just because she’s marrying my dad. He’s had some really nice wives. I actually liked Carolyn the Garden Club lady. And, the one who used to be a gymnast. Plus, you know.” I make a face. “My own mother.”

  “I know,” Katie says with a gentle smile. “But Vanessa is her own special kind of hell, clearly.”

  “I don’t know why I let her get under my skin like this,” I sigh. “I like my life! I have a great life! But as soon as I get in the same room with her, I just . . .”

  “Revert back to all your worst teenage tendencies?”

  “Yup! I might as well be wearing a pair of grubby sweats and eating Phish Food by the pint.” I laugh.

  “Don’t you dare insult my two best friends Ben and Jerry!”

  “I need your two best friends Ben and Jerry to come take me to this wedding,” I shoot back. “Are they attractive?”

  “I am sorry to tell you they are emphatically not.” Katie shrugs. “You told her you were bringing a hot date, right? So. Let’s find you a hot date.”

  “Like it’s that easy.”

  “I mean, to listen to you talk all these years, I wouldn’t have thought it was quite this hard.” She pops a slice of cheddar into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “We could post a Craigslist ad,” she offers. “Or put something on the Jumbotron in Times Square: hot girl seeks wedding date.” She thinks. “I bet the Naked Cowboy would take you. Or that guy who dresses up as Elmo and poses for pictures with tourists.”

  “Oh my God,” I say, shaking my head and motioning at the open wine bottle on the counter. “Give me that.”

  I’m refilling both our glasses when a key turns in the deadbolt. “Something smells good,” Seb says, stepping into the apartment with a bag full of groceries.

  “Why thank you,” Katie says, holding her face up for a kiss before pulling back and gazing him shrewdly. “Do you know any hot men?”

  “You searching for a replacement already?” he asks with a grin. He’s in his late thirties, with shaggy brown hair and a quick, wry smile. He and Katie have been together since she was in culinary school and have the kind of easy, low-key relationship that comes with having been partners in every conceivable way for the last fifteen years.

  Not that I’m
jealous.

  OK, maybe a little.

  “Not one for me,” Katie says, handing him a spoon and waving him in the direction of the chicken marbella. “Olivia needs an emergency stand-in.”

  I tuck into the cheeseboard as she tells him about it, spreading some brie on a cracker and trying not to be embarrassed by the fact that I’ve somehow become the kind of single person whose married friends discuss her various romantic failures. It’s true, what I said to Katie. I do love my life. But I also can’t pretend I don’t want something like she and Seb have between them. Someone to call me pet names and remember my favorite brand of sauvignon blanc—and, frankly, to bend me over the kitchen table from time to time. I can take care of business just fine on my own for the most part, but the reality is a girl has certain needs that a Kindle and a Lelo vibrator just won’t fix.

  “Hmm,” Seb says once Katie is finished. He puts away the groceries, and then starts setting the table for dinner—unprompted. Talk about a prince among men. “I mean, there is that new host at the restaurant the waitresses can’t stop talking about. They all think he’s very handsome.”

  Katie’s mouth drops open. “We are not setting her up on a date with Kevin!”

  “Why?” I ask, suddenly suspicious. “What’s wrong with Kevin?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with him,” Seb assures me. “We’d just have to see if he was . . . available, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, to leave the state.” Katie snorts, turning to me. “What my husband is neglecting to tell you is that we get a tax break for hiring convicted felons. Kevin served hard time for burglary!”

  “Gee, thanks!” I laugh, pelting Seb in the chest with an almond. “Jail-time is a dealbreaker for me.”

  “We’ll come up with something,” Katie promises me. “Now, let’s eat.”

  The rest of the weekend is pretty quiet, just a few quick errands and some quality time on the elliptical at the gym, old-school Beyoncé blasting in my ears. I get into the office early Monday morning, flicking the coffeemaker on and opening the windows to the warm summer breeze. It’s the kind of day that makes you happy to live in New York—last night’s rain drying on the pavement, the whole city washed clean and new.