Melody Anne's Billionaire Universe: Apple Pie, and All That Jazz (A Billionaire Romance) (Kindle Worlds Novella) by Melanie Marchande (1)

Three minutes, forty-five seconds.

The production assistant told me: "It'll be the longest four minutes of your life."

She was not wrong.

My eyes scan around the room. I did my homework. I know what I'm up against. There's Jeremiah Waldorf, the real estate tycoon. Elaine Pfeiffer, the inventor. Steven Nguyen, the fashion icon. 

And then there's Ash.

They're all staring at me, but it's his eyes that I can feel. Like the high-tech lasers he produces in his lab, they're cutting right through me, and I don't appreciate it one bit.

I'm counting the seconds down in my head, but with Ashley Strickland staring me down, I'm about to lose my concentration.

Yeah, his name is Ashley. But with his linebacker build and his movie star face, I doubt he got teased too much in school.

Still, there's a reason he goes by Ash now. Before I got here, I didn't give him much thought. Ash is a wild card. The rest of the investors are pretty easy to predict. For all their grandstanding, they mostly go with their gut. Waldorf is the "tough guy," but he's got a massive Achilles heel. He was raised by a single mom, and he's got a weakness for strong women. Particularly single moms. One strike against. Particularly soft, smiling blondes. One point in my favor.

I'm not quite desperate enough to have borrowed somebody's kid to take on TV. I mean, I thought about it. But there are limits.

The lighting crew is still fiddling with their stands. That's the part of the show you never see, the four minutes of eternity after you walk out, the investors staring you down, waiting for the lighting to be set up just right. Nobody speaks. They're saving it all for on-camera. 

This is The Shark Cage.

I discovered the show like anybody else. I was flipping channels after a long day, not caring much about where it landed. There was something about The Shark Cage that caught my attention. It didn't look like any other show I recognized. There were no timers, no "dating," nobody eating bugs. It wasn't a camera crew following washed-up celebrities around on their "normal lives." So I kept watching.

Technically, it is reality TV. Hopeful business owners come on the show and pitch their companies, their inventions, their ideas. They try to convince a panel of filthy-rich angel investors to take pity on them. 

Six months ago, if you'd asked me, I'd say I would rather take a sharp stick to the eye than be on this show.

Well. Things sure do change.

I'm trying to concentrate on making that all-important connection with Waldorf. But I can't think straight, can't see straight, because Ash Strickland seems like he wants to eat me alive. 

Fine. I guess I'll give the man what he wants.

In the last minute of silence, I lock eyes with him. He really is gorgeous. Like somebody took the DNA from all of the Chrises and churned it up in a blender, with just a touch of early-2000s Channing and all the best parts of Leo. It's unfair that a random combination of genetics could result in a perfect physical specimen. I mean, does he even know what it's like to live as a normal person?

No. No, he definitely does not.

The corner of Mr. Strickland's mouth quirks upwards. I'm finally acknowledging him. Both eyebrows twitch slightly, nostrils flare a little, like he's drinking me in. I swallow hard.

He's just doing this to throw you off. Breathe. Don't cave. Don't let them get to you.

The lighting guy gives the production people the thumbs-up, and they give me the signal.

Here we go.

"Sharks, you've all heard the saying before. 'As American as apple pie.' The thing is, nobody knows where it actually originated, or who invented this simple treat." I pick up my sample tray and walk it over to Elaine at the end of the row. She gives me a sympathetic smile, but I'm not letting my guard down. "But everyone agrees: it's a delectable tradition. The thing is, these days, most of us don't have time in our busy schedules to make something like an apple pie from scratch. I remember my mother slaving over a hot oven, peeling apples until her back ached. We need a way to show that love for our families without all of the prep time taking us away from quality togetherness."

I went over this script a thousand times, but now I hate the sound of it. It's ridiculous. It's stupid. No one is going to invest in my pies, no matter how good they taste.

I've reached the end of the row. Strickland reaches out and touches my arm, starting to quiver a little from the heavy tray.

"You can just leave that here, sweetheart," he says.

I've heard his voice plenty of times. I watched every episode in preparation for this. But it's completely different when it's directed at you, his eyes, his scent, the warmth of his skin...

I need to get a freaking grip.

I smile at him, brightly. "I heard you were a fan of apple pie, Mr. Strickland."

"Ash," he replies. "Please."

Finally, he takes his plate and lets me go. Somehow, on my way back to my place, even in three-inch heels, I don't wobble.

"At my bakery, you'll find a variety of desserts and confections. Some are ready to eat, some par-baked, others designed to cook at home. While everyone agrees that my prize-winning apple pies are the star of the show, my customers love everything they try. They keep coming back, again and again. I'm seeking an investment of fifty thousand dollars for a forty-five percent stake in my company. I need to expand my location, access a commercial bakery, and eventually open new locations all over the Midwest. I want to see one of my pies on every dinner table. Sharks, who wants to help me realize my dream?"

While rattling off my monologue, I keep an eye on all of their reactions. The pies are a hit. I knew the pies would be a hit. I might be out of my element here, but my ability to make a mouth-watering apple pie in my sleep is still firmly intact.

When Strickland swallows his last bite, he closes his eyes for a second. Then he licks his fork. It's so dramatic that Nguyen gives him a Look.

"You want us to leave you alone?" he deadpans.

"I'm fine," Strickland replies. "Just having a moment."

He shoots me an absolutely deadly smile.

I grin and simper, because that's what they expect. And honestly, it does still make me a little giddy every time. I love my pies and I love the way people smile when they eat them. I never wanted this whole thing to become so complicated, but...here we are.

"So, here's an obvious question." Waldorf wipes his mouth with a napkin. "Most businesses expand as their revenue grows - don't you think you're putting the cart before the horse?"

"Maybe her ambitions are a little bigger than yours were," Strickland cuts in. 

"Maybe you want to let her answer for herself," Waldorf snaps.

"Sorry. Of course." Strickland gestures in my direction. "Go on, Abigail."

I nod at him, gritting my teeth. "I could easily afford the rent on a new property, but the moving expenses are prohibitive. We have a great deal of specialty equipment, and our downtown location means space is at a premium and we'll need to retain the services of movers who specialize in cramped environments."

"Yes, yes," says Waldorf impatiently. "But why now? Why not wait until the revenue can support it?"

"Maybe she's already making as many pies as she can sell, Jerry." Strickland shoots him a glance that could kill. 

"Maybe you want to go up there and give the pitch," Elaine cuts in, looking like she's ready to jump up and stab Strickland with one of her stiletto heels. 

Smiling at him, I say the first thing that pops into my head before I can think better of it. "I would love to see you up here in a frilly little apron."

Waldorf and Nguyen guffaw, and Elaine covers her face with her hand as she laughs. Strickland just raises an eyebrow. 

"Am I offending you, Abigail?"

I swallow some bile. "Of course not, Ash."

Waldorf rolls his eyes, hugely. "They're always going to kiss your ass, Strickland. You can't trust anything anybody says on here. You know that, right?"

Strickland shakes his head. "Are you going to make an offer, or just scold me all day?"

Nguyen cuts in, clearly tired of their bickering. "Abigail. Listen. Your pies are amazing, you don't need me to tell you that. And I understand you've reached a bottleneck in your production and you need a leg up to grow your revenue. But this just isn't the investment for me. I went into this industry with Betty's Brownies and it's absolutely brutal. I don't like the food retail space, and it doesn't like me. Can you compete with the grocery store pies that are half your price? I know you taste better, that's not the point. Can you compete? I'm just not confident, Abigail. So I'm out."

"Thank you," I tell him, robotically. Nguyen wasn't really on my radar, but it still stings.

"As much as it pains me to admit this," says Waldorf, "I agree with him about that. There's no gimmick here, nothing that makes your pies stand out other than being really, really good. Well. I've had plenty of really good pies. I wish you all the best in your business, I'm sure you are going to do phenomenal things, but you don't need me. I'm out."

I swallow, hard. I really didn't expect things to move this fast. I've already lost two Sharks, including the one I had the highest hopes for. Waldorf brushed me aside the way I deal with flies that sneak into my prep area. 

My heart's thudding in my chest. Elaine looks thoughtful, but hesitant. I don't dare meet Strickland's eyes again, even though I can feel them on my skin.

"Ms. Pfeiffer?" I say, faintly.

"Abigail..." she lets out a long sigh. "I love you. I love your sparkle. Your pie is phenomenal. I'm just not sure this is the right investment for me."

She's not done talking, but to my utter shame and horror, I can feel tears start to prickle in my eyes.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.

"Please," I hear myself say, my voice already thickening. My hands are clasped in front of my apron. It's a cheerful print, covered in bright red cherries. I debated on one with apple slices, but I thought it looked too grandmotherly. There was a nice, subtle touch of sensuality to the cherry motif, I thought. "Please, give me a chance to prove myself."

All the time I put into this. All the sleepless nights. Swallowing my pride to parade around on national prime-time television. And for what?

I'm going to be the two-minute, eye-rolling interlude that everyone forgets about. I don't even have the facilities to make and ship pies across the country, so I won't get any kind of sales boost from this. I'll just fizzle out, go home, and start back at square one.

"I don't doubt your commitment," Elaine says. "I absolutely don't. But Abigail, I'm sorry...I don't think I would be a good partner for you. I'm out."

My knees want to buckle. I lock them instead, forcing myself to stand firm. 

"Thank you, Sharks," I say, faintly. My voice sounds like it's a thousand miles away.

"Hold on." Strickland's voice cuts through the buzzing in my head. "I haven't had my say yet."

All eyes turn to him. He's still looking at me, and now my knees want to buckle for an entirely different reason.

Strickland interlaces his fingers, stretching one long leg out in front of him. Unlike the other men in the room, he's not wearing a tie. His shirt's only buttoned up to a few inches below his collar, revealing a hint of dark curly hair on his chest. 

"Oh, come on," Waldorf cuts in. "He's toying with you, Abigail. He'll give you some kind of soul-sucking offer, and then he'll immediately forget about you while he goes off to throw another tantrum at one of his baseball games. Walk out of here with your dignity intact, at least."

Strickland's eyes flash. "That's enough, Jerry. I know the producers are buzzing in your ear. Shut up for a minute." He leans forward, searching me with his gaze. I feel naked. 

