The Billionaire's Boyfriend Read online

  Mrs. Mulroney and Tilly were nowhere to be seen, but I could feel their presence lurking... like a stubborn ghost… or a nosy poltergeist.

  I glanced over to see the window to the fire escape open.

  “Please, take a seat on the sofa,” I told Calvin. “I just need to close this window.”

  “I don’t mind the window open,” he said. He was opening his collar as though he were the nervous one. “There’s a rather nice breeze, don’t you think?”

  “This window rattles and bangs. It’s very annoying, trust me.”

  I stuck my head out the window to see Mrs. Mulroney and Tilly crouching on the fire escape, concealed beneath the window sill.

  “What are you two doing out here?” I whispered.

  “We’re signaling Batman. We think you could use all the help you can get,” said Mrs. Mulroney sarcastically. “What does it look like we’re doing? We’re eavesdropping, of course.”

  “I don’t need you two spying on me, thanks very much. I’m just going to thank Mr. Croft for the gesture, kindly decline his gift then ask him to leave. Now go upstairs to Tilly’s place before he thinks my neighbors are a bunch of Peeping Toms.”

  “I’m not climbing that ladder all the way up to Tilly’s,” said Mrs. Mulroney. “I’m a frail old woman.”

  “Well you should have thought about that before you climbed out the window.”

  With that I pulled my head in and slid the glass pane shut.

  “Everything all right?” asked the billionaire on my sofa.

  “Just lots of banging and rattling,” I said, trying to brush over things. I moved quickly over to the sofa and he stood awkwardly, still holding onto the bike that he’d wheeled into my apartment.

  “So, I guess I should give you this,” he said.

  He wheeled it a few inches toward me.

  “Thanks. But it’s way too kind of you, Mr. Croft.”

  “Please, call me Cal. May I call you Matthew?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean, yes. I mean, no. I mean, you can if you like. But most people just call me Matt. Except for Mrs. Mulroney. She insists on calling me Matthew. She sounds like an old housemaid from Downton Abbey. It’s an Irish thing.”

  There was a loud thump on the window.

  “Bangs and rattles,” I said, waving the noise away.

  “Matthew… Matt… I saw the state of your bike today. You won’t be delivering any flowers in the near future if you don’t take this one. As I said, it’s the least I can do. You saved my life this morning. And you risked yours to do it.”

  “It was really nothing. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. What were you doing there anyway?”

  “We’d just finished a meeting with our architecture firm on Bleecker Street. And I don’t think it was the wrong place at the wrong time at all. Quite the opposite. I met you, after all. That was a very courageous thing you did today.”

  I felt myself blush, the heat rising all the way from my neck to my freckled forehead.

  “It was… nothing… really, I don’t want to make a big deal of this.”

  “I do,” said Cal.

  I gulped, the thought of TV talk shows and live studio audiences flashing through my head. “Oh God, you’re going to call Jimmy Fallon, aren’t you? You probably have his number in your contacts list.”

  “I do, how did you know?”

  “I was joking.”

  “Oh.”

  That time we both laughed nervously… then cleared our throats.

  “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not really a fan of the media spotlight. And no, I’m not going to call Jimmy.”

  “God, you’re on a first name basis?”

  “Fallon. Jimmy Fallon.” He smiled. “You’re going to make me work for this, aren’t you?”

  “Work for what?”

  “Lunch. I’d like to take you out to lunch. Tomorrow. To say thank you. Properly.”

  “I haven’t even accepted the bike yet?”

  “I’m not leaving with it,” he laughed. God, even his laugh was sexy. “This thing’s a bitch to get in and out of the backseat of a limo.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Trust me.”

  “Well, then… for fear of you, or your chauffeur, or your bellboy putting his back out…”

  “I don’t have a personal bellboy…”

  “Whatever. For fear of someone straining themselves in an effort to get this bike back into the limo for an exchange or full refund of the very expensive retail price… I will graciously accept your gift.”

  “And have lunch with me tomorrow,” he added quickly.

  “You don’t even know me. What if I’m a dithering bore?”

  “The fact that you can use the word ‘dithering’ in a sentence means there’s something interesting behind those blue eyes of yours. I’m keen to find out more about you. Besides just your name.”

  “And my address,” I added, suddenly curious as to how he had found me. “How did you know where I live?”

