The Billionaire Temptation

5

Kendall

Shit, what time is it?

I pushed myself up from the bed, out of the cocoon of blanket and pillows I had buried myself in, and immediately covered my eyes from the sunlight seeping in from the blinds.

Ouch.

My hangover was front and center. I’d had far too much tequila last night, those skinny margaritas going down like water. If I’d only woken a half hour earlier, I could appreciate the deliciously perfect naked man lying beside me, reveling in every moment we’d shared together last night. Details I could still recall from the soreness in my body. But as I searched for the clock, one on Dominick’s side, it glowed a number that told me I was going to be extremely late for my meeting.

I climbed out of bed, hopping around the room with the balance of a newborn puppy, and tried to find my dress and shoes and purse—everything I’d worn to the hotel party. Each item had fallen in a different place on the floor the minute he carried me in here. Collecting my things in my arms, I brought them all into the bathroom. I slipped on my dress and tied my hair back with an elastic from my clutch, ensuring yesterday’s makeup wasn’t running down my cheeks before I rushed back to the bedroom.

Dominick was still asleep on his stomach. His arms stretched above his head, dark hair and tanned skin covering them, hints of a morning shadow on the unhidden parts of his cheek.

And then there was his ass.

Two yummy, hard hills that caused a rise in the blanket.

My God.

That man was all muscle and masculinity and s*x.

Before last night, I had been positive unicorns like him only existed because of Photoshop.

But proof was directly in front of me.

And because I was an i***t, I didn’t have his last name, phone number, or any set plans to see him again.

But after what had gone down in this room—the way he made my body feel, the connection that exploded between us—I needed all of his information.

I just didn’t have time to wake him up and have that conversation.

I found a small pad of paper and pen on the dining table. As I jotted down my name and number and an apology for having to leave so fast, my skin flushed as I remembered what he had done to me on this wood.

I left the note on top of his pants and bolted down the hallway and into the elevator, ordering a ride-share that met me in front of the lobby only a minute after I arrived. Even at this early hour, the traffic was brutal, the driver having to navigate a few alternate routes just to avoid some of the heavier congestion.

At the sight of my apartment, I threw the backseat door open and stripped off my dress the moment I got inside. I adjusted my hair into a higher knot and clipped the fallen pieces to the top of my head, and then I stepped beneath the warm spray of the shower. I covered my loofah with my beach-scented body wash and scrubbed Dominick from my skin.

One-night stand. That certainly wasn’t a term I was familiar with.

I knew the word boyfriend.

Relationship.

Commitment, sacrifice, compromise.

But what had happened last evening—the lack of a last name, the horny minx I had turned into, wildly passionate s*x with a total stranger, someone who had learned my body better than any man I’d ever dated—was a language I’d never spoken before.

Now, every time I moved, each inch tugging at the soreness inside, was a reminder.

I could only hope Dominick would keep the message I’d left for him, and we could do all of that again—maybe with food and more conversation next time.

I got out of the shower, wrapping a towel over my wet body, and grabbed the first dress I found hanging in my closet. It happened to be a black maxi that I paired with a cute set of flats and chunky earrings. Returning to the bathroom, I untwisted my hair, the natural waves falling across my shoulders and back, tamed enough that I didn’t have to pull it into a pony. I quickly added some mascara, lip gloss, and more blush to my already-flushed cheeks, and I was ready to go.

I had left my purse and keys on my bed and clasped both in my hands before I took off for the parking garage. Once I was inside my car with the music blasting, I hadn’t driven more than two blocks and had to slow down for traffic. In Boston, where I’d spent my entire life up until six weeks ago, I hadn’t owned a car and relied on public transportation, a quick and efficient method that got me everywhere I needed to go.

Los Angeles wasn’t that kind of city.

Miles could take an eternity.

This morning was no different.

I was ten minutes late and still hadn’t picked up coffee—a requirement set by my sister when she was scheduled to be anywhere before noon. As her personal assistant, I knew better than to show up empty-handed, and I also knew there was no negotiation to her rules.

I parked a few blocks away from Starbucks, not wanting to waste any more time to look for a better spot, and I hauled ass inside. The line was at least twenty people deep, and it wrapped around the whole back of the shop.

She’s going to kill me.

The second I got in place, my phone began to vibrate from inside my purse. If I pulled it out, I imagined there would be multiple texts, missed calls, voice mails, all from my sister, asking where I was.

She was high-maintenance, demanding, and extremely argumentative, a snarky attitude that just wouldn’t let you win, so there was no reason to even try. Growing up with her had been an adventure, but having to work with her every day, in this proximity, was an entirely new level of intensity.