"What are you not telling me?" he asks, his voice dropping a few pitches.

Me, he says. Not us. 

This is it. He's giving me a chance. A chance to admit why I'm really here, why I'm so desperate, what this cash injection would really mean to me. To my business. To my lifelong dream.

"I don't know what you mean," I hear myself say.

"Abigail." Elaine sounds suspicious. "Is there something you're still holding on to? You know we can't make an investment if we don't have all the information."

"More importantly, contracts are null and void if we find out you've been hiding something." Waldorf sits forward in his chair. "You'd better come clean."

"For..." Strickland's mouth twists. "...Pete's sake, Jerry. Don't terrorize her."

"I'm fine," I snap, before I can stop myself. "You can stop trying to be my white knight, Mr. Strickland."

Well, shit.

Where did that come from? Am I having a mental breakdown? I mean, probably, but right now? And why does it have to take the form of antagonizing the only potential investor left on the panel?

This is it. 

Stick a fork in me, I'm done.

But it's like a train wreck - I can't stop myself from looking up to meet Strickland's eyes one more time. And far from the anger I expect, they're actually shining with amusement and...something else. Something I can't identify.

He breaks into a grin. "I like you, Abigail," he says. "But I'm not going to consider giving you any money until you've been honest with us."

"He's not going to consider giving you any money regardless," Waldorf mutters.

Strickland ignores him. "Come on. It's written all over your face. Just spill - you'll feel better, and maybe walk out a lot richer."

My heart pounds in my ears. I'm suddenly very aware that everyone is staring - Strickland, the whole panel, every camera operator, every grip, every damn intern.

"I'm losing my storefront." It all comes out in a rush, so garbled they'll probably have to put on subtitles. "My landlord...he's trying to sell it out from under me. He just has a grudge. That's it. I know it sounds pathetic and unbelievable so I didn't...I didn't even put it on the application."

They're gonna kick me off the show. I'm done.

"My revenue is good," I go on, quickly, half expecting a giant hook to appear on stage and drag me away. "Better than good. But he wants me gone, so he's going to make it happen. I need a new location and I need it fast. I can't afford any of the comparable properties that would let me keep the same amount of foot traffic, the market's brutal. That's why he's getting away with it. He knows he can replace me in a hot minute. I've got two employees who depend on me..."

And I'm tearing up again. Don't do this. Keep it together.

"Abigail." Strickland puts up his hand, stopping me. "Please. I get it. You don't have to explain yourself any more than that. If you'd been honest from the beginning, this would be a very different conversation. But now I'm worried that if I go into partnership with you, you'll try to hide things from me. When stuff goes south, I'll need to know about it. If I'm going to invest in your bakery, I need to be able to trust you."

Waldorf sighs audibly, but he's not saying anything. Not this time.

"Given the situation," Strickland goes on, "I'm prepared to give you twenty-five thousand dollars for a fifty-one percent stake in your company. That's my final offer. Yes or no?"

"Ash." Elaine almost jumps out of her chair. "That's insulting, and you know it."

"She lied to us," he shrugs. 

"So you're going to punish her by taking her company away?" Elaine stares daggers at him. "That's low, Ash. Even for you."

A dark smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Take it or leave it," he says, leaning back in his high-backed chair.

Fifty-one percent.

That's a controlling share. If I give it up to him, he'll own me. He'll own everything.

The amount is insulting, but that doesn't even matter. I can't, I won't give up ownership of my business to somebody else. Especially not someone like Ash Strickland, the billionaire playboy with a bad temper, owner of three baseball teams, the guy who could fill this entire sound stage with hundred-dollar bills and not miss a cent of it.

Even the other Sharks don't like him, and that's saying something. He's the richest of them all, and they hate the way he devalues their investments by tossing his cash around like it's all some big game.

"I'm not here to sell my business," I tell him. My voice is surprisingly steady.

"Sure," he says. "But I'm not here to partner with somebody who tells lies. This is the only offer you're going to get, Abigail. And I won't sit here all day. Call your friends if you need to. Call your mentor. Call your mom. But if you don't give me an answer in the next five minutes, we're done."

My fingers feel cold and numb. My throat, my eyes, they've never been drier. The stage lights are shining on me so brightly I feel like they must be going supernova. 

"Twenty-five thousand for forty percent," I counter.

He shakes his head.

"Forty-five percent."

Strickland sighs, sharply. "Final offer, Abigail. I'm not here to negotiate with you."

"Fifty-fifty," I say at last, desperately. "You'll have equal say. We'll..."

"Four minutes," he cuts in. "Twenty. Five. Thousand. Fifty. One. Percent. That's it. That's what you get. If the answer is no, tell me now, so I can stop wasting my time on you."

"Ash," says Elaine, quietly. "You're torturing the poor girl."

He ignores her.

The lights are so bright.

I swallow, even though my mouth is like a desert.

"No."

It feels like somebody dropped a lead ball in my stomach. There's a deafening silence around the room, then finally, Strickland shifts in his chair.

"No? Final answer?"

I nod, before I can second-guess myself.

"Fine," he says, waving his hand dismissively. "Good luck, Ms. Mumford."

The people watching at home will see my exit accompanied by a dramatic swell of music, my hands clenched into fists at my side. But in real life, all I can hear is the scuffing of my shoes on the carpet. 

Before the double doors slam shut behind me, one of the PAs takes my elbow and starts steering me off to the side. "We've got Dr. Leiner ready to meet with you in the green room. Do you need the restroom first? Some juice? Cookies?"

"Water would be great," I manage to croak.

Another PA materializes with a cup. I toss it back in a single gulp.

They told me beforehand that a therapist would be there to talk to me afterwards, and I inwardly scoffed. But now I'm starting to understand why. I feel shaky, faint, and I know it's not from low blood sugar.

Strickland just stripped me down and cut me open, and I was supposed to smile and thank him. All that stuff about my landlord didn't really matter. Either they like my pies enough to invest, or they don't.

My phone's buzzing in my pocket. I was supposed to turn it off for the show, but I ended up switching it to silent and praying it wouldn't disrupt anything. I don't know why. I just felt safer with it still on. Connected to the real world. There's something so surreal about the Shark Cage, I needed a lifeline to reality.

I pull my phone out of my pocket as the PA continues to steer me down the cramped hallways. The whole set looks so much bigger on TV.

It's a series of texts from Leah, my night shift superstar.

How's everything going?

I answer:

I hope I don't get you in trouble, I know you're filming, but I just got back from the hospital and they're dragging us to hell and back. Crossing all our fingers and toes for you. 

Her response comes quickly:

Josh is doing better on the IV antibiotics but I don't know how long we can keep it up at these ducking prices.

DUCKING AUTOCORRECT

Anyway, break a leg. Xoxoxo

Instantly, a cold hand of guilt closes around my chest. All I could think about in that cage was my own stupid pride, and meanwhile Leah - who gets up every morning at two o'clock to drive in the darkness and get the donuts started, whose seven-year-old kid got Lyme disease on their family camping trip, who's just trying to stay afloat...

She's counting on me. She and Kimmy deserve so much better. 

I know what they'd say. Both of them. You did the right thing, don't give up majority shares to that out-of-touch billionaire a-hole. But then they'd go home to their cramped apartments, to their piles of bills, and Leah would package up some soup to bring to her kid at the hospital she and her husband can't afford. 

I'm the worst person in the world.

I stop in my tracks. It takes the PA a second to realize I've dislodged her, then she comes trotting back. "Sorry, I changed my mind," I mumble. "I think I will visit the restroom first."

"Of course," she says, looking mildly concerned. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes. Just need to freshen up." I attempt a smile, hoping it doesn't look as ghastly as it feels.

"Okay." She leads me down another hall, and releases me at the door. "I'll be right here when you need me."

I don't know what I'm doing, but I know I need to do it fast. Once I leave here, my chances of ever talking to Strickland again are pretty much absolute zero. I mean, he won't even want to talk to me now, but at least I've got a chance.

A tiny chance is better than none at all.

I hover by the bathroom door, trying to plan my escape. I know they're done filming, or nearly done, because I've been here all day. I just need to catch Strickland before he leaves the building. But how?

Suddenly, I hear a familiar voice echoing down the hall. Once, just once, the fates have smiled on me today.

I dart out at just the right second. The swinging door nearly cracks Strickland right in the face, but he's got a pretty impressive reaction time, thank heavens.

"I'm telling you - JESUS!!!" he exclaims, as he barely dodges the swinging hazard. He stands there, staring at me, and I stare at him. "...listen, Joseph, I'm gonna have to call you back. Yes. No, I just...yeah. Thank you."

The PA rushes to my side. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Strickland, we were just..."

He raises one hand, and she quiets immediately. "You can go," he says. "It looks like Ms. Mumford has something to say to me."

She works her mouth open and closed a few times, like she's dying to protest, but she can't. Strickland is the show's superstar; even if nobody likes him, they don't dare talk back.

Quietly, she turns and retreats down the hallway.

I swallow hard. Without all the lights and cameras, and the expanse of sound stage between us, the electricity is palpable. Strickland's presence seems to fill most of the narrow hallway, and whether it's his broad shoulders or his oversized ego that's leaving me with that impression, I can't be sure.

"I'd like to apologize for being dishonest," I tell him, softly. "I didn't think it really mattered, but now I understand that was just my pride getting in the way."

He nods. "And?"

"And, I've reconsidered your offer. I'd like to accept it."

His brow furrows, then he smiles a little. "I don't think you understand how this works, Abigail."

I take in a deep breath. "I realize you have every right to say no. You were never obligated to make an offer in the first place. But I was being selfish when I made that decision. I have two employees, two friends, who mean the world to me. They've always believed in me, and now they can hardly pay their bills. They deserve so much more. With you behind me, we could..."

Strickland briefly catches his lower lip between his teeth. "Yes?" he says. "With me behind you? I'm all ears."

He's messing with you again. You really think Ash Strickland wants to see your dimpled, oversized ass in his bed? Get real.

"...we could grow my business beyond my wildest dreams."

"It won't be your business anymore," he reminds me. "Don't forget that."

How could I? It's like a hot knife twisting in my chest, but I don't have a choice anymore. This isn't about me.

"I understand that," I tell him, softly. "I'm willing to give it away for a song, because I'm desperate. I'd think that would be valuable to you."