  Cal smiled like a magician who didn’t mind at all giving away the secrets to his tricks. He pulled a card from his waistcoat pocket. It was the card that had fallen out of the box of roses. “The address of Mrs. Mulroney’s Little Flower Shop is on the back of this card. I asked the baker across the street who delivered the flowers for Mrs. Mulroney and he pointed up to your apartment.”

  “Please marry me,” I said, unable to stop the words before they came out of my mouth.

  Cal looked at me strangely. “Excuse me?”

  “That’s what it says on the card. The man who ordered the roses was going to propose. And she was going to say ‘yes’.”

  Even as I was saying it, I knew I had that stupid, dreamy look in my eye.

  It made Cal smile again. “Say ‘yes’,” he said. “Say ‘yes’ to lunch tomorrow, Matt.”

  I stalled a moment longer, unsure of why on earth I would say yes to this stranger’s offer of lunch—

  —and why on earth I wouldn’t.

  “Yes,” I blurted out.

  Cal beamed.

  How the hell do some people have sexy teeth?

  “Great,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at one. Do you own a dinner jacket?”

  “Do I own a dinner jacket?” I laughed. “Don’t be silly. Of course I own a dinner jacket.”

  * * *

  “I need a jacket!”

  I had barely got the window to the fire escape open before I started begging for help. “He wants to take me to lunch to say thank you. He asked if I own a dinner jacket. I said yes.”

  “Since when do you own a dinner jacket, Jack Kerouac?” asked Tilly dubiously.

  “I don’t. I just laughed confidently like Hannibal Lecter reaching for another plate of livers and said, ‘Oh sure, I have a dinner jacket, doesn’t everyone?’”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find you one,” said Mrs. Mulroney. “We have plenty in the cloak room at Downton Abbey.”

  “Oh, sorry about that,” I apologized feebly. “Can I chalk that one up to nerves?”

  “Oh, for goodness sake, forget it. Just help me through this window, would you? Surely Mr. Banks has something you can borrow.”

  “You think he owns a dinner jacket?” I asked hopefully.

  “For all we know he owns a gimp suit. Mr. Banks is a mystery… even to himself!”

  A minute later we were knocking on the door to old Mr. Banks’ apartment upstairs from Mrs. Mulroney’s place. When there was no response Mrs. Mulroney pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the door. Evidently, she was the keeper of everyone’s spare keys.

  As soon as she opened the door, we were met with the smell of moth balls and musty curtains.

  “Mr. Banks, are you home?” she called, but there was nothing but silence inside the apartment.

  “Where do you think he is?” Tilly asked.

  “Knowing Mr. Banks, the answer to that question is ‘anywhere’,” said Mrs. M
ulroney. “Come on, surely he has something in his closet… in more ways than one, I expect.”

  “You don’t think he’ll mind us going through his things?” I asked.

  “Matthew dear, he’s worn your underwear on his head,” Mrs. Mulroney reminded me. “I think he’s already set the standard.”

  Together the three of us moved swiftly through Mr. Banks’ cluttered apartment. There were piles of newspapers tied with string and shoeboxes filled with old trinkets stacked everywhere. When we reached the bedroom, Mrs. Mulroney flicked on the light switch and Tilly and I followed her straight to the closet.

  She opened the door—

  —and all three of us screamed in unison.

  The sound of it jolted Mr. Banks wide awake.

  Apparently, he’d been sleeping on his feet… inside his own closet.

  “Oh heavens,” he gasped in fright. “There you are. I was wondering when someone was going to answer the door.”

  “Sweet Jesus in a coffin, how long have you been in there?” Mrs. Mulroney asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Mr. Banks answered. “Is Richard Nixon still President?”

  “No.”

  “Who is?”

  “Don’t ask,” replied Mrs. Mulroney, Tilly and I at once.

  We helped Mr. Banks out of the closet as Mrs. Mulroney said, “Your assistance is urgently required, Mr. Banks. Matthew here has a lunch date—”

  “It’s not a date,” I corrected.

  Mrs. Mulroney rolled her eyes and rephrased her sentence. “Matthew here has a lunch rendezvous with a very handsome man who happens to be richer than God, and he needs a dinner jacket to wear.”

  This time I was the one who rolled my eyes.

  Mr. Banks’ face lit up with excitement. “Richer than God, hey? I was once richer than God. Then I poured everything into that damn pyramid scheme selling sand to the Egyptians. Life’s a rollercoaster, wouldn’t you agree? One moment you’re having the time of your life… the next you’re wearing someone else’s lunch on your face.”

