The Billionaire's Boyfriend Read online

  The moral of the story is never treat an Irishwoman badly and think you’ll get away with it. God is always watching.

  As I walked back into the flower shop that day with my buckled bicycle under one arm, Mrs. Mulroney saw the twisted metal wreck and quickly put down her pruners. “Sweet Jesus in his cradle, what on earth happened to you?” she asked, rushing toward me with a concerned look on her face.

  “I had this crazy idea that a garbage truck was no match for my bicycle. Guess who won.”

  “You had a collision with a garbage truck? Oh Matthew, you could have been killed!”

  “All part of a day’s work. Penny loved the flowers by the way, even if they were a little bruised and battered.”

  “If they looked anything like your bike I dare say they’ll be asking for their money back. What on earth possessed you to take on a garbage truck?”

  “Well…” I smiled without being able to stop myself. “He was rather handsome. Not that I noticed till I was lying on top of him.”

  Mrs. Mulroney stared at me wide-eyed. “Sweet Jesus on a double-decker bus! Don’t tell me you finally got laid. That’s worth throwing yourself under a truck any day!”

  “Calm down, Mrs. Mulroney. Nobody got laid. We didn’t even speak to one another.” I paused and then recalled, “Actually, that’s not true. He said to me, ‘Your life is about to change forever.’”

  “Oh my. That’s a cracker of a pick-up line. I must remember that one.”

  “It’s a bit… I dunno… presumptuous. Don’t you think?”

  “What do you mean, presumptuous?”

  “I mean, was he telling me that he was about to change my life? Don’t you think that’s presumptuous?”

  “What you call presumptuous, I call confident. The Lord helps those who help themselves, Matthew. How else do you think the Catholics got to own all the best real estate in the world? We didn’t win it in a poker game. Let me guess, was Mr. Handsome well-dressed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he well-groomed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he have all his teeth? Very important.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did he drive a nice car?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. He got into the back of a limo.”

  “A-ha! I knew it. He’s not presumptuous. He’s confident. And by the sounds of it, filthy rich. So, what the hell’s he doing rolling around on the ground with you?”

  “I happened to have saved his life.”

  Mrs. Mulroney gave me a sly look and a wink. “If he just told you that your life is about to change forever, perhaps he’s the one who saved yours.”

  At that moment Mrs. Mulroney caught sight of something out the window. A portly, bald man was crossing the street and heading straight for the flower shop. Correction—it wasn’t just any portly, bald man. It was Frank Dellucci, the baker from across the road, with one hand behind his back and an excited grin on his face.

  Mrs. Mulroney flew into a mild panic. “Sweet Jesus with a shiny dome on top, would you look who’s coming. Check at that grin. I half expect to see canary feathers flittering out from between his lips every time I see it. Quick take these.” Mrs. Mulroney handed me her pruners and snapped off her gloves. “How do I look?” she asked, patting down her hair and straightening her florist’s apron before one hand reached inside her apron pocket and pulled out a silver hipflask.

  She unscrewed the cap, took three generous gulps, then replaced the flask just as Frank walked through the door.

  “Forgive me if I’m wrong,” he exclaimed rather dramatically as he stepped inside, “but I do believe every flower in every bucket in this store pales in comparison to your infinite beauty, Mrs. Mulroney.”

  Mrs. Mulroney allowed herself the briefest moment to blush, enjoying the attention, before saying, “Your flattery will get you nowhere, Frank Dellucci. Muffins, on the other hand, will grant you entry.”

  Frank tapped his finger to his nose as though he were already ahead of the game. “Then today must be my lucky day, for what have I here?”

  From behind his back he produced a basket filled with freshly baked muffins.

  Banana and honey.

  Strawberries and choc chips.

  Apple and cinnamon.

  Blueberries and cream cheese.

  The scent of them mingled with the gardenia and lavender in the store, and for a moment I thought Mrs. Mulroney was about to crack at the knees.

  With a quick pirouette, she spun her back to Frank, took another swig from her flask, and held her stance.