He chuckles, darkly. We're already just inches apart, but he takes one half-step closer. I can feel his body heat, and I'm staring right at the center of his chest, trying not to think about catching one of those shirt buttons with my teeth.

GET. A. GRIP.

"But how desperate are you, I wonder?" he says, more to himself than to me. "Desperate enough to under-value your company. Desperate enough to practically beg me to reconsider. If I told you to get down on your knees and ask, would you?"

My fists clench my sides. I don't know if I'm imagining the innuendo or not, and I'm not sure which is worse. "I don't have time for games, Mr. Strickland."

"Ash," he reminds me. "I don't think you get to decide what you have time for, Ms. Mumford."

We stare each other down. Finally, after a moment, he's the first to blink. Slowly. Like he's savoring it.

"All right," he says. "Here's my new deal. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Fifty-one percent. And you."

My eyes widen, before I've even had a chance to process what he's saying.

"One week," he says. "That's all. I have a business trip coming up. In two days, I leave for Hawaii. Five star resort. The minute we set foot there, you're mine." He glances away from me for a moment, then smiles a little. "Within reason, of course."

"Within reason?" I squeak.

Great. Yes. Very dignified.

"Within reason," he repeats. "I'm not cruel. I don't have any...weird secrets." He makes a vague gesture. "I mean, a little slap and tickle, of course, nobody's opposed to that. Some nice ropes, a little cops-and-robbers, handcuffs, that's fine. I'm just saying, I wouldn't insist on anything...too unorthodox."

I just keep staring at him.

"You're...you're..." I have to stop and catch my breath for a second. The thought of him handcuffing me to a bed is disturbingly distracting. "You're kidding."

"I'm dead serious, actually," he smirks. "You're not insulted, are you? I wouldn't have brought it up if you weren't so obviously in heat for me."

The way he says it, so casually, makes me want to punch him right in his smug face.

Of course, I don't. Because he's not wrong.

And that makes me hate him even more.

"Look," he says, leaning against the wall, way too casually for the circumstances. "You want me. I want you. You're never going to give in, blah blah blah, you're too proud, you think I'll use you and forget you, you deserve better, okay. So I'm offering you a deal. A guilt-free way to get what we both want. You get your bakery saved. We both get a week of fantastic sex in an island paradise. And you get to tell yourself that you're only doing it because I insisted. It's a win-win-win. Please stop gaping at me. Close your mouth before something flies in there."

I've finally found my voice again. "You're out of your mind," I sputter.

"Am I?" He grins. In one smooth motion, he pulls a business card out of his pocket and tucks it into my hand, closing my fingers around is gently. Just that one simple touch is enough to make goosebumps rise all over my body.

Damn it. Damn him.

"Think about it," he says. "I'll give you more than five minutes this time. But I leave at seven AM on Wednesday. We'll take my private jet, so there's no need to worry about last-minute bookings, and you can pack anything you want. But you probably won't need very many clothes. Do you own a bikini?" He frowns a little. "No. Of course you don't. Doesn't matter. I'll bring some for you. I've got a meeting in an hour, and it'll take me two hours to get across town, so I should probably be leaving in the next forty-five minutes or so. Call me once you've decided."

And with that, Ash Strickland turns and walks away.

***

"You sure you're okay?" the cabbie asks, for the eightieth time.

I just nod. It's all I can do.

I know I look like I've seen a ghost. It's not every day that a billionaire propositions me for sex. For a week.

You're mine.

I hate the way those words make me quiver, deep inside. If he wasn't sexy as sin, he'd never get away with talking like that. But he could read me like a book. He knew how badly I wanted him, and I thought I was playing it so close to the chest.

Try as I might, I can't be as offended as I ought to be. Because really. He's good enough to eat. And while there was a sharp undertone to some of what he said, there was also something so playful, so...oddly innocent. And so upfront. Most men will spend hours trying to wheedle you into sex, but Ash Strickland doesn't have time for such shenanigans.

But I don't get it. He could take any woman he wanted to Hawaii. I mean, it's a tropical island vacation with a billionaire. He could take a pack of supermodels if he wanted, and he's choosing me. What the hell is that about?

Of course I'm flattered. Any woman would be. I guess I'm a novelty to him, but...

Okay, this is getting ridiculous. I'm going to drive myself crazy. I need to get home, unwind, and try to get some sleep before...

My phone's going off again. My heart leaps into my throat, as I imagine for some reason it's Strickland calling me.

Ash. Ash. He keeps saying...

Of course, he doesn't have my number. It's Leah.

"Are you okay?" she blurts out, as soon as I answer. There's something wrong about her voice, something off, but I'm too distracted to place it. "How did it go? Did you get a deal?"

"I, uh...." I swallow a lump in my throat. "I've got something pending."

"Pending? What does that mean?"

I can't tell her. I can't tell her what Ash offered me, what I'm actually seriously considering. She'd never let me. Even if I told her that I wanted it, she'd never look at me the same.

"Well...you know," I stall, thinking fast. "Nothing's really official until the contracts are signed. But I got...I got an offer."

Leah lets out a long breath. "Oh, my God. That's great. That's fantastic."

There's a silence on the line for a minute.

"Leah?"

"Yeah?" She sounds even more distracted than before. Now that I'm paying attention, I can hear the faint beeping of the hospital in the background. 

"Leah, is everything okay?"

She pauses again, for long enough to betray the answer.

"He's uh..." Her voice gets much quieter. "He's not doing great. But you know my kid. He's a fighter like me. It's just a little hiccup in his recovery."

Recovery. She keeps using that word, and I don't know anymore if it's realistic or just hopeful. The hyperactive, rosy-cheeked boy who used to furiously peddle his bike all over the neighborhood is lying pale and skinny in a hospital bed that's much too big for him. He's rarely awake, and when he is, he's sluggish and confused. It's hard to imagine that one tiny bite from an insect the side of a pinhead could do this. It makes me sick to think about. I can't even wrap my head around what Leah must be going through.

If Leah's my sister from another mister, then Josh might as well be my nephew. I've had my share of sleepless nights, combing through Google searches, trying to understand what's happening, to separate myth from fact. The doctors all say it's not that dangerous. Whatever's happening now, making him almost comatose, most of the medical community would insist it's not from the tick. It's something else. There's so much controversy, so many warring agendas, and at the middle of it there's this little boy just wasting away. 

I want to scream. But if there's one thing I can do to help, really help...it's money.

Money greases the wheels. Money turns no into yes, "I can't..." into "let me see what we can do." Twenty-five thousand dollars might not be much, it might not be enough to turn everything around, even if I stole the cash and handed it right over to Leah. But it'll keep my doors open. It'll keep her in work. Maybe, if I treat Ash well enough, he'll even make a personal loan to help Josh out. I mean, how good would that look for his PR? Using Josh for some kind of ridiculous photo op makes my stomach curdle, but if it'll save his life...

Hell, I don't care anymore.

But in order to make that happen, I've got to keep the lines of conversation open. And that means doing everything Ash wants.

It's insane. I know it's insane. But I have to try.

***

Ash's phone only rings twice.

"Hello, Abigail."

My stomach flip-flops at the sound of his voice. "How did you know it was me?"

"I didn't. My trainer and my therapist both want to know who 'Abigail' is now." He's smirking, but the joke's aimed at himself - it's disarming.

"You see a therapist?"

"You don't?" he shoots back.

"No time. The bakery is very demanding."

"I'm sure it is," he replies, smoothly. "Did you have a chance to think about my offer?"

"I did."

There's a moment of silence.

"Well, you obviously didn't call just to say 'no.'" Ash clears his throat. "So what's your counter-offer?"

Counter-offer? That hadn't even occurred to me. I guess I don't usually negotiate for sex vacations with billionaires, so I assumed it was his final offer.

"You're asking a lot of me," I tell him, stalling for time. "It's only fair that I get something out of it."

He scoffs. "You are getting something out of it. I'm re-opening the offer that you walked away from. That's not something I do." 

"But that's an intangible favor, " I reply. "What I'm giving you in return is very...tangible."

"Not necessarily," he says. "I told you - I'm not going to force anything."

"But we are going to have sex."

"Abigail, we're going to spend a week together in one of the most beautiful places in the world. Drinking champagne, eating fresh mangoes, luxuriating on silk sheets in the biggest bed you've ever seen. Of course we're going to have sex. But it's not transactional. All I'm asking for is one taste." 

"One taste?" I repeat, dumbly. I know exactly what he means, right down to the spot between my legs that's suddenly hot and throbbing at his words. "We didn't go over this before."

"You never know who's listening in a studio," he replies. "I didn't want to get too explicit. But that's all I ask - one taste, one chance to give you pleasure. If it doesn't do anything for you, fine."

There's a long pause while I drink in his words. I can't believe I'm letting this man, this stranger, talk to me like that.

I can't believe I'm letting it get me so excited.

"So if I don't like it, you'll leave me alone for the rest of the week?" I ask. I hate how I sound so breathless.

"Leave you alone?" He chuckles, low and dark. "I don't care for your wording, but yes."

I can't believe what I'm about to say.

"Okay."

"Okay?" he repeats.

"We have a deal," I clarify.

For the bakery. For Leah. For Josh.

I have to pretend I'm not doing it for myself. Not even a little bit. I have to act like he's not the hottest guy who's ever looked at me, let alone offered to...

Well. Let's not get too ahead of ourselves.

"Text me your address," he says, suddenly brusque and businesslike. "I'll send a car for you at six on Wednesday morning." 

There's a pause.

"Have you ever been to Hawaii?" 

I shake my head, so brain-addled from the pure insanity of this situation that I've forgotten he can't see me. "No," I say, finally.

"Whatever you think you need to pack," he says, "keep this in mind. Less clothes. More sunscreen. Especially where I'm planning on taking you."

***

Ash Strickland is nothing if not true to his word.

If the driver wonders what the hell he's doing, picking up a chubby girl from a studio apartment in the crappy side of town to go to meet Mr. Strickland, well...he's not letting on. 

I wasn't sure what you're supposed to wear on a private jet. I opted for business casual, a slate-gray skirt suit with sensible black pumps. I'm already second-guessing myself. I feel dowdy, out of place.

I'm probably going to be feeling like that a lot.

When the car pulls up at the airstrip, Ash is standing near the stairs. He walks over to meet us, and yanks my door open before the driver has a chance.

