The Billionaire Bargain #1(15)
So who the actual hell was at my door?
I padded to the door in my pajamas, mug of hot chocolate in one hand, covering my yawn with the other. I looked through the peephole and discovered Grant’s driver, cap off in his hands, face looking apologetic but also resigned.
Oh great. I should’ve known Grant Devlin wouldn’t give up that easy.
“Miss? I’m here to pick you up, miss.”
I contemplated going right back into bed, and turning my TV as loud as it would go, until the over-the-top fight music drowned out everything else in the world.
“I’m sorry, miss, but—well, he really would like to see you.”
“He can’t wait till morning?” I muttered, but I was already turning the lock. This wasn’t going away, it seemed. Hell, in a way this was just another part of my new job: hand-holding Grant through the process of getting the company back on its feet. I’d just bill him for overtime.“Fine,” I said to the driver.“Let’s go.”
“Uh, miss, if you want to take a few minutes to change—”
“Nope,” I said, feeling a rebellious smile steal across my face.“If Grant Devlin wants my company so badly, he can have it. But I’m keeping the pink ducky pajamas.”
? ? ?
Stepping into Grant’s penthouse took my breath away. It was so huge I felt like I might have starting shrinking like Alice in Wonderland—if Wonderland were designed by a minimalist cousin of Frank Lloyd Wright from the future.
Everything was sleek, shiny—miles of black marble floor and white marble countertops, walls that stretched onward and upward like cliffs, giant windows that looked out over an infinity-edge rooftop pool, the city spread beyond it like some kind of giant painting in bold strokes of neon red, green, white, and yellow against navy blue and black.
“Lacey, is that you?”
“No, it’s Santa Claus,” I called back.“And you are getting all the coal in your stocking this year.”
“Oh, so you’d say I’ve been naughty?”
“Damn straight.” I followed Grant’s voice into the kitchen, where he was uncorking a bottle of wine in a v-neck t-shirt, loose pants, and bare feet.
He took in my attire and raised an eyebrow.“What a charmingensemble.”
I crossed my arms, suddenly awkwardly aware of how thin the fabric of my pajamas was, and how flimsy the lingerie underneath.“Exactly how f*cking entitled do you have to be to call up your employee at eleven f*cking o’clock and then complain about her goddamn—”
“One moment,” he interrupted,“and then feel free to continue yelling if you want—it’s very stimulating, I do have a weakness for a woman with a temper, and also for the record I would never dream of complaining about your outfit—but do keep in mind that the longer you yell about my inconsiderate nature, the colder the food will become.”
“The food?”
I glanced around at the pristine kitchen, which looked like it hadn’t seen a single crumb mar its existence since the moment it came out of the catalogue. You know how matter and antimatter can’t come into contact without some kind of explosion? That’s what looked like would happen if food ever came into contact with this immaculate countertop. It looked like it didn’t even know what dust was.
“I ordered takeout from Rama,” he said, finally managing to wrest the cork from the wine bottle.“You seemed to enjoy it at our last meal, and I know you didn’t have lunch today. It’s not healthy to skip meals.”
“You’re a nutritionist all of a sudden?”
“I’m simply concerned.” For a moment his eyes met mine, wide and earnest—and then they shuttered, that smirk quirking his lips.“After all, where would the company be if it lost its most tireless advocate?”
I eyed him skeptically.“So this is all for my own good.”
He shrugged.“You’re taking care of my company. Someone should take care of you.”
Okay, that was actually…sort of thoughtful?
I listened intently for the Twilight Zone theme.
Still, weirdness aside, I was mollified. What can I say, food does that to me. I followed him into the living room and joined him on the sofa—a plush leather monstrosity larger than some trailer homes, that probably cost more than I even had in my savings account—and dug into the food. Jackfruit curry, grilled chicken, spicy papaya salad—if the way to a woman’s heart was through her stomach, I was so screwed.
For a long time neither of us spoke, simply enjoying the cuisine. I was waiting for him to say something, but he seemed content to nibble on mango slices in my presence, leaning against the couch and smiling slightly at nothing in particular—at least nothing I could fathom.
Finally I licked the last bit of sauce off my fork—chili sauce that delicious should be illegal—and said,“Now what?”
Grant seemed at a loss for a second. He looked all around the room as though he were realizing for the first time that for all its grandeur, it was remarkably empty: no photos, no books, no sign that anyone really lived there. Just a couch and a TV.“I don’t suppose you play video games—”
“Sure I do!” I rejoined.“I haven’t had the time lately, but I used to rack up some major hours on Call of Duty.”
“Well, I don’t know that one too well,” Grant said sheepishly. Then he grinned, and leapt up to pull open the drawer below the TV.“But I have an advance review copy ofthis—” he flourished Death Squad, the game that all the online chatter had been hyping for months—“if you’re interested.”