The Billionaire’s Hotline(6)

“And that girl. So cliché! A tall blonde in a skimpy dress. Couldn’t he at least have been original and had a thing for busty redheads, just for the novelty? I mean, I still wouldn’t qualify for consideration in his nutso little criteria game, but at least it wouldn’t be so pathetically textbook. He’s insecure in his masculinity and needs a universally prized possession, i.e. a gorgeous blonde trophy wife to validate him. There should be some spiritual law that prevents egomaniacal assholes from acting like they’re decent human beings. He sent me noodles, he called me ‘mockingbird’, and I really liked that, goddammit.”

By the time she got her door unlocked, she was in tears. She took a hot bath and forced herself to drink tea with honey so all the sobbing didn’t leave her throat raw. She was fairly sure the soothing tea was rendered ineffective by the fact that she was crying even while she was drinking it. There was no way she was jealous of that Barbie doll, of that vacuous arm candy he was taking to an awards dinner. A boring awards dinner with bad food, probably. She was just disappointed because she had felt a spark with him. Hell, she’d felt an inferno that could have consumed national forests and caused burn advisories for a two hundred mile radius the first time he kissed her hand.

His name was Jasper, something old-fashioned and beautiful. Couldn’t he have been called something less memorable, something she’d have to struggle to recall in a few months or years?

Hannah was too upset, and her throat was too scratchy to get any work done, so she settled in for a sleepless night, loading a new mystery on her e-reading app. She chose a story about a cheating husband who had been murdered by one of his mistresses. Her eyes were burning from exhaustion, but she still hiccupped the occasional sob when her phone rang once. She lunged for it.

“Mockingbird? It’s me,” he said, and the relief of hearing his voice nearly brought on more tears. Something that had tightened around her rib cage loosened, and she could draw a deep breath again.

“Are you there?” That arrogant voice was endearingly uncertain.

She would have said ‘yes’ to anything at that moment. “I’m here.”

“What’s wrong? You sound…off.”

“Cheap phone. I stole it from a playboy.”

“Have you been crying?”

“No. Certainly not.” She huffed as if offended.

“Hannah, I sent her home in a cab as soon as the awards speeches were over. This is the second night I’ve slept alone on account of you.”

“I suspect you do your five hours in an empty bed on purpose,” she hedged, unwilling to own the pure joy that unfurled in her chest.

“Does my inflection mark me out for a loner?” he teased.

“No, Jasper,” she let herself savor his name, “I can’t imagine you doing anything so inefficient as allowing your allotted five hours to be disrupted by the snores and turnings of another human being in your space.”

“I’ll give you that one. You’re perceptive.”

“Why did you send her home? She was gorgeous.”

“She wasn’t you,” Jasper said easily, and he heard the catch in her breath.

“Don’t say things like that.” Her voice was strained, a warning or fear, he didn’t know which.

“She was boring. I don’t like being bored. You’re never boring. You barge into hotel bars and my office demanding that I leave you alone. For some reason, I don’t hate it.”

“That was stupid, going to your office to tell you to leave me alone. Any rational person would have sent back your gifts with an icy silence and never acknowledged you.”

“Only someone who wanted to be alone would have ignored me like that.”

“I know. I didn’t like seeing that girl, Anna, coming into your office to go with you like that.”

“You mean the repellant display of my white male privilege?”

“Yes. Obviously. It was appalling. I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt and not just assume you’re a textbook alpha male who wants a dumb blonde to stare adoringly at him. You’re not making it easy. You told me once you’re a romantic. I still don’t believe you, but I’d like to hear your reasoning,” she said carefully.

“Just that, like everyone on the planet, I want to find the One, but I have the luxury of sending someone else to narrow down the possibilities. I know what attracts me and what qualities I’m looking for, so I verbalized those and dispatched an employee to make contact with as many women fitting a general description as possible. This way I know they’re worth taking the time for because they’ve already been selected from the wider population. I have a better shot at finding my soul mate this way.”

Hannah sighed.

“What?”

“I had this weird hope that you’d tell me the truth. That was bullshit.”

“The linguistics expert thinks I don’t believe a word I said?”

“I’m not an expert, but I know total rubbish when I hear it. A true romantic wouldn’t approach this like a business acquisition. A true romantic would have used the word ‘love’ at least once. You’re some jaded rich guy who enjoys the ability to dial up a blonde anytime you want one.”

“Then why didn’t I dial one up tonight, or keep the one I had delivered?”

“You got bored with your own game and decided to mess with my mind instead. I guess it amuses you to torment me.”

“Tormenting isn’t what I’d like to do to you.”

“Really.”

“I’d like to kiss you until you saw spots of light behind your eyes and had to cling to my shoulders or melt to the ground.” She bit down on her lip. “I wish you had been on my arm tonight. I sure as hell wish you were in my bed now.”

“You’re in bed?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Reading,” she added quickly.

“You’re not a romantic either, Hannah.”

“I never said I was.”

“Then why keep the ex-husband’s last name?”

“What do you know about that?” She demanded, enjoying the distance that fury gave her, a release from the embarrassment. “Did you bother to ask what my maiden name was? Abbracciabene. Try using that as your professional name. No one can spell it or say it.”

“Hannah Abbracciabene?”

“No. Hannah Filomena Abbracciabene. My stupid father had never even been to Italy, but he was all about his heritage, so I got saddled with this unpronounceable crap name. My dad filled out the birth certificate. They’d agreed on Hannah, but he really let his freak flag fly with the rest of it while my mom was passed out on painkillers. When I was fifteen, I decided I was going to change it legally, but he dropped dead and I felt bad about making such a fuss over my name. So I left it.

“Then when I married Alex, it was like a reprieve. The only thing I really got out of that doomed relationship was a nice, normal last name that everyone could pronounce the first time. I like having a name that doesn’t have six syllables. It was a great deal easier to get an agent once I had a more recognizably American last name.”

“I don’t like Largent.”

“You don’t like your name either.”

“My name is at least my own. You have some guy’s name. Some jerk who didn’t even stay married to you.”

“I left him, Jasper.”

“Why?”

“That’s personal.”

“This whole conversation is personal, Hannah.”

“He cheated on me. More than once.”

“He was an idiot.”

“I thought so by that time. It turned out well, though. I have a job I love, a good life.”

“But tonight you were crying for me.”

“I may have cried a little, but it had nothing to do with you, egomaniac. I’m under a great deal of stress right now. I’m worried about my sister.”

“I wish I hadn’t made you cry,” he said. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Working.”

“No. You’re going out with me. I’m putting dial-a-blonde on ice for the evening.”

“Like a date?”

“Not like one. An actual date.”

“I don’t meet your criteria.”

“You burned it down with your big mouth and your Vitamin D deficiency, Hannah. Seven o’clock?”

“Yes. Now hang up before I change my mind,” she said, clicking ‘end’ before a giggle escaped her.

She hated to admit it to herself, but she was excited. She paced her apartment, practically giddy. She usually dreaded dating and any kind of social engagement that required leaving her apartment and neglecting her work for more than an hour. She got antsy just having her nails done with Becca every couple of weeks. Somehow, sequestering herself with a bunch of PowerPoints seemed to have lost its appeal for the night.



* * *



“Where are we going?” she asked Miss Hollingford by phone.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you, okay? Now help me out. I don’t know what to wear for tonight.”

“Again, I’m not sure what engagement you’re referring to. I have Mr. Cates’ schedule right here on spreadsheet, and you are not listed.”