"Didn't think I'd show up, did you?" I'm trying to keep it light. The whole situation is just so absurd.

He smirks. "I knew you would."

Well, I walked into that one. 

The inside of the plane is something I've only seen on TV. Plush, gorgeous interiors, cream-colored leather seats, and a fully stocked bar in the back. My bag's got three bottles of sunscreen in it - there was a sale - and it doesn't even matter. I didn't have to take off my shoes or stand in line or throw away my water bottle.

"So this is how the other half lives," I mutter, mostly to myself. My eyes close in pleasure as I sink into the gorgeously soft seat.

"They recline all the way," Ash says. "It's a long flight. You'll want to sleep, if you can."

"I might be able to manage it," I reply, opening my eyes. He's looming over me, but not too close. I wonder if he plans on starting the vacation here, before we even arrive.

And just like that, my neck is burning.

Somehow, it's taken me all of five minutes to remember what he said. Just one taste.

"You feeling all right?" he asks, settling down across from me and unbuttoning his suit jacket. "You look flushed."

"Fine." I'm only blushing deeper now, because I'm mortified that he noticed.

"I'm sure you've spent a lot of time thinking about what I said." He folds his hands in his lap, like we're discussing some kind of high-stakes business deal. "I know I have. Whatever you imagine about me, I don't do things like this. But you just...crashed right into me, almost literally, asking for a favor. It was the perfect opportunity."

Well, my dignity is already shot. I might as well needle him. "So that's the first thing that comes to mind when a woman asks you for something?"

"A woman, no." He smiles at me. "This particular woman...yes."

"I really wish you'd stop that," I blurt out, before I can think better of it.

His brow furrows slightly. "Stop what? Complementing you?"

"I don't mind complements as long as they're sincere."

Ash sighs. "Do I seem insincere to you?"

"Honestly?" I fix him with my gaze. "I don't know you, Ash. I don't know you at all. I know the stories I've heard about you, I know your reputation. I know how you act on TV. So I have no idea if you're sincere. I don't know anything about you at all."

After a moment of thoughtful silence, he nods. "That's fair. Well. I'm an open book. Anything you want to know about me, just ask."

I wrap my arms around myself. "But how do I know you're telling the truth?"

"What reason would I have to lie?" he counters.

Glancing over at the bar, I try to decide if it would be rude to go over there and pour myself a few shots of tequila so I'll be better prepared for this conversation.

"In my experience, men don't always need a good reason to lie."

He raises his eyebrows, catching the hint of bitterness in my tone. "Men do lie," he says, after a moment. "They lie to keep themselves out of trouble - but I have no reason to fear your judgment. They lie to get you into bed - but I've already taken care of that. I wouldn't lie to you. There's no point."

Shrugging, I stand up. It might be rude, but it's easier than sitting here under his penetrating gaze.

"You want a drink?" I ask him, as I reach for the Patron.

"Please." He grins. "Help yourself."

"Thank you," I reply, dryly. "You can't seriously expect me to sit here and have this conversation sober. Not if you keep referencing the fact that you're flying me out to Hawaii for sex."

"We're about to take off," he says. "You'd better sit down. Or at least protect the tequila."

I flop back down into my seat, still holding the bottle. "This is bizarre."

Ash studies me silently for a moment. There's so much in his eyes, some of it I can't read, and some of it I don't want to. And simmering underneath it all, there's...something.

I hope against hope that it's genuine lust. That he's not just toying with me. It's just hard to imagine what he sees in me, especially while I'm sitting here with a bottle in my hand, and my stupid sensible-fancy shoes slipping off my heels.

"It is bizarre," he admits, finally. "But you're here. You didn't even seem that shocked when I asked you. Not as shocked as most women would be."

"I was already in a surreal situation," I tell him. The plane starts picking up speed down the runway. "Most people don't find themselves on TV every week. Cameras everywhere. Producers chirping in your ear."

"That'd be Jerry," he says, smirking. "Not me. He's the one with the Voice of God earpiece. Ever noticed how he's always the one advancing the plot? 'So what are you going to do?' It's not that he's impatient, they just cast him as the authority figure. They tell him what to do. That was before I came along, of course."

"You guys certainly have an interesting chemistry." I lean back in my seat as we start to leave the pavement. "Two alphas in the same pack."

He waves his hand dismissively. "Oh, I've got nothing against Jerry. He hates me, of course."

"Of course?" I echo. He says it so casually.

"They all do." Ash lifts his head slightly. "They feel like I've devalued the whole operation. Because I invest thoughtlessly sometimes. They take it so seriously, like they'd actually miss the money if they just put it in a pile and burned it. It's dishonest. They're all filthy rich, and I know I'm the filthiest of the bunch, but at least I'm honest about it."

I've never seen somebody look so self-satisfied about being disliked. Ash Strickland is a fascinating character.

"It doesn't bother you?" I ask him, as I pour myself a shot.

He shrugs. "Doesn't really matter. He'll keep on hating me no matter how I feel about it."

"That's..." Not an answer, I'm about to say, but of course he knows that. "Sad," I amend.

"Sad?" He looks amused. "For him, I guess. He's wasting a whole lot of energy on something that doesn't actually affect his life in any way, shape or form. You know how physicists say that energy is neither created, nor destroyed?"

"Sure." I eye the tequila bottle, wondering if it will be enough to get me through this flight. 

"Well, that's bullshit. Outrage is the purest form of energy-destruction we have. Every second you spend angry about something you can't change - that's one second of your life you will never get back. We're all going to die someday, you think anyone lies there on their deathbed and thinks 'my only regret is that I didn't spend more time being angry at people?'"

"That's easy for you to say," I reply, dryly. 

"How do you mean?"

"Well, you don't have much to be angry about, do you?" I make a vague gesture, which is meant to encompass all of our lavish surroundings, as well as the man himself. "Of course it seems like a waste of time, to somebody like you."

"That's not what I meant at all," Ash insists, leaning forward on the little table between us. "I think there are people who should be angry. I think anger can be productive. People should be angry that bankers are stealing their money and making them say 'thank you' for the privilege. They should be angry that our government is owned by special interest groups and politicians are just paid shills for giant corporations. They should be angry that they can't afford to rent an apartment while they're working three jobs, they should be angry that there are neighborhoods in the inner city where the only way to survive is to eat off the dollar menu, because a head of lettuce costs ten bucks. But people like Jerry? They've got nothing to be angry about." 

A brief flash of something shows in Ash's eyes, but he suppresses it quickly, leaning back in his seat.

"Well, at least we agree on that," I reply, quietly. The whole thing surprised me - I have to admit it, if only to myself. I didn't expect a guy like Ash to be so aware of the issues that real people deal with.

"Most of the people who sit on that panel with me - they believe capitalism is a pure meritocracy." Ash steeples his fingers together and eyes me, dispassionately. "Which is delusional. I mean...look at your pies. If everyone got what they deserved, you'd be a millionaire."

I can feel a hot blush creeping up the back of my neck. "That's an overstatement," I mutter, before I can stop myself. It doesn't do to show weakness in front of Ash. I should smile and nod mysteriously in response to every complement, not blush and giggle like a schoolgirl.

"I'm dead serious," he says, with a ghost of a smile. "I wouldn't lie about something like this. I've got no reason to." He takes the tequila when I offer it to him, pouring himself another finger. "The thing is...the system's set up to make you fail. To make us all fail. Some of us were lucky. Some weren't. I feel like I'm honor-bound to spread some of my fairy dust around, because I got a hell of a lot more than I deserved. Anyone who's willing to sit in front of the Sharks, to put themselves on display like that - well, they're sure as hell not your average bear."

I laugh a little. "Well, I guess you're right about that."

He nods, his eyes suddenly fixing me with an intense gaze. I shift in my seat a little, uncomfortable in more ways than one. 

"Do you realize how extraordinary you are?" he asks me, softly.

I guess I don't.

My heart is thumping in my chest. This is more than I bargained for. I knew he was a playboy, I knew he was slick. I knew he'd try to win my body. But my heart?

That was never supposed to be on the table.

What game is he playing, exactly?

"I'm not extraordinary," I tell him, when I find my voice. "I'm just a girl who likes to bake pies."

***

"It's outdoors."

I'm muttering in wonder, mostly to myself, but of course Ash overhears me.

The air is balmy, gentle against my skin. The air smells like exotic flowers. A few feet away, there's a macaw tilting his head at us curiously, wondering what the crazy humans are doing.

I know I'm gaping like an idiot. 

I'm not sure what I was picturing when I thought of "five-star Hawaiian resort." But nowhere in my imagination did I conjure up a check-in desk that was outdoors.

It's covered, of course - because I'm told it rains here. There's something called monsoon season, which sounds terrifying, but apparently it's not enough to drive them inside.

Outdoors. They're outdoors. All year.

Coming from a chilly New England spring, I feel like I'm in a different universe.

"Yes," Ash agrees, smiling at me. "Outdoors. Everything's outdoors, and no one dies of exposure. It's a brave new world."

Breathless, I follow him up a massive stone slab staircase lined with bright green succulents. Every little breeze here is like a gentle caress. No wonder people love Hawaii.

I drift through the hallways and elevators like I'm in a dream. Everywhere there are massive open windows, pieces of the walls cut out with nothing but a little railing shutting out the elements. Back in my real life, every hotel I've ever stayed at had that old, stale, chemical cleaner smell. Not here. Nothing could be further from what I'm breathing in.

My city-tired lungs are rejoicing. There's no point in trying to play it cool. 

But when the double-doors to our suite swing open, I gasp.

One whole side of the room opens out onto a crystal-clear pool. Just a few feet behind it, I can see the beach, and the sunset behind it. There's a pair of sliding doors to shut out the world, but I can't think of anything I'd want less.

"Oh my God," I mutter, before I can stop myself.

"Nice, isn't it?" Ash is unrolling a few crisp bills from his pocket for the bellhop, who followed us up with a polished brass luggage cart. As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, my heart flutters in my chest.

I'm alone with Ash.

This is it. The beginning.

I've sold my soul, and it's time to pay the piper.

For a few minutes I just stand here, staring out at the ocean. The waves lap gently at the beach, reminding me of what he promised.

Just one taste.