  “Leave them by the door,” she ordered, turning back to face Frank. “Can’t you see I’m busy giving Matthew delivery orders?”

  Mischievously I eyed Mrs. Mulroney and saw my chance to make her squirm a little, just for fun. “Actually, Mr. Dellucci, I’ve been meaning to ask you if you’re free for dinner tomorrow night. I’m having a dinner party for Mrs. Mulroney’s birthday. It’s just a little gathering, but we’d love you to come along if you’re available.”

  Mrs. Mulroney gasped audibly.

  Mr. Dellucci’s grin spread even wider. “Oh, I would love to accept your invitation.”

  Mrs. Mulroney glared at me and uttered angrily under her breath, “But it’s not my birthday.”

  “It is now,” I smiled. I turned to Frank and announced, “Then it’s a date. We’ll see you at six o’clock at my apartment tomorrow night. Don’t be late.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. In fact, I’ll be early.”

  I shook my head. “No, don’t be early. Just be on time.”

  “Six o’clock it is,” he said, then left his basket of muffins at the door and practically clicked his heels on his way across the street.

  The moment he was gone, Mrs. Mulroney couldn’t get the cap off her hipflask fast enough. “Mary, mother of God, what in heaven’s name are you doing, Matthew Darcy?”

  “Oh Mrs. Mulroney, he’s smitten with you. And correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re not exactly repulsed by him, either.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can put on a pair of Cupid wings and start firing arrows willy-nilly.”

  “Would you please stop playing so hard to get? Good God, you’re torturing the poor man.”

  Mrs. Mulroney gave me a good clip behind the ear. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times. Never take the Lord’s name in vain.”

  “You do it all the time.”

  “I’ve been to confession enough to have earned it! You on the other hand may be going straight to hell after this little stunt. You’re only doing this to get ideas for your romance novels.”

  “Maybe,” I shrugged.

  “I knew it. I feel used and abused.”

  “Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ll invite Tilly and Mr. Banks and make a night of it.”

  “What if Mr. Dellucci tries to get me drunk? I may abandon my good graces.” She took another generous gulp of whisky.

  “I don’t think you need Mr. Baker’s help to get drunk.”

  “Good point.”

  “Besides, it might be a nice way to get to know him a little better… in the safe company of friends. If you think things are going pear-shaped we can come up with a code to abort the mission, like… ‘The kitchen’s on fire, everybody run!’ or… ‘Only four hours to go till we sacrifice the goat!’ or… ‘So, Mrs. Mulroney, how’s the chlamydia treatment coming along?’”

  “Oh, for goodness sake, stop talking. You’ve got my head in a spin. Put yourself to good use and go make us both a cup of tea.” Mrs. Mulroney shoved her hipflask into my chest and added, “Be sure to Irish it up. And don’t be frugal with the fun stuff.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I chuckled.

  I boiled the kettle behind the counter and made two cups of Irish Breakfast tea. I added a generous dash of whisky to Mrs. Mulroney’s cup, then did the same with mine.

  We sat amid the buckets of flowers and Mrs. Mulroney gave a long sigh of appreciation after her first sip of tea. “Oo
h, that’s a good cuppa, Matthew. Thank you for that. And thank you for my impromptu birthday celebration. I’m secretly grateful.”

  “So, you do like him.”

  “Of course I do. To be perfectly honest, I want to rip all his clothes off and do inappropriate things to him with a feather duster. It’s that bald head of his. I’ve always had a thing for the follicularly-challenged. What they lack in hair they make up for in other departments, if you catch my drift.”

  “Then why are you so mean to him?”

  “That’s not mean. That’s enticing. He wouldn’t keep coming back every day with a basket of muffins and pastries if he thought I wasn’t interested.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “You know, sometimes I wish romance wasn’t so damn… complicated. I wish someone would just whisk me away to some place romantic.”

  “Like the lingerie department in Bloomingdale’s,” Mrs. Mulroney agreed with a wink.