  “Ew,” said Tilly, pinching her nose in revulsion.

  “Back to the dinner jacket,” Mrs. Mulroney prompted. “Do you have one that Matthew can borrow?”

  “The question isn’t whether or not I have one, the question is what kind of stitching and lining you’d like?”

  Mr. Banks’ confidence gave me hope… until he pulled out a scruffy old corduroy sports jacket with the elbows worn out.

  “This is the jacket I wore to the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer. Being the best man, I had to look my best, naturally. But if that’s not your cup of tea…”

  He handed me the jacket and pulled out another item of clothing—a sloppy joe covered in food stains so old they had fused with the fabric.

  “This pristine sample of haute couture won the heart of Grace of Monaco when I was invited to her retreat on the Amalfi Coast. Her tailor was so impressed he started his own line of men’s fashion based on this exact design.”

  “I think that piece of spaghetti is older than me,” said Tilly, pointing to a stiff strand of pasta stuck to one sleeve.

  “Nothing a little dry cleaning won’t fix,” said Mr. Banks optimistically. “But if you’re really aiming to impress…”

  With a proud and toothless grin, the old man pulled out a frayed dressing gown that looked like a hit with the silverfish. “This,” he announced dramatically, “was the jacket I wore to the funeral of Elvis Presley. I was one of his pallbearers, you know. I wore it with a pair of blue suede shoes. Later I was credited as the inspiration for the word ‘dapper’. As you can well understand.”

  That’s when I spotted a rather dashing dinner jacket hanging at the far end of his wardrobe, protected by a clear plastic cover. I pulled it out to see that it was in mint condition… and looked like a perfect fit.

  “What about this one?” I asked, the hope returning.

  “Oh, that old thing. That was the jacket I wore to my own wedding.”

  “You were married?”

  Mr. Banks wriggled his nose in thought, like a mouse who just caught a whiff of cheese. “Yes,” he answered. “Possibly. I’m not entirely sure. I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”

  “Can I borrow the jacket?” I asked. “Please?”

  “Of course, you may. You’ll look very handsome in it, I’m sure.” He paused and added, “Would you like some blue suede shoes to go with it?”

  I smiled gratefully. “Thanks, but the jacket will do just fine.”

  Chapter Two

  Needless to say, I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I couldn’t figure out why a billionaire like Calvin Croft wanted to have lunch with me. Yes, I might have rescued him from an early grave, but what was I supposed to do? Stand there and watch him get squished? That would have scarred me forever. If anything, I was doing myself a favor so I wouldn’t have to relive the vision of a man being pancaked by a truck every time I heard the sound of a horn or the rev of an engine. There was certainly no good reason to take me to lunch just to say thank you. He’d already given me the world’s most expensive bicycle, wasn’t that enough?

  Perhaps he had another agenda.

  He said he wasn’t a fan of the media spotlight. Maybe he wanted to pay me off, to make sure I wouldn’t sell my story to People Magazine.

  Or perhaps I’d chipped one of his perfect teeth when I tackled him to the ground and now he wanted to sue me. It seemed unlikely, he genuinely did appear to be a nice guy. But then again rich people love taking other people to court. It’s how they get even richer, right?

  Or perhaps…

  “…perhaps he just likes me,” I whispered aloud.

  * * *

  “Maybe he just likes you,” Mrs. Mulroney said.

  It was just before one o’clock the next afternoon and I was standing a few feet back from the window of Mrs. Mulroney’s Little Flower Shop watching the traffic outside, waiting for Calvin Croft’s limo to arrive. I was dressed in my best trousers, shirt and shoes, with Mr. Banks’ dinner jacket sitting perfectly on my frame. I had to admit, I looked rather dashing. Even I didn’t think I’d scrub up this well.

  Mrs. Mulroney was arranging flowers on the counter, snipping off leaves and plucking off any imperfect petals. “Heaven forbid you give yourself any sort of pat on the back, Matthew. But is it really so wrong to think that someone might actually like you?”

  “How can he like me? He doesn’t even know me.”

  “Maybe he wants to get to know you. And maybe you might enjoy getting to know him.”

  “Mrs. Mulroney, we’re perfect strangers.”

  “Everyone’s a perfect stranger when they first meet. Which is why they