How is it possible to want and dread something so much, at the same time? It's the greatest paradox of my life. I want to feel him, I want to taste him back. He's a gorgeous man. Whatever his reputation, you'd be insane not to see it. Not to feel that tug inside. 

But I don't want it like this. Not as a bargaining chip. Not with all these trappings of desperation and investments and...

I try to un-bunch my shoulders and relax. If he approaches me now, I have to melt. I can't resist. After all, this is what I agreed to.

Just one taste.

From somewhere far away, I hear a shower switch on. I haven't even explored the rest of the suite, have no idea how expansive it is, but I have a feeling it won't be big enough to hold everything that's in my head and heart tonight.

I prepared myself for this. Body and soul, I got ready. I soaked in the tub with a cup of apple cider vinegar, ate handfuls of cranberries, wincing at the bitterness, but believing the self-described "ho" on Twitter who promised me it would make my juices taste sweeter. She also recommended an eighteen dollar bottle of speciality "yoni oil," but that was outside of my ho budget.

I shaved. I shaved everything. Spent an hour in the tub, struggling and cursing, and I think I still have a kink in my back. But I flat-out refuse to let a stranger pour hot wax between my legs. 

I focused. I meditated. I reminded myself why I was doing this, why it mattered that I make a good impression. Maybe this could even become an ongoing thing, if I impressed him enough. As far as friends-with-benefits went, it didn't get much better than a multi-billionaire.

And still, a part of me hates myself for thinking this way. There's a voice in the back of my head. Gold-digger. Slut. Money-grubbing whore.

As if it matters. As if anything matters but saving my bakery, getting Josh well again.

"There's no rush."

I almost jump out of my skin. Turning around quickly, I see Ash, his body still glistening with water, in nothing but a fluffy white towel wrapped around his waist.

My mouth works open and shut a few times. 

"You're nervous," he says, taking a step towards me. "You don't have to be. There's no rush. I'm not going to touch you tonight - unless you want me to."

Oh, hell. How do I answer that? With the hottest guy I've ever seen in my life standing wet and half-naked in front of me?

Under those designer suits, his body's even more sculpted than I imagined. Muscles on top of muscles, but not too bulky - taught, sleek, and gorgeous. 

We're an odd pair, no doubt about it.

Suddenly, I'm very aware of how grimy I feel. After all those hours of travel, all I want to do is strip off these clothes and take a shower.

"Go ahead," says Ash, gesturing behind him. "Already warmed it up for you."

And with that, he disappears into the bedroom.

***

I don't know what I expected Ash Strickland to sleep in, but it probably wasn't a worn-out pair of Xbox pajama pants.

I do a double-take when I see them - and not just because I want another peek at the bulge under his fly.

"Stylish," I comment, standing by the edge of the king-size bed. Am I supposed to join him there? Would that be an invitation I don't mean to extend just yet?

"Thanks," he says, without a hint of irony. "I don't normally wear pajamas, so...I had to dig in the back of my closet."

"I don't either," I confess. The fluffy hotel robe barely closes around me, but it's better than slipping into the lingerie that I brought with me. I thought I'd be ready. 

I'm not ready.

He shoots me a halfway grin. "We're all adults here. I'm sure we can sleep naked in a bed together without any funny business happening - unless you want it to."

My ears are burning. The idea of him seeing me naked, under the full lights, without the distraction of sex...ugh. Not my idea of a good first impression.

"Abigail," he says, when I don't respond. I realize I must've been standing there like an idiot for ages, of course he knows how uncomfortable I am. I'm already dangerously close to ruining this.

"Please don't," I say, finally. "Please don't call me that. Nobody does."

"Abby?" he tries.

I nod. Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes; I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm letting it get to me so much. 

It's just a deal. A business transaction. There's no time for shyness, or embarrassment, or hesitation.

"Abby, if you don't want to be naked in front of me, we have a problem." He says it gently, though. With a smile in his voice. "I want to try something. You'll have to be naked for it, but we'll both have our eyes closed."

"But how will I..."

"You'll have to trust me," he says, anticipating my question. "You won't know for sure if I'm peeking or not. But I won't. I'll be on the other side of the room. I won't look at you, I won't go anywhere near you."

I consider this for a moment.

"Okay," I say, at last. My voice is so small and quiet. I barely recognize it.

Ash sits on the bed and closes his eyes. It occurs to me that I could surprise him, delight him - just walk up and kiss him. He'd lose his mind.

But fear roots me to the floor.

"Take off your robe," he says. 

I do.

"Now, close your eyes," he says.

"Okay."

I'm still watching him.

"Your eyes aren't closed," he says.

"How...?"

"I just do. Abby, you have to trust me. At least a little." He sighs. "Please. Close your eyes."

Finally, I swallow the lump in my throat and do it.

This is it. I've done it. I'm naked in a room with a near-stranger, and even though he can't see me, my heart is pounding in my throat. I've never done this. Never stood in front of a man with nothing on. Of course I've had sex, but always in half-darkness, or under the covers, or with most of my clothes still on.

"Wrap your arms around yourself," he says. "Like you're giving yourself a hug. I've seen you do it before."

"Okay."

"Now tell me what you feel."

That's a puzzling question. "Uh...myself?"

"And what do you feel like?"

His voice, so soft and deep, isn't doing much to slow my heart rate. 

"Soft," I say, at last. "Warm."

"Mmmhm," he agrees. "Rub your hands up and down your arms. How does your skin feel?"

"Smooth." I pause for a second. "Almost like...I don't know. Velvet."

I've never done this, of course. Why would I? Just stand around naked with my eyes closed, fondling myself? But it's opened up a whole new appreciation for my body. I never would have described myself like this, but now it's unavoidable.

"Touch your chest," he says. "Abby? Are you with me?"

"Yes," I whisper. 

Stubbornly, I keep my fingers around my collarbone. I know what he means, but I won't do it. Not until he puts it into words.

"Hold your breasts," he says. "Let them fill your palms. I know you've done this before, too. Feel how soft and lush they are. Imagine touching them for the first time, imagine being a stranger and discovering them. How they look. How they feel. How they taste."

My breathing is so harsh now, he must be able to hear it. My nervousness is melting, heating, into something else entirely. I can feel my nipples turn to hard peaks beneath my fingers.

"Now touch your stomach."

I stiffen.

"I know. But do it. Grab it. Really feel it. Notice how similar it is to what you just felt. Imagine how utterly insane any man would be, not to see the beauty of it. The softness, the warmth, the voluptuousness he could just lose himself in. Understand this is normal. Understand your mind's been poisoned. Understand that when a man looks at you like he wants to eat you up with a side of whipped cream, his eyes can't lie to you."

My throat is so dry. I want to open my eyes, see his face. I want to see if his words are affecting him as much as they're affecting me.

And I want him. So, so badly.

"Ash?" I murmur.

"Yes, Abby?" His tone is low and rough.

"I want you to do it tonight." I take in a deep breath. "I want you to taste me. Now."

One, two, three heartbeats before he answers. An eternity.

"Open your eyes, Abby." I've never heard a man's voice so thick with lust. 

So I do it.

He's still sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress. Those ridiculous pajama pants are strained upwards in a rather impressive tent, betraying his intense arousal. 

His eyes open too. I watch him, carefully, as he drinks me in. His eyes flicker all over my body, like he can't take it all in fast enough. The hardness between his legs twitches.

"Come here, then," he says. "Lie down and spread your legs for me."

I follow his orders like I'm hypnotized. When I lie down next to him on the bed, he wastes no time in sliding his way down and pressing a hot kiss on the inside of my thigh.

When I feel his breath against me, I gasp. "Oh my God," I whisper, tilting my hips towards him involuntarily.

"Remember, if you don't like it, just tell me to stop." There's a smirk in his voice.

And then, his tongue.

My back arches, my body overtaken with the exquisite feeling. I forget to feel self-conscious. I forget everything except the sensation.

The pleasure builds and builds, spiraling up my back, building to an explosion. I'm about to shatter to pieces and I don't even care. If he told me right now that my climax would make the world end in a shower of meteors, I still wouldn't be able to stop.

Before this, if you'd asked me if I'd had an orgasm before, I would have said yes. Of course. And I had. But never, not once in my life, have I heard such a deep groan ripped from the base of my chest. I've never felt my whole body tense and jerk with the spasms, I've never thrown my head back so hard my skull rattled, I've never felt anything like this.

Never. Not once.

When I come back to myself, my head is throbbing, my neck aches, and my throat feels raw. Did I scream? I don't remember screaming. 

Well, shit.

I stare at Ash as he crawls back up the bed, smiling. His face glistening with me.

My eyes drift downwards. Even in the afterglow, I still have a twinge of want. I need to see him satisfied, after what he did for me.

He looks painfully hard. I reach out and touch him, just slowly enough so that he can stop me if he wanted to. Right.

"What do you want?" I ask him.

"Anything," he breathes, closing his eyes briefly as my hand closes around him. "Everything. You."

I lean in and kiss him, tasting myself on his lips and his tongue. He groans into my mouth. His hips shift towards me, little jerky motions in rhythm with my strokes.

I lose count. I lose sense of time. All I know, all I want to know is the heat and the taste and the electricity between us.

Suddenly, urgently, he grasps the back of my head, breaking another endless kiss.

"Abby, I'm going to..."

I silence him with my lips. Down below, my hand moves faster, firmer, encouraging him to the finish line. 

He breaks away again, and I watch him. Neck muscles twitching, pupils blown, jaw clenching and then slackening as the pleasure courses through him.

"Ahhh. God." For a second, his eyes focus on me. "Yes...Abby, yes."

A moment later his eyes squeeze shut, mouth gone slack as he shout out a string of curses and meaningless sounds. I stroke him through it until he shudders, his body curling away from me in its oversensitivity. 

And then I kiss him again, pressing our bodies together, feeling the slickness between us.

He smiles against my mouth.

"Another shower, maybe?"

I laugh, holding him tighter.

"Yeah," I agree. "Maybe not a bad idea."

***

The upside to selling my body in Hawaii is that I get to spend my off-hours lounging on the beach.

Okay, maybe selling it's the right word. Renting. He doesn't own me, as much as he might want to. 

He wasn't kidding about bringing me a bikini. It takes me a while to gather the courage to put it on, and a bit longer to actually leave the hotel room. It's high-waisted, but there's still a strip of flesh showing between the two pieces that I would never normally expose to the world. It's a simple black number, with a nice lift in the bust that I can't really turn up my nose at.

