Chapter 12
12
I’m not sure I entirely believe that he didn’t mind waiting for me, but now that we’re alone together, the hardness of his personality has once again shifted, revealing the playfulness he seems to save just for me.
Which is sort of crazy, considering we only just met.
“Cleo said you were talented, but that description doesn’t come close to doing you justice,” he says. “You’re crazy good.”
“Thanks.” It’s a nice thing to say. And not quite articulated in a way I might have expected from such a high-powered CEO. It makes him sound…like someone I could almost relate to.
“I mean that,” he says with sincerity. “Do you have a record deal? A recording contract?”
I slide my arm from his and lean my hip up against the railing of the gazebo, looking out over the spectacular view. “No. I’ve had a few offers, but the thought of someone else controlling me and my music doesn’t really appeal to me. Plus the timing wasn’t right. And the offers weren’t what I was looking for.”
“I might be able to help you, if you wanted to pursue something like that.”
I suppose he’d have all the connections in the world. But it’s hardly the time and place to talk about recording contracts, especially since I don’t expect our “relationship” to last longer than around two o’clock on Sunday afternoon. “I’m good. But thanks.”
“Really, Ivy. You’re something special.”
Now he’s just telling me what I want to hear. I elbow him lightly. “Thanks, Maddox.”
“You’re welcome, Jones.”
How about that, me and the hot billionaire have our own little inside joke. “What do your friends call you? Al? Alex? Xander?” I give him a slow once-over. “I think Alfonse kind of suits you.”
His laughter is low and sexy as hell as he leans against the railing next to me. Close to me. He’s so much bigger than I am, I get the vague sense of being dominated, and it’s surprisingly…not unpleasant. That tiny pulse that got way out of control when I sat on his lap starts its warm, secret rhythm again. “My brothers call me Alex. Everyone else calls me Alexander.”
“Even your friends?”
His smile lingers—and wow, he really is dazzling when he smiles. “Yeah. My father called me Alexander. And everyone I work with, which is most of the people I see most days, call me either Alexander or Mr. Maddox.”
“Well, since you’re paying me a lot of money to be your friend for the weekend, I’m going to call you Alex. Whether you like it or not.”
His amusement is layered with something darker and I regret mentioning that he’s paying me to be here. It puts up an invisible barrier between us.
“So how do you sell your music if you don’t have a recording deal?” he asks.
“Through streaming platforms, mainly.”
“Show me.”
“Show you what?”
“Show me one of your platforms.”
I look out at the reflection of the moon on the water. “I don’t think it’ll be all that interesting for you.”
Little crinkles lightly frame the edges of his eyes as he watches me. “Well, I think it’ll be very interesting for me. Let me see your Instagram.”
I’d say no, but it’s not like he won’t search for it the minute he’s out of my sight anyway. And I’d rather see his reaction first-hand.
I pull my phone out of the clutch that’s looped over my shoulder on a delicate leather and chain strap. Pulling up my Instagram, I hand him my phone.
He takes it, riveted as he scrolls. “Ten million followers,” he drawls. It feels strange to watch him analyze my posts as though he’s studying them under a microscope. “You really thought you could fly under the radar this weekend?”
“It’s getting harder to do,” I admit.
He’s frowning now, turning slightly to shield the screen from me as he zooms in on something. “Some of these are…”
“Are what?” I reach for my phone but he turns further, keeping it out of reach.
“…very revealing.” There’s mild shock in his statement.
“What are you looking at?” I grab his arm and manage to see the photo he’s looking at. It’s the recent one of me doing yoga on the balcony, taken by Josh. “Oh. That’s just a campaign I was doing for a company that sells yoga wear. I’ve been working with them for a few years. I love their products.”
He keeps scrolling. “Yoga, huh?”
“I do yoga every day.”
He stops scrolling to glance at me, my legs, my body, my arms, letting his gaze clock that information almost dreamily, before returning to my phone, where he zooms in again. This time it’s a photo of me at a party that was thrown by one of my clients to showcase their swimwear. I’m on a boat out on the East River and my back is to the camera but I’m looking over my shoulder so my face is still visible. Manhattan is in the background behind me. “You have to get practically naked to make money off this stuff?” He seems pissed off by this.
I grab my phone, sliding it back into my bag. “I’m not naked. I’m selling swimwear.”
Okay, I’ll admit that one was one of the more risqué photos I’ve ever posted. It’s a minuscule thong bikini with very little coverage. But they paid me a lot for that shoot. “They’re marketing to women,” I point out.
“My guess is that most of the people who spend time staring at that photo are men. Let me see the comments.”
“No.” I’m annoyed now. It’s easy for him to judge. He doesn’t have to put his little brother through Columbia.
“I’m going to look later anyway.”
I roll my eyes. “Go right ahead. It’s a free country.” Damn it. I sound like I’m arguing with a seventeen-year-old. Which, to be fair, I spend a lot of my time doing. “I don’t read the comments anyway.”
“Because they’re all lewd and suggestive come-ons from men?”
I glare at him. Of course I look at the comments every now and then. And he happens to be partly right. There are plenty of kind comments from fans and followers. But I also get a lot of propositions, more X-rated offers than I can bear to read, and at least a few marriage proposals every time I post. “The comments are irrelevant. The income, however, is very relevant. And that’s what I’m focused on.”
His expression is hard to read. It’s…protective, if I’m reading him correctly. Concerned. Maybe even empathetic. And very determined. Which is the detail I like the least.
The band has finished playing and someone else steps up to the microphone on stage, tapping it three times. Margot. I’m almost grateful for her interruption. “Ladies and gentlemen, please make your way to your seats. The band will resume for another short set after dinner. You’ll find your name on a place card at your allocated table. Dinner will be served in five minutes. Again, please make your way to your tables now.”