I still had no idea how she’d convinced me to leave my favorite city and the job that I loved so much to move here and be her b***h.

Eighteen months younger than her, I had come out of the womb, knowing how to tolerate her behavior. But apparently, I was the only one who could.

Because her last five assistants had quit.

After the final one had abandoned her, she’d begged me to come work for her.

I didn’t know what point had eventually sold me, but I was six weeks in.

“Ugggh,” the guy in front of me groaned. “This line is barely moving.” He checked his home screen again, looking at the time or his messages—something he’d done less than a minute ago.

“Right?” I agreed. “I need a magic wand and a miracle. I’m”—I glanced at my watch—“fifteen minutes late to an extremely important meeting.”

He turned toward me, his bangs dangling so low in his eyes that I wanted to sweep them behind his ear. “Is it with anyone worth bragging about?” His tie was black and sharp, his eyelids rimmed with a smoky liner that looked far better than the makeup I had on.

“What do you mean?”

He assessed me like he was a wholesale buyer and I was walking down a runway. “How long have you lived here?”

“Not even two months.”

“I can tell.” He held out his hand. “Charlie, but I prefer Charlize because I’m fabulous like that.”

I smiled, loving him already. “Kendall.”

“So, Kendall, is your meeting with someone fancy?”

I shrugged. “My sister and some of her team.”

“If she’s anyone we’ve all heard of, I’m going to teach you something very important that you need to use to your advantage while you work in this town.”

“She’s Daisy Roy, a reality TV star.”

“Daisy Roy,” he repeated. “You mean, the chick who’s in the show Single Girls of LA and whose face is on that billboard?” He pointed out the window, where there was a giant photograph of Daisy smiling with a beer clasped in her hand—now the newest spokeswoman for that beverage company.

I nodded. “Yep, the one and only.”

“Giiirl, watch this.” He moved to the side of the line, so he’d have a full view of everyone standing in it, and said, “Hey, guys, we have a 911 over here.” He waited until most of the people looked in his direction before he continued, “This here is Daisy Roy’s sister, and she was sent to get Daisy some coffee, stat, for an audition she has in five. Do you think we can do her a solid and let her cut?”

“Only if you can get me a date with your smoking-hot sister,” a guy replied.

“If you buy my coffee, I’ll happily let you squeeze in,” a woman said from the front.

“You’re a lifesaver,” I replied to her, and then I looked at Charlize. “Dinner, drinks, whatever—it’s all on me.”

“Don’t think I’m not taking you up on that.” He urged me toward my new position and added, “I’ll find you on Instagram.”

“Search Daisy’s account, she only follows a few people and I’m one of them,” I said to him before I reached the counter. I gave the barista my order and pointed to the lady behind me. “I’ll also pay for whatever she’s having.”

As I took out my credit card, I saw my phone lighting up with more texts, and I scrolled through my messages while I waited for the drinks.

Daisy: Why didn’t you tell me you were running late?

Daisy: Where are you?

Daisy: Are you REALLY doing this to me? Is THIS what I pay you for?

Daisy: I can’t believe you’re not here yet …

Daisy: ANSWER ME. WHERE ARE YOU?

Daisy: Twenty minutes. Are you f*****g kidding me?

Daisy: You’re officially dead to me. Or fired. I can’t tell which one would give me more satisfaction right now. There’s literally smoke coming out of my ears. WHY THE HELL AREN’T YOU HERE?

A new notification came in, this one from i********:, a Charlize Frank requesting to follow my private account. I glanced toward the back of the line, and he was grinning at me, waving.

I hit Accept just as one of the baristas yelled, “Kendall!”

Knowing it was best not to respond to my sister—a text at this point would only make her angrier—I grabbed the two coffees and hurried toward the door, thanking everyone I passed in line. When I reached Charlize, I told him I’d be in touch and headed down the sidewalk toward The Agency, the large high-rise at the end.

This was the second time I would be meeting her agent—her manager and lawyer would also be in attendance today—to discuss some of the contracts she’d recently been offered. I just hated that I was running so behind, making myself look like an unprofessional degenerate in front of her team.

Late, like one-night stand, was another word that wasn’t part of my vocabulary.

“I’m here for Daisy Roy’s meeting,” I said to the receptionist, winded by the time I reached her desk.

“Tenth floor.” She pointed at the elevators to my right. “When you get off, take a left, and the conference room is the last door at the end. You’ll find them all inside.”

“Thank you.”

I slid into an elevator just as the doors were closing and tried to prepare myself for the lashing I was about to get.