He had early meetings, so he just left it draped over the chair for me. I guess I'll be expected to model it for him when he gets in.

Down at the beach, I check my phone for updates from Leah. I haven't heard much lately, which is understandable. She has to focus on what's in front of her.

She thinks I'm in Palm Beach. I don't know why I felt the need to lie - obviously I wasn't going to tell her that I'm essentially sleeping with Ash for money, but I could've been honest about Hawaii. I wasn't, though. I told her that I'm in the midst of hardcore negotiations to get us the best deal for the bakery, and that I might be pretty busy, but I'd try to keep in touch.

Hey, got a few minutes between meetings, how's everything going?

She responds quickly.

More of the same. We're just hoping things will turn around. He's barely been awake today.

I curse under my breath.

Well, hang in there. I'm thinking of you. Sending positive thoughts. Once I get all this sorted out, you won't have to worry about the bills anymore, at least.

It takes her a while to answer this time.

Thanks. Every little bit helps. They're hassling us about it all the time now, but I just keep bouncing them back to insurance. Not sure how long it'll work, but it does seem like they're billing things wrong half the time anyway. So it might help in the long term, too. Good luck. xxx

I close my eyes and try to think about something, anything, other than Leah and Josh.

Memories of last night with Ash come flooding in. Well, that's not much better. This is the one time of the day I don't have to think about him, and yet here I am.

But how am I supposed to forget? Can I just pretend like our little encounter, which wasn't even actual sex, completely blew my mind and flipped my world upside down? I had no idea it was possible to feel like that. And I kinda hate myself a little bit for that.

But not as much a I hate him.

Already, he knows too much. It was obvious that he's the best lover I've ever had. The last thing a guy like that needs is an ego boost.

I know I shouldn't, but I find myself sitting there on my phone like an idiot, Googling him. Like I'll find something that will change how my body, and those traitorous little corners of my mind, feel about him.

I already know all this. Most people do. The playboy reputation, the way he loves to antagonize everyone, always playing hardball, never sleeping, always inventing and innovating and...

Okay, so now I'm seeing a different spin on it. So he's an arrogant sonofabitch, but clearly he's earned it. At least somewhat. He was so smug about his skills in bed, and here I am, feeling like I've ascended to a new stage of enlightenment. So maybe false modesty would make him a little more accessible, but I can't blame the guy for being confident.

The sun is starting to dip low in the sky when he texts me and tells me to meet him for dinner. I look up the name of the resort restaurant he specified and sure enough, it's the Fancy One. Naturally. He's not going to take me to the poolside taco bar.

Back at the room, I change into a nice black sheath dress that hugs me in all the right places. And some of the wrong places, too, but that can't be helped. I just have to hope that the shimmy of my hips and the cure of my breasts will distract him from the rest of it.

Although...he seemed to like it well enough last night.

Down, girl.

I haven't even gotten to dinner, and I'm already thirsty for him.

The dress clings tightly to my ass - no surprises there - so while I briefly consider some of my sexiest underwear, I realize that all of it is going to show. At least somewhat. I could go for the visible panty-line look, maybe he's old-school, but this is a classy place. I'd better go commando.

Yeah. Flawless logic.

I slip into my nicest sandals, grab my clutch, and head downstairs.

The elevator ride seems to take forever, but the drop still makes my stomach clench. Or maybe that's not the elevator. Maybe it's my nerves, tingling again at the idea of seeing him. 

And everything that comes afterwards, of course.

The hostess smiles as I approach. "Here for Mr. Strickland?"

I nod, dumbly. He must've told her to watch for me. I wonder what kind of descriptions he used, what euphemisms - voluptuous, full figured, curvy.

Whatever it was, she didn't seem surprised when I walked up.

Ash stands up from the table before I get there, smiling, his eyes actually lighting up a little bit. I wonder how many girls he's convinced to fall in love with him this way. It's so simple. So diabolical. Just toss them a little bit of attention, the kind they don't normally get. With big girls, love their bodies. With conventionally pretty girls, love their minds. 

He looks dapper as hell, in a dark suit that was clearly tailor-made for him. Broad shoulders and all.

I remember seeing those muscles on either side of my thighs last night, while he devoured me whole.

A hot blush creeps up the back of my neck.

"You look amazing," he says.

That doesn't help at all.

"Thanks," I mutter, sitting down quickly. With nothing between my skin and the smooth fabric of the dress, I feel...deviant. And I like it.

"You look like a gazelle at the edge of a watering hole," he says, after a moment of silence.

I stare at him. "Uh...okay?"

"Guarded, I mean." He picks up his napkin and lays it across his lap. "Wary. What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid," I reply, quickly. "Just...wondering why."

"Why what?"

"Why this." I make a vague gesture. "Why dinner. Why me."

It's the most honest I'll be with him - without a few glasses of wine in me, anyway.

Ash quirks an eyebrow. "Is that a serious question?"

"Uh...yes."

"Why you?" He shakes his head. "Have you looked at yourself lately? And there's everything else, of course. Your passion. I saw it in your eyes, the minute you walked into that room. I tasted it in your pies, I can hear it in your voice. So many people want a business because they want a business, you know - the American dream - self employment, a white picket fence, apple pie, and all that jazz. You came in with actual apple pie, and all you want is to make people smile. It's not often that I meet a woman like you."

I want to believe him. I do. But it would be foolish.

We order drinks - a scotch and soda for him, and a white wine for me. We're on the ocean, so I'm assuming seafood is the order of the day. Knowing Ash, he probably already ordered for me.

"I hope you like oysters." He glances up at me over the rim of his glass, just before taking a sizable swallow. 

"I don't." My wine is smooth and sharp, much like the man sitting across from me. "You know that's a myth, right?"

"What's a myth?" He genuinely looks confused.

"The thing about oysters boosting your libido. There's no such thing."

He chuckles, low and dark. "Oh, babydoll - I know. That's not what I ordered them for. Besides, I don't think you need it. Do you?"

My stomach flips. "Don't call me that." Why does my voice sound so husky? So unlike me?

He licks the taste of the scotch off his lips, and I wish it was something else. "I'm sorry. Just seemed to fit you."

"I think you'll find I'm neither a baby, nor a doll." A plate of oysters materializes in front of me, and before I can protest, the server disappears without a sound. 

"That's why it's so perfect." Ash grins. "Do you actually not like oysters, or are you just assuming?"

"They taste like the ocean," I tell him. "If I wanted that, I'd just go outside and drink a big mouthful."

"I suppose they're an acquired taste," he says, picking up one of the little morsels by its gleaming shell. "Personally, I find them exotic. A bit intoxicating." 

He doesn't quite wink, but he seems like he wants to. 

The noted playboy billionaire is a bit of an awkward flirt, to be honest.

I can't help myself - I giggle. 

"What's so funny?" he demands.

I smile at him. It's nice to see the human side of Ash Strickland. "Nothing. Just...you. I thought you'd be a lot more slick."

"Do I have to be?" he shoots back. "I've already got you, haven't I?"

Touche.

***

We're both tipsy by the time we get back to the room. At least, I hope so. I definitely am. 

"This isn't so bad, is it?" he breathes, close to my ear. When did his arm wind around my waist? I don't care. I lean into him, breathing his scent, letting myself forget why I'm really here.

"Not so bad," I agree, hearing the rush of the ocean. The rush of the blood in my head. 

If I let myself, I could almost forget why I'm here. I could lose myself in the chemistry between us, the undulating of our bodies, the feel of his skin.

It's tempting. It's so, so tempting.

"You want me?" he murmurs, one hand anchoring my hip, holding me against him. My ass presses against his growing arousal. With the other hand, he slowly pulls up my dress.

"Mmmhmm," I exhale, as his fingers slide closer to my aching center. 

"Say it," he growls.

"Yes," I manage to whimper, as my knees buckle against him. "You know I do."

He hums with approval as his questing fingers realize I'm not wearing any panties. "Naughty girl."

"Fashion-forward girl," I correct him, my thighs parting of their own accord. 

"Personally, I rather like panty lines." He chuckles in my ear. "But I'm not complaining."

I gasp as his fingers skim along my wetness. He's got me drunk on just the thought of him, and he's loving it.

Before know what's happening, he's steering us towards the bedroom. I stumble, but he catches my arm and steers me straight again. 

I shouldn't be surprised when he picks me up and tosses me on the bed. But somehow, I still am.

"No one's ever done that to me before," I exhale, before I have a chance to think better of it.

"Shame," he says, coming down after me, caging me between his strong arms. "You should get tossed onto a bed at least once a day."

I'm giggling, and then I'm sighing, as he kisses his way down my neck, pressing his body into mine. He's all hard edges while I'm pillowy softness, and we complement each other so well.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a gnawing guilt fills up my chest. This trip isn't supposed to be about me. It's not supposed to be about my raging hormones or my lack of self control. Leah is at home with Josh, watching him waste away, and here I am...

"What's wrong?" Ash cuts into my downward-spiraling thoughts. His voice is still busy with desire.

"Nothing." I swallow, hard. "I just...I don't normally do this."

He smiles a little. "Neither do I."

I can't help myself - I snort a little. It's a ladylike snort, but still. "Yeah, right."

"Don't believe everything you hear," he says, calmly. The ardor between us has cooled a bit. "I'm not what everyone says I am."

Of course he wants me to think that. Of course. I'm sure that's what he says to all the chubby bakers he brings to Hawaii.

"Is that all that's bothering you?" he presses. "Because we don't have to do this. But just know...it's not a big deal. It's just sex. This isn't a mandate on your character."

"I know," I assure him. "It's fine. I'm fine."

Whatever I do, I can't let him know. I can't let my mask slip again.

I smile at him, trying to force my body to relax. Trying to recapture the magic of a few moments ago, but without losing my head.

Ash kisses me, and I think about disposable gowns and IV drips.

Ash touches me, and I hear the steady beeping of the hospital monitors.

This is for Leah and Josh. Not for me. Never for me.

"Beg me," Ash whispers in my ear. "Beg me for it."

I swallow, hard. My traitorous body, in spite of all the distractions I'm throwing at it, comes alive again at the sound of his voice.

"Please."

My voice doesn't sound like my own. It sounds hollow, flat, distant. 

I curse silently. There's no way he won't notice.