  “No, like the Spanish Steps in Rome. I just want to stand on those steps surrounded by flowers in the arms of a man I love. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Well, you’re surrounded by flowers now. One out of three ain’t bad. Write enough novels and maybe one day it’ll all come true for you. How’s the writing coming along, anyway?”

  “It’s on par with my sex life.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  I shrugged. “I’m just waiting in the wings at the moment, that’s all.”

  “Dear boy, nobody can see you there. Just make sure the curtain doesn’t fall before you get a chance to step out onto that stage. Otherwise you could be waiting a long, long time.”

  * * *

  I had always believed that writing novels on an old-school typewriter created an authentic literary experience. I believed that the sound of clunky keys stamping ink onto paper was like a mating call to the muse inside me, beckoning her to unleash a flood of inspiration and creativity.

  I also believed, after three months of writer’s block, that there was nothing more soul-destroying than staring at a piece of paper tucked into a typewriter roller with nothing written on it but the words: Chapter One.

  “Hey there, Jane Austen. How’s the latest romantic masterpiece coming along?”

  The voice shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. I jumped in my seat and glanced to the fire escape window to see twelve-year-old Tilly already climbing inside my apartment.

  “Jesus, Tilly! Don’t startle me like that, I was in the zone.”

  The young girl peered over my shoulder to see what I’d written. “Sorry to break it to you, Tolstoy, but the only zone you’re in is the dead zone. Are you even conscious when you’re sitting at that typewriter?”

  “I’m trying to summon my muse.”

  Tilly pretended her hand was a telephone and put on her best pre-recorded phone voice. “I’m sorry. The number you have called is disconnected. Please check the number before trying again.”

  “Okay, so the words aren’t exactly flowing right now.”

  “Flowing? They’re not even trickling. You’re completely plugged up. The question is, what are you gonna do about it?”

  “No. The question is, aren’t you supposed to be doing your homework?”

  “I finished it hours ago. Then I did Billy Marshall’s science project. He pays me twenty-five bucks an hour. Not bad, huh?”

  “Twenty-five bucks? That’s more than my last royalty check.”

  “Maybe you should stick to delivering flowers. Speaking of which, I saw your bike downstairs. Ouch! What happened?”

  “There was a stinky garbage truck. And a handsome rich guy. It’s a long story.”

  Tilly’s eyes lit up. “A handsome rich guy? Tell me more, Cindefella!”

  “There’s nothing more to tell. A truck was about to hit him. I pushed him out of the way. His well-heeled henchmen pushed me out of the way. End of story.”

  “Did he tell you his name? Do you know who he was?”

  “No idea. Oh, what a minute. Somebody called him Mr. Croft… I think.”

  Tilly slapped me on the arm. “Shut the front door.”

  “Ow, that hurt.”

  “You mean you saved the life of Mr. Croft? The Mr. Croft? Mr. Calvin Croft?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I have no idea who that is.”

  “Did he have a beard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he wearing a tailor-made waistcoat with a Persian silk lining?”

  “I crash-tackled him to the ground. I didn’t try on his clothes.”

  “Did he have deep brown eyes like swirling pools of chocolate?”

  “Tilly, everything happened pretty fast but… come to think of it… yes.”

  “That’s Calvin Croft.”

  “I told you before, I have no idea who that is.”

  “Have you banged your head on your typewriter one too many times? Calvin Croft is only one of the most successful investment bankers on Wall Street. How can you not know this? He’s in the news all the time.”

  At that moment, the front door to my apartment burst open. Even before she started shrieking with excitement, I knew it was Mrs. Mulroney. She was the only other person with a key to my place and wasn’t afraid to use it whenever she pleased. Apparently, that was a common theme in our building.

  “Matthew! Turn on the news, quick! You’re on the telly!”

  Tilly instantly scooped the remote off the sofa and snapped on the TV.

  The three of us stood in front of it staring at a news anchorwoman… and a blurry photo of me ramming my bicycle into Calvin Croft in the background.

  “In more news, today was a close call for Calvin Croft, one of the most successful investment bankers on Wall Street…”

  “I told you,” piped up Tilly.

  “Shhh,” responded me and Mrs. Mulroney.