I take that as our cue, stepping away from the railing. “We should go.”
But Alexander doesn’t follow me. His muscular arms are folded, like he hasn’t finished disciplining me. “How many listens or whatever do you get each day for your music? Is it not enough to pay the bills?”
God. He’s so direct and so damn bossy. “I don’t know how that’s any of your business. I do just fine. And I’ll wear whatever I want to wear and post whatever I want to post, without your input. But thanks for asking.” I realize my fists are resting on my hips. I make a point of toning down my attitude. I’m not being paid to argue with my fake date over my own life. He has no say in it whatever, so it hardly matters if he’s curious.
He’s quiet and it’s contemplative, but his pause also has a power to it, like he’s used to people hanging on his every word. This is a man who knows how to wield silence like a holstered weapon. “Where are your parents? Are they local?”
I’m not expecting the question. And I’m not sure why I’m honest with him. “My mother is dead and my father is…estranged, I guess you could call it. We don’t really talk anymore.”
I almost expect him to demand to know why. Instead he says, “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. Now can we please go back to our table?”
“You said you had a brother. How old is he?”
The topic of Josh always feels personal. I hesitate, but I can’t figure out how to dodge the question. “Seventeen.”
“Does he live with you or your father?”
I don’t know how this is any of his business. But he’s waiting for his answer. And I think of all that money that’s now padding Josh’s bank account, thanks to the bossy billionaire who’s now grilling me. “Me.”
“So you’re responsible for him.”
“I have been, yes. Completely. In every way.”
“For how long?”
“A few years.”
“I see.”
He sees? Sees what? From where I’m standing, he sees nothing and knows even less. I didn’t come here to get interrogated by some ego-inflated jerk who now thinks he understands me from two morsels of half-true information. And I can’t stand the heat of his knowing intensity.
“I’m going back to our table. Are you coming?”
Two hundred and fifty grand hardly seems worth the Spanish Inquisition from a guy who got handed his damn fortune by great grandpa.
Before I can start making my way back toward the now-rowdy party, I see the silhouette of a woman approaching us. Even her silhouette is beige.
“It’s Margot,” I say.
“Yes, it is,” Alexander mutters. “Brace yourself.”
As pissed off and flustered as I am, I’ve come too far to have him demand his money back. What’s about to happen here and how I handle it is the exact reason I’m being paid so generously.
So I walk back over to him and stand in front of him. Slowly, because his eyes are still dark, I reach up to carefully touch his face, brushing my thumb softly along his bottom lip. “Put your arm around me.”
He does and Margot stops a few paces from where we’re presenting our united front. “Alexander?” Her voice sounds almost little-girl-ish, like she’s purposely dialed back the army commander/wedding planner persona to appeal to him on a softer level. “I wondered if you and I could have a few words. In private.”
My hand rests on Alexander’s chest, possessively.
“Whatever you’ve got to say can be said to us both,” he tells her.
She looks smaller and more vulnerable out here in the open, without her iPad and her brigade of caterers. “It’s just that I was hoping we could talk. But I suppose you’re right. Maybe this weekend isn’t the time and place. Maybe we could meet this week in the city, for a drink. I really have some things I wanted to talk to you about. We could go to that place we used to go near Rockefeller Center, remember?”
“Why don’t you just tell me now, Margot.” He sounds bored. With that edge of misery inking his words.
I slide my arms around Alexander’s waist. He’s so big…and hard. Everywhere. “We’re actually going away later this week,” I gush, putting on an upbeat personality. Not that my usual personality isn’t upbeat, it’s just not this upbeat. “I’m so excited. Alexander’s always surprising me with impromptu little trips, aren’t you, honey?” I glance up at him, blinking.
They’re both staring at me, Alexander with mild amusement, Margot with unbridled jealousy. “I sure am, sweetie,” he replies.
“Where are you going?” Margot asks tentatively, like she’s not sure she wants to know.
I’m making this up as I go. “To the South Pacific!”
“You are?” Margot sounds almost breathless.
I don’t want to be mean. I feel for her, I really do. But I can’t change the fact that Alexander wants nothing to do with her—so much that he’s willing to shell out a shitload of cash to send her that direct message.
It occurs to me that Alexander is actually being kind by staging this tedious charade. He’s genuinely trying to let her down as gently as possible. He’s told her he’s not interested. It’s not his fault she won’t take no for an answer. And I want to get it through to her, for his sake and for hers—and mine—once and for all.
“I told Alexander I’ve always wanted to go to Tahiti because I read about it online and the next thing I know he’s booked us two tickets! For two weeks in a little seaside bungalow that’s actually perched over the water, so you can dive straight in from the deck. Can you believe that? He’s so sweet.” I don’t even know if they have those huts in Tahiti—I think they do—but I smile at him, standing on my toes to kiss his lips, which are almost smiling back.
“Sweet,” Margot repeats, as though she’s unfamiliar with the word and Alexander’s name in the same sentence.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such a fabulous gift.” I beam up at Alexander lovingly. Hell, maybe I’ve missed my calling. Maybe I should go to freaking Hollywood.
“You know exactly what you’ve done to deserve it, sweetheart.” His sneering reply is sort of…absolutely filthy.
I blush—for real—and giggle coyly, pushing at his chest. “You are so bad.” To Margot, conspiratorially: “Men. They have such dirty minds, don’t they?”
“Mmhm.” Her frown is testing the limits of her Botox. Admitting defeat, at least for now, she turns to head back to the party. “Please take your seats. Dinner is about to be served.”