"No."

No? 

I sit up, my head throbbing just as heavily as my core. "What?" I hiss.

Ash sits back on his heels. He won't look me in the eyes, and I feel an irrational anger howling up inside me. We were so close, so close to actually connecting, to making this something more. More than just me, whoring myself out for a check in the mail. 

But he can't let that happen. He's closing himself off to me, and I don't know why.

"You have to tell me what you're hiding," he says, flatly. "I can't keep doing this. Ignoring that look on your face. You're on the verge of crying, all the time, and you keep telling me everything's fine. Everything's not fine."

I've still got handfuls of the sheets clenched in my hands. I grip them even harder. "I don't have to tell you anything."

He squeezes his eyes shut tight for a moment, letting out a sharp exhale. "Right. Yes. Okay. Just, please tell me, then."

"It has nothing to do with you," I lie.

"Bullshit." He stands up abruptly, striding over to retrieve his shirt from the armchair. "You're a terrible liar, Abby. Don't even bother. It's an insult to my intelligence."

Of course. The only thing he really cares about.

"Well it's definitely none of your business," I counter. "This wasn't part of the deal."

"The deal?" he snaps, turning towards me, his tie snapping in the air like a whip. "Do you really still care about the fucking deal?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" I try to close the robe around myself, but it's just reminder that I don't belong here. This place was not made for me. "The deal is why I'm here."

Ash stares at me. His eyes harden, even as his body sags. "Really? That's it?"

There's a silence in the room, like the strange ringing in your ears after a glass shattered on the kitchen floor. That same unmistakable sense that you've broken something, and it can't be fixed.

What did I do?

All I did was point out the truth. Something we both knew. What else was he expecting from me?

"Where are you going?" I ask him, as he reaches for his shoes.

"Out," he mutters, before disappearing out into the main suite and shutting the bedroom door with a soft click behind him.

***

I plop down on a barstool, staring at the glossy wood, trying to figure out what the hell I'm going to do.

After I heard Ash leave the room, I tried to relax. Tried to sleep, took a shower, stared blankly at the TV. But I couldn't be there. I couldn't be in that room, staring at the same ceiling that watched me shattered to pieces under his tongue.

I can't leave, obviously. I don't have the money for airfare to mainland, and I'm certainly not asking Ash to send me back. Besides - I've come this far. I just have to endure the rest of this week with some of my dignity intact.

He said he wouldn't do anything I didn't want. That's what he said, anyway. But will the money still be on the table if I turn him away now? If I spend the rest of my time here sleeping by the pool, will he really feel disposed to make me the same offer as before?

It's not like we signed a contract.

So I'm here at the hotel bar, with a few other silent strangers, contemplating exactly where my life went off the rails.

"You look like you could use a drink."

I turn my head to see a tall, well-dressed man with startlingly blue eyes. 

"Um, no thanks," I mutter. The last thing I need is for Ash to think I'm flirting with other guys behind his back.

Laughing, the stranger holds up his left hand. "It's not like that. I'm married."

"Uh huh," I reply. "Because that means a whole lot."

"It does to me," he replies, sounding irritated. "Barkeep - another for the lady, please."

He's indicating the glass of golden-brown liquid in his hand. I have no idea what he's drinking, but it looks strong, and that's all I really care about. Still, I'm not taking a drink from this stranger.

"I said no thanks," I snap at him.

"Then don't drink it." He shrugs, sitting down with one empty stool between us. "You just look like you need someone to talk to - that's all."

Well, I can't argue with that.

"My name's Lucas," he says, extending his hand. I shake it warily. "I'm here on business. But I have a feeling you're not. Or...it's something a lot more complicated than that."

"I'm somebody's date," I blurt out, before I can stop myself. 

If Lucas is surprised by that, he doesn't show it. "Like I said. Complicated."

"It wasn't supposed to be," I reply, eyeing the drink. "But it sure turned out that way."

"Of course it did," he says. "Human beings are complicated. Messy. You'll get distracted by all of the irrelevant bullshit. You have to pay attention to your gut, and nothing else. Deep down inside, you know the answer to whatever you're trying to figure out. It might not be the answer you want to hear, but the sooner you accept it, the sooner you can start to move forward."

"I'm not sure I can trust my gut," I confess. "Not when it comes to him."

"Well, then you're in trouble." Lucas grabs my untouched drink and slides it towards himself. "I'm not letting this go to waste. You have feelings for him, then?"

"No!" I protest, feeling my face go red. "No. I barely know him."

Lucas smiles. "What makes you think you have to know somebody to have feelings? If anything, I think those two things tend to work against each other."

I let out a long exhale, glancing around me to make sure we're not being overheard. "I guess I might have a crush," I confess.

"And you think maybe it's not reciprocated."

I shrug. "I mean...what are the odds?"

"Uh, considering he brought you to Hawaii with him? Quite good." Lucas tilts his drink back. "Whose idea was it?"

"His," I admit.

"Well then!" He shakes his head. "I don't see what the problem is."

"The problem is that he's a jackass," I reply, folding my arms across my chest.

"Of course he is." Lucas raises his eyebrows. "Men are always at their most insufferable when they actually like someone."

"So what do I do?"

"Call him out on it," he says, simply. "Don't let him get away with it. Show him that you're not intimidated by him, by his money - remind him that you deserve respect."

"But..." I can feel all of the blood draining from my face at the thought. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"He's..he's doing me a favor." I swallow hard. "A big favor."

"Listen..." he pauses. "...I don't know what your name is, but listen, he brought you to Hawaii. I know you're thinking - oh he's one of those rich playboys who can do whatever he wants, he can bring someone along on a lavish vacation on a whim. Sure. But he's still going to pick someone he actually wants to spend time with. If he just wanted to have a good time, he could find hundreds of women on this island to cavort around with. He wants you. You've got more power than you realize. So much more."

Of course he doesn't know the whole story. But I'm starting to wonder if this Lucas isn't just...maybe a tiny bit...right.

Wishful thinking, maybe.

Probably.

"Look," he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. "If you're scared to stand up to him because you're here on his dime - here's my card. Once again, I'm happily married - you can stop giving me that look - but I know if my wife saw you sitting here looking so forlorn, she'd do the same thing I'm doing right now. She'd insist that I help you. If you feel stuck here, I'll make sure you can get home. Don't bite your tongue because you're afraid of him. Trust me."

It's very tempting to just grab a bottle of tequila from over the bar and down the whole thing.

"You don't know who I'm dealing with," I mutter.

"Actually, I do," he says. "Ash Strickland doesn't come to a resort with a new woman on his arm and just escape notice."

And just like that, I'm blushing again.

"Don't worry," he says. "I mean, we all gossip like a bunch of old hens, but it won't leave our circles unless he lets the media spot you. And he won't."

Stupid. So stupid. How could I have thought I'd get away with this, and it wouldn't change everything? Now I've got a reputation. Ash Strickland's personal toy.

Lucas touches my arm. "Men like him - men like me - need to be reminded they're not the center of the universe. Knock him down a few notches. Claim your power. You'll be surprised. And if it does sideways on you, just call me."

***

Lucas' words stick with me, long after I've retreated to the empty room. I sit out on the balcony, feeling the warm island air caress my skin, wishing I could fall asleep. Wishing I could wake up in a world where my bakery's safe, and Josh is healthy, and I'll never have to see Ash Strickland again.

When the door clicks open, signaling his return, I wince a little. I haven't decided anything. I'm still scared beyond belief to confront him, with Lucas' assurances of help or not. I can't trust any of these men. Especially not the one who was between my legs a few hours ago.

He walks out to the balcony, slowly, sitting down in the other chair at the opposite end. For a while, he just sits there in silence and watches the ocean.

"It's a beautiful night," he says, at last.

"Well, we are in paradise." I play with my empty wine glass. "I'm sorry I shut down last night."

"I'm sorry I got so angry," he replies, still staring at the water. "But I wish you'd just tell me what's wrong. Trying to hide things from a billionaire...it never goes well, Abby."

He chuckles a little, but there's still that edge of menace to his words. This is a man who's used to getting what he wants. And somehow, I've managed to be an enigma.

"It's personal," I tell him, flatly.

"More personal than my tongue between your legs?" He quirks an eyebrow at me.

I roll my eyes. "A different kind of personal."

"I wasn't lying earlier, you know." Ash leans forward in his chair, thoughtful. "I don't just go around, throwing my dick at random women. I know that's the story. It's what people want to believe. I steer supermodels around on my arm because that's what I'm supposed to do, and it quells the rumors, keeps people focused on what matters. But I don't sleep with them. I certainly don't take them home."

"Congratulations," I tell him, wryly.

He shoots me a look. "I'm getting to something. Give me a second. I'm on island time."

I want another glass of wine. Or maybe an entire cask. 

"It's intimate, is my point," he says. "People always say sex doesn't have to mean something, but for me, it does. I can't pretend like I don't see that haunted look in your eyes. I have to know what's eating you - besides me, of course. Or I can't do this."

"You realize you're putting m in a position where I have to tell you, or you're not getting what you bargained for." I glance at him, trying to read his mood, but the ocean's pulled his attention again. "That's not fair."

"I'm not going to judge you," he says. "If that's what you're worried about."

"That's not the point. I need to keep something private." My face is burning - I've revealed too much already, and I haven't even told him why I'm really here.

"You don't," he says, earnestly. "Not from me."

It's been too long of a day. I'm too tired, and I've been drinking for hours. Something's going to crack.

"This bakery is more than just my dream," I tell him, at last. Very softly. "Two of my friends work there. And one of them...her kid...he's been in the hospital for a long time. They need to be able to pay their bills. Leah gave up her career to work for me, to help me chase my dream, and I'm letting her down. I'm letting her and Josh down."

"You're not letting anyone down," Ash insists. "I wish you'd told me sooner. I could have..."

"That's the point!" I cut him off, my voice going shrill without my consent. "I didn't want to be your charity case. And certainly not Leah and Josh. They deserve better than that."

"What does that mean?" Ash frowns at me. "Do you think I'm going to exploit him for publicity, or something?"

"I don't know!" I practically shout. All of the stress and frustration and grief has been wearing me down for too long. "I don't know, Ash, and that's the point. You tell me you're not like everyone says you are, but of course you'd say that. I don't know you. I came here to try and save Josh. I'm useless as a business owner, but if I have to sell my body..."