  The anchorwoman continued, “One bystander took these dramatic photos on their iPhone capturing the moment a flower delivery man ran his bicycle directly into Mr. Croft, apparently in an attempt to save the Wall Street billionaire from being hit by an oncoming truck… avoiding a stock market crash of a different kind. Moments later, Mr. Croft was whisked away in his limousine. The unnamed hero has yet to be found.”

  “O… M… D….” Mrs. Mulroney said staring at the TV as Tilly turned the volume down.

  “What’s O.M.D?” I asked.

  “It’s something the young people say, dear.”

  “That’s OMG,” Tilly said. “This… this is OMFG!”

  “What’s that?” Mrs. Mulroney asked.

  “You don’t wanna know,” I answered. “None of us have been to confession enough for that one.”

  “Matthew, you’re famous!” Tilly squealed. “You were just on the television!”

  “You might win a medal for bravery,” Mrs. Mulroney said.

  “Or maybe get the keys to the city,” added Tilly.

  “They’ll ask you to go on The Tonight Show starring Jimmy Fallon…”

  “And the Ellen DeGeneres Show starring Ellen DeGeneres…”

  “They’ll probably make a movie about the whole thing,” said Mrs. Mulroney with a starry-eyed look on her face. “I’ll expect they’ll get Meryl Streep to play me. She’s good with accents.”

  I shook my head vehemently at both of them. “Nobody’s making a movie. I’m not famous and I’m sure as hell not going on any talk shows. Nobody knows who I am and nobody’s going to. All I did was push some guy out of the way of an oncoming truck, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?” Tilly asked. “Matthew, you’re a hero!”

  “Better than that… You’re a celebrity!” Mrs. Mulroney added.

  “I’m a flower delivery guy with a busted bike,” I corrected them both.

  At that moment, there came a knock at the door.

  “Great, now Mr. Banks has come to join the party. He’s probably wondering what all the noise is about.”

  I stormed to the door, pulled it open—and there stood Calvin Croft.

 
He smiled, his face more handsome than ever.

  I slammed the door shut.

  “Oh shit,” I panicked, scurrying back to the living room.

  Mrs. Mulroney and Tilly both saw the frantic look on my face.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Mulroney asked. “Who’s at the door?”

  “Calvin Croft,” I answered in a hushed tone.

  “Did you just slam the door in Calvin Croft’s face!?” Tilly whispered back in utter shock.

  “Do you think he noticed?” I asked.

  There came another knock at the door.

  Mrs. Mulroney nodded her head. “I think he noticed.” Swiftly she turned me about-face and shoved me back toward the door.

  I stumbled back to the door, took a deep breath, then opened it as though I were ripping off a Band-Aid.

  Calvin Croft was still standing there, although his smile had turned to a look of concern. “Have I come at a bad time? I wanted to give you this.”

  Only then did I notice the brand-new bicycle beside him. It was a state-of-the-art hybrid, the kind of bike that guys like me only dream of owning, knowing the price tag that would have been attached to it. But now, instead of a price tag, there was a big white bow on the handlebars.

  “It was the least I could do to say thank you,” said the handsome billionaire. “Given what happened to your bike this morning. My name’s Calvin, by the way.” He reached forward to shake my hand. “Calvin Croft.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just saw you… us… on the news. Pleased to meet you properly. I’m Matthew Darcy.”

  “We were on the news?” Calvin’s smile turned to a grimace. “Oh God, I’m sorry about that. I hate dragging people into my affairs. The media can be rather… invasive at times.”

  “It’s okay, I’ve managed to keep the paparazzi at bay so far,” I joked, forcing out a nervous laugh that sounded, well, forced. And nervous.

  I quickly cleared my throat and dared to ask, “Would you like to come in?”

  His smile returned. It softened an already kind and gentle face. “Yes, please. I’d like that.”

  I led him into my apartment and began saying, “You’ll have to excuse me, I have a couple of the neighbors visiting, but I’m sure they were just leav—”

  But when we reached the living room, it was empty.