Total Abandon (Billionaire Row #1)

Chapter 1

Tilly: What time is your interview, fancy pants?

Tilly: If you’re a smart girl, you’ll leave that interview with NO pants. He’s uber hot.

Tilly: Like, I took one look at him and ovulated, hot.

Chloe: Chloe has left the chat.

Tilly: Don't be a spoilsport. If you don’t want him, can you get his number for me?

Tilly: I know you didn’t really leave.

Tilly: Hello?

CHLOE

“If you keep jogging your knee like that, you’ll spill coffee all over that pretty white skirt of yours.”

I almost squeak, the deep rumbling voice slicing through the pin-drop silent waiting room. My eyes snap up to the large newspaper spread out in front of the faceless man seated opposite.

“Might do me a favor at this rate,” I grumble, but place my Styrofoam cup onto the clinical white glass table beside me. My eyes linger on the glossy magazine covers splayed across the top in a painstakingly artistic fan. Pity the person who must do that every day.

“If therapy is really so bad, why be here at all?” the voice says back.

This is beginning to feel like an episode of Stars in Their Eyes.

I’m almost waiting for the smoke machine to start so that Matthew Kelly can make the big reveal.

I narrow my eyes on long, broad, tanned fingers deftly holding The Financial Times in place.

My gaze tumbles down to worn Levi’s stretched tight over thick, spread thighs and squeaky-clean brown Barbour boots, deciding how honest I want to be.

“Court-mandated,” I confess on a hushed breath, feeling a pull of heat into my cheeks.

I stare at the sleek blonde receptionist smoothing her flyways into a severe-looking bun. Her gray skirt suit is sharp and tailored, her nose upturned. I don’t miss the glances she’s been casting my way.

Yes, I’m out of place here.

Anthony Sweeney, my charming ex-boyfriend of three years, is the reason I’m sitting in this uncomfortable art deco leather chair in an Upper East Side psychotherapy treatment center—the type that looks cool but has the comfortability of a medieval torture rack.

Fucking pig asshole that he is. My molars clench together.

Anthony knows exactly how to get under my skin, and this bullshit is the icing on the cake. A final farewell blow.

I hear the delicate rustle of thin newspaper sheets. It’s apparent he’s looking at me now, but I don’t quite have the balls to face him right away in the light of my painful honesty.

“Addiction or anger management?” My lips twist at the further questioning from a total stranger.

“Perhaps I’m an axe murderer,” I quip, finally snapping my gaze to him. And it feels like a steel-capped boot to the stomach.

Tanned skin stretches over impossibly sharp cheekbones, disappearing beneath a curated scruff of stubble over a square cut jaw.

But his eyes—his eyes are twinkling pools of the darkest chocolate beneath dark brows.

They’re sharp, astute, and entirely juxtaposed to the casual smile that graces his overly decadent mouth.

There is a scar puckering the line of his top lip, carving a path through the smattering of hair.

It gives his clean-cut appearance a distinctly bad boy haze that has me blinking in surprise.

“You don’t look like an axe murderer.” He inclines one brow, his gaze skating down over my body in a manner that is entirely inappropriate.

My skin heats in a way that has me fighting against fidgeting in my seat. “Even axe murderers have to dress smart for job interviews,” I explain airily, casting my hand over my black lace-trim blouse, pencil skirt, and court heels.

He nods slowly, as though considering my point.

The silence stretches and I expect him to go back to his paper, but his eyes seem to be taking a leisurely stroll up the inseam of my stockings as he folds it neatly in his lap.

Fucking pervert. The tendons in his heavily corded forearms flex as he moves, peeking beneath the rolled sleeves of his white shirt.

And the fact I notice has me wondering if I’m just a little perverted too.

The flash of a shiny watch tells me enough.

He can afford the services here. Ergo, his therapy isn’t paid for by someone else, like mine is.

“Although, something tells me that my skills with an axe may come in handy for that too.” I’m talking when I don’t really want to, to try and ease the bizarre tension I feel crackling to life between us.

“Oh?” He casts the paper aside, shuffling the neat fan of matching glossy magazines on his table out of place.

The action pleases me. There is too much order in here, everything placed just so.

A bullshit facade considering everyone who walks through that front door must be messy enough in their own way.

I hum noncommittally, notching my elbow on the back of my chair and crossing my legs.

It’s a subtle move to garner me some protection from his discerning gaze, angling my body away from him, but something tells me he doesn’t miss it.

Especially as his gaze now lingers on the hem of my neckline.

I resist the sudden urge to check my blouse isn’t gaping.

“Elaborate.” He leans forward with the simple command, balancing his elbows on his denim-clad knees. The overhead lights catch on his dark, wind tousled hair, throwing shades of dark chocolate amongst the inky black.

I blink, my indignation flaring to life.

“Then should I sit? Maybe do a spin? Offer my paw for a treat from master?” I scoff, tearing my eyes away from him.

Who is this asshole and why is he getting under my skin?

A deep, silky chuckle rumbles over my flesh, commanding the baby hairs on my arms to attention.

Brain hates him—body does not, apparently. Traitor.

“Forgive me, Miss…?” he drawls, and I see the subtle movement of him shifting back in his seat out of my periphery.