His eyes flash. "Selling your body?" he repeats. "Is that how this feels to you?"

"Feels." I let out a bitter laugh. "That's what it is, Ash."

For a long time, there's nothing but the crashing waves in the distance to break the heavy silence.

"In that case, maybe you'd better go home." His tone is flat and lifeless. "I wouldn't want you to feel obligated."

My heart's pounding against my ribcage. He's angry, angry to the point of giving up on me, and I can't even decide if it's justified or not. 

"Maybe I'd better." The words spill numbly from my lips before I have a chance to reconsider.

Ash stands up abruptly, stalking back into the room. "I'll make the arrangements," he says. "Go ahead and pack."

And then I'm thankful for the darkness, because he'll never see the tears threatening to spill down my face.

***

Two weeks home, and Hawaii is starting to feel like a bad dream.

I haven't heard anything from the landlord since I got back, and as far as I'm concerned, no news is good news. Until he starts harassing me again, I'm going to continue on with business as usual. Making pies, making money. The only two things I'm good for.

It's a slow time at the bakery when my phone rings. Normally I wouldn't answer during business hours, but when I see it's Leah, I know I have to. 

"What's up?"

"Oh my god, Abby." She's crying, but the tears don't sound like grief. All the same, my heartbeat quickens. "Why didn't you say something? I can't believe this."

"Leah, slow down. You gotta tell me what you're talking about. I have no idea."

"Bullshit. This wasn't you?" She laughs through her tears. "All the outstanding bills, paid. And an invitation to a new experimental treatment next month in an exclusive clinic. You're telling me this wasn't your mysterious benefactor?"

"We...that...it didn't work out." My mind is racing. "At least, I didn't think so."

"Well, it kinda looks like it did. I'm staring at the evidence right now." She sniffles. "It's a miracle, Abby.

"A miracle," I echo. "I guess that's one way to put it."

I'm vaguely aware that someone has walked into the shop, but right now, aliens could land right in front of me and I might not notice.

"There's no such thing as miracles." 

I recognize the voice before I even look up.

Ash smiles a little, hesitating, like he's not sure whether I'm going to kiss him or slap him. It's a valid concern.

"You're right," I tell him, and somehow my voice doesn't shake. "There's no miracles. Just rich, entitled assholes who occasionally do good things."

"Hello?" Leah's voice squawks from my phone, which I've unknowingly dropped to my side. I raise it to my ear again.

"I'm sorry, hon. I need to call you right back."

"Who are you talking to?" she demands. "Is it the guy? Is it the guy from the show?"

I hang up, but it's too late - Ash is already grinning.

"The guy from the show," he repeats. "I like it. It's got a certain je ne sais quoi."

 "You don't even know what that means." I fold my arms across my chest, to stop myself from throwing them around his neck.

"Are you serious? My mom was from Switzerland. I'm starting to think you never watched the behind-the-scenes Shark episode where they talked about my origins."

That smug smile. He knows he's got me. He knows I can't resist him - I never could.

"I think you owe me an apology," I tell him.

His eyes darken. "I know," he says, his voice dropping a little. "I'm sorry, Abby. I don't have a good excuse. I know you're angry, and you should be. I just came here to say...I'm sorry. I know it doesn't mean much, but...I am."

"It means something," I reply. 

His eyes are drifting to the display of pastries, and I can't help but laugh.

"Can I interest you in a cinnamon roll?" I ask him.

"I don't have much time," he says, dragging his eyes away from the gleaming confections. "I just wanted to...I just needed..."

He swallows audibly, glances up at me, and then back down at the counter.

"I should go," he says. "This probably isn't going to get any less awkward."

There's a stabbing sensation in my chest, like he's just gone ahead and twisted the knife a little deeper. I don't know what I was expecting. I guess when I looked up and saw his face, I thought he was here to say something other than just "sorry." I thought he was here to say all the things that I'm afraid to.

And that's when I realize I'm a hypocrite.

True, he's the one who ran away. But I'm not any better. I've danced around it, I've hidden my feelings too - for fear of being hurt. The same fear that I see mirrored in his eyes.

He's turning to leave. I can't let him.

"Ash, wait."

He stops with his back to me, but he doesn't turn around. Not at first.

"I have to tell you something," I say. "Before you disappear again."

Ash winces a little, like that word hits a little too close to home.

"I didn't mean to disappear," he says, softly. 

"Yes, you did. That's exactly what you meant to do." I sigh, trying not to get distracted by his excuses. I know he's trying. I can see it in his face, now that he's finally turned to look at me. Plaintive and hurting. And afraid.

Afraid of losing me.

It was easier, I realize now, to walk away. To take control of the situation, instead of waiting for me to reject him.

"I want you in my life, Ash." Watching his face carefully for a reaction, all I can see is shock. He didn't expect me to put myself out there. Of course he didn't. Even in front of the glaring lights in the Shark Cage, I still kept parts of myself hidden. But I'm not doing that anymore. Not with him.

He clears his throat. "Abby, you don't know what that means."

"Maybe not," I admit. "But I want to find out."

"Abby, we barely..." His eyes are shining with hope and desire that he doesn't want to let me see. "We barely know each other."

"So let's fix that," I plant my hands on the counter, meeting his gaze without faltering. "What do you want to know?"

He sighs deeply. "Abby."

"You came back for me," I point out. "Why are you here? It's not just to apologize. That's bullshit."

"I never said I was sensible,' he says, with a hint of a sad smile. "But I'm pretending, now. I'm trying to stop you from making a big mistake."

I shake my head at him. "Too late. It was too late the minute I saw you, Ash."

He hesitates a long time before he speaks again.

"I'm not...I'm not good with people. Not over long periods of time. When it comes to business, I've got it figured out. Everything makes sense to me. But with people? I'm always saying the wrong thing, at the wrong time. Doing something that hurts somebody I love. I can't stand it. Whenever I let someone close enough to hurt me, to get hurt, I end up lying in bed every night, filled with yesterday's regrets. I can't live like that. So I just started keeping everyone at a distance. I always wanted a chance to reinvent myself."

He takes a deep breath, and continues.

"And you, Abby...hell. The way I've treated you is nothing but regrets."

I manage a shaky smile. "Some of it was...pretty okay."

"All right," he admits. "Maybe not all regrets. But...mostly. You came to me desperate, and I took advantage of you. I saw a chance to get what I wanted without the emotional entanglements, but I couldn't help myself. I fell for you. But I didn't think it'd matter, because I can handle myself. Doesn't matter if I get hurt. That's my fault. But then..."

I shake my head at him. "Honestly, Ash. All the things you said to me. Straight from the 'how to make somebody fall in love with you, 101' handbook."

"I know," he says, quietly. "I didn't mean to be so calculated. I didn't mean to pursue you like that. Try and win your heart. I'd never do that - not on purpose, anyway. It just...happened. All those things I said to you, they'd just spill out. I couldn't help myself. Because I..."

Don't you dare say it.

Not unless you mean it. 

But I can't bring myself to speak. Even in my own head, it's just too ridiculous. The idea that he might...could someday...love me.

"I've never felt this way about anyone else," he confesses, at last. "Not even close." 

My voice sounds dreamy and faraway. "And you're saying you weren't trying to make me fall in love with you?"

There it is. The Word. But he doesn't flinch away, doesn't blush. He just smiles. "Maybe subconsciously."

I've never had that before. Not once in my life. I've had plenty of guys refuse to introduce me to their families, never take me around their friends, never want to hold my hand in public. I've had them stop calling, start making vague posts on social media about how "girls are always catching feelings."

And now, this man I barely know is staring at me like he can see the future in my eyes. And the crazy thing is...so can I.

It didn't exactly hit like a bolt of lightning. Not like in the books my aunt used to read, hoarding in boxes in her attic. 

But it's pretty damn close.

"You did an amazing thing for Leah and Josh," I whisper. "And you didn't even try to take credit for it."

"I told you," he says. "I'm not the kind of guy everyone says I am."

"You've got some more work to do, proving yourself." I smile up at him. "But I'm game, if you are."

He shakes his head, chuckling. "You're a hard one to please, Abby. All right. What can I do?"

"Are you sure?" I raise my eyebrow. "I thought this wasn't what you wanted."

"A lot of the shit people say about me isn't true." He leans on the counter, bringing his face close to mine. "But here's one thing you should know - I'm impulsive. I'm indecisive. Sometimes I make stupid-ass decisions. And despite how confident I come across, I'm almost never sure of myself until the results come in. I came here to say sorry, to say goodbye, but seeing your face again..."

"Go on," I prompt him, when he drifts off. 

He laughs a little. "Oh, hell, Abby. I don't know. This is uncharted territory. But I think I want to chart it with you."

"Wow. You really know how to make it sound sexy." I grin, brushing the flour off of my apron before walking around the counter to meet him. "But I guess we can work on that part."

"I guess we can." Before I have a chance to react, he grabs me by the hips and hoists me up on my own counter.

I squeal in protest. "What if someone comes in?"

"They'll leave," he murmurs, against my mouth. "Or they'll stay. Either way, all I care about is you."

Just the thought of him, the memory, makes me melt. I want him. I want him now, and tomorrow, and next week, and next year.

Maybe it's crazy. Maybe it'll never work. But hell if I won't give it my best shot.

"Please lock the door," I whisper.

"Fine," he groans, pulling himself away just long enough to throw the deadbolt. "But you owe me a slice of that delicious pie."

I spread my legs for him, pulling him in close.

"We'll see what we can do, Mr. Strickland."

***

Thanks for reading! If you like your billionaires snarky and dirty, make sure to pick up a copy of the full-length romance .

I'm about to throw an ashtray at my boss's head.

Turns out, the mind behind my favorite, steamy romance novels...the ones I only read in private...the ones that are my only escape after a long day of dealing with The Boss From Hell? It's not Natalie McBride, the sweet, rural housewife.

It's him.

That's right: my boss, Adrian Risinger, the thirty-three-year-old, maddeningly sexy, pissant billionaire "bad boy" who thinks he runs my life. He is also the author of all my deepest, most secret fantasies. And to make matters worse, he needs me to impersonate "Natalie" at a series of book signings and conventions. But, of course, that's only if I want to keep my job. 

On second thought, I'm going to need something heavier than an ashtray.  

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