The Billionaire and the Virgin (Billionaires and Bridesmaids #1)(23)

He snorted. “You still on for date number two?”

“You sure you want to go out with me again?” she sounded surprised.

“I do.” Which should have surprised him, too. But he kept thinking about that curious peek from this morning. That little action trumped any amount of vomit. “We’ll go someplace low-key. Wear jeans, and I promise there will be no alcohol.”

“I think I can handle that,” she said. “If you’re sure . . .”

“More than sure,” he told her, amused.

“Where are we going, then?”

“It’s a surprise.” Because he honestly had no idea.

“Okay, then. See you in the lobby. Just let me know what time.”

“Will do.” He hung up, thoughtful, Where could he take her? They did dinner—and it had turned out terribly. Not to the f*cking beach. He still had nightmares about that shit. It had to be someplace that one of her other friends wouldn’t run into her. Just because Marjorie didn’t know who he was didn’t mean the others didn’t. He wanted to avoid that conversation for as long as possible. Long enough to show Marjorie that he was a good, wholesome guy.

Or at least pretending to be one.

Last night was a dud. She didn’t remember much of the evening, so he’d have to start fresh tonight.

A movie? Too cliché.

He was still pondering things, hours later, as his afternoon meeting with his assistants rolled around. His suite had an adjoining room with a table that functioned as an office, and they filed in with notepads and binders in hand, ready to discuss the prior evening’s ratings and their current to-do list of projects.

Rob wasn’t all that interested, though. Things would run themselves for another day. So when they sat down, he turned and gazed at the three of them, thinking. “If you were dating someone and you wanted to take them somewhere low-key, where would you go? Somewhere fun. Not a movie. I want to actually be able to talk to my f*cking date.”

Gortham’s mouth opened and then snapped shut again. He looked bewildered, and shot a glance at Cresson.

“Date, sir?” Cresson asked.

Fucking save him from incompetent assistants. Rob rubbed his forehead. “Did I f*cking stutter? Date. D. A. T. E. Me and a woman. I’m taking her out, and it has to be someplace that Hawkings won’t run into us because I don’t want him mucking up the works. Now. Ideas?”

Cresson’s brow wrinkled. He tapped his pen on his notebook. “Dinner?”

“Not dinner. Dinner was a bad call.”

“Dancing?” Gortham asked.

That kid was so asking to get fired. “Not f*cking dancing! Something else.”

Smith watched him with her pale eyes. Rob nodded in her direction. “Any ideas?”

“Bingo, sir?”

“Bingo?”

Smith nodded. “The resort operates a bingo session every night in one of the dining rooms. Hawkings is probably not spending the week before his wedding playing bingo, so you’re safe there. And if Ms. Ivarsson is used to spending time with the elderly, it’s probably a good guess that she enjoys bingo.”

“Bingo,” Rob repeated.

“My mother plays,” Smith told him. “She also knits.”

“Bingo sounds like a winner,” he told them, and pointed at Smith. “Remind me to give you a raise when we get home.”

Her smile was pleased. “I’ll remember, sir.”

“Okay,” Rob said, rubbing his hands together. “Now I need to figure out what I should wear to bingo.”





Chapter Eleven



“So how did your date go, honey?” Agnes asked Marjorie as they lounged, poolside.

Marjorie tucked her floppy hat even lower on her head. Even with sunglasses and a straw hat, there was still entirely too much sunlight around. “Not so good.”

“Oh, no. What happened?” Edna sounded so disappointed.

Marjorie told them what she could recall of the evening. She skipped the part where she’d woken up in his room, though. Some things just didn’t need sharing.

Edna and Agnes gave her sympathetic looks. “Oh, sweetie. Maybe you don’t drink on first dates in the future,” Edna said with a little pat on her hand. “You want to impress him, not scare him.”

“I know,” Marjorie said glumly. The iced tea in her hand was helping to keep her hydrated, but not doing much for the headache that wasn’t going away. “I really messed up last night. I just . . . wanted to seem sophisticated, you know? And I ruined it by puking everywhere.”

Humiliated didn’t even begin to cover how she felt today. Hangover notwithstanding, the awful, awful realization that she’d tossed her cookies—repeatedly—in front of the sexy guy she was trying to impress? Nightmarish.

She’d just been so very uncomfortable. Rob had looked suave and dangerous in his dark suit, so out of her league. Add in the fact that her clothing had never seemed to stay in place and she had taken whatever liquid courage that wine could offer.

And then some, she thought with a groan. Gosh, she was never drinking ever again. Ever, ever, underlined and signed.

“Well, that’s not how you impress a man,” Agnes said with a sniff. “I’ve caught a lot of men over the years, and I never did it by getting drunk.”