I tip my nose up, feigning interest in my fingernails, freshly manicured in a shade of the palest pink that really isn’t me at all. “Devlin.”

A pregnant pause. “Forgive me, Miss Devlin, that was rude of me. May I ask why you feel an axe would assist you in your job interview?”

I almost laugh at the polished delivery after how he just mauled me with his eyes.

In that moment, I silently dub him Mystery Sex Addict—a lonely, stupid-handsome man who leers at women he doesn’t know.

A door opens, sliding audibly across the plush beige carpet.

White and beige. That’s all this place is. Maddening.

“Not that it’s any of your business.” I cast a sharp look his way before averting my gaze to the tall, smartly dressed woman who is now walking toward the receptionist. The fleeting glimpse I get of his carved features before I look away again is laced with a muted humor.

“But the man I’m being interviewed by is renowned for being one of the world's most spectacularly gigantic assholes.”

The woman, Dr. Sandra Pierce, slides a file across the shiny patent desk toward severe Barbie on reception.

A low, amused hum draws my attention back to the man.

He slides one large hand along the line of his jaw, palm scraping on the stubble.

The space is quiet enough that it sends a shiver cascading down my spine.

“If he’s such a spectacularly gigantic asshole, why do you want to work for him in the first place?”

I huff, smoothing the lines of my skirt to give my itchy hands something to do. “Because nice and talented are rarely synonymous. And suave man-whore that he is, he single-handedly built the biggest software firm in the city.” I stand as Dr. Pierce turns to face me.

“I’m ready for you, Chloe.” She smiles kindly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she scoops another file—presumably my own—off the desk.

That infuriating chuckle reaches my ears again. “Well, I’m sure if you just be your charming self, he won’t know what’s hit him.”

I force my feet to move, irked to no end at this man’s easy arrogance. I’ve been anything but charming, and he knows it. I’m a few feet away when I throw over my shoulder, “If I wanted advice from a sex addict, I’d have fucking asked for it.”

I follow Dr. Pierce into her office, not missing the shake of her head and definitely not missing the soft chuckle from behind. “Anger management it is, mi fuego,” I hear before the door snicks shut behind me.

***

Two hours and a questionable amount of caffeine later, all I can think is that Zeke Guerra’s personal secretary is not at all what I imagined.

With a place like this, all sleek edges and chrome fixtures, a just as sleek and polished blonde woman springs to mind.

The smartly dressed handsome man that sits across from me outside Guerra’s office, however, is not that.

I mentally check my prejudice and smile politely as we catch eyes.

“Mr. Guerra won’t be long—he’s just finishing up a meeting.”

“Sure, thanks.” I twist my lips up into that tight-lipped smile that probably makes me look like a psychopath but somehow I can’t stop doing, and glance out of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Light spills in, glistening over polished marble floors.

My fingers smooth nervously over the edges of the black portfolio balanced on my lap.

I don’t want to acknowledge how important this job is to me, because it feels like the moment I do, the prospect of walking into that room will swallow me into its gaping maw and chew me up.

But I want this job. I really freaking want it.

No, I need it. With college bills piled up to my eyeballs, and very little zeros left on my bank balance, this feels like a do or die moment.

Do I defy the odds and succeed? Or do I scuttle back to my parents with my tail between my legs, nothing but another sad girl who failed to make it in the city that never sleeps?

My eyes cast over the tips of Manhattan skyscrapers, at eye level on the ninety-eighth floor of Guerra Enterprises, their beaconed tips so sharp they might pierce the clouds hanging in the sky. I bet this view is fantastic at night.

One of the large, black mahogany doors in the center of the wall cracks open and two people appear.

One is a man who looks like he’s so relieved to get out of the room he might cry, and the other is a tall, feline brunette with killer heels and a chest so impressive it could save a family of four in a car crash.

Air Bags, I dub her, nodding quietly to myself.

She’s laughing, a high-pitched tinkling sound as she looks over her shoulder.

“I’ll be sure to do that, Mr. Guerra.” Her smile is smug as she closes the gargantuan door and strides across the marble, heels click-clacking in time with my frazzled heartbeat.

Why do they have such big doors in places like this, anyway?

Perhaps to account for the size of Mr. Guerra’s ego.

I barely manage to suppress a snort, which earns me a confused sideways glance from Air Bags.

My interview was meant to start forty minutes ago, so I’m feeling a little on edge. The only thing that’s worse than waiting the nerve-wracking fifteen minutes you turned up early for an interview? Waiting an additional forty.

“Send her in, Jacob.” A deep voice crackles over an intercom system tucked away in the expansive white desk, and Handsome Secretary Boy—Jacob—glances up.

“You’re up, kiddo.” He beams, all boyish dimples and dark floppy hair.

I decide I like him. “Any parting words of advice?” I smooth my skirt as I head toward the doors, my own heels now accounting for every two beats of my choppy heart.

“Just don’t ask him about the scar and you’ll be fine.” He winks, motioning me in with his head.

I nod, my hand resting on the cool iron handle. Perhaps I should have Googled photos before I came, is my first thought as the door swings open. My second thought? Yes, I definitely should have researched photos.

Because staring back at me from behind an enormous black desk is the same set of sparkling chocolate eyes from the therapist’s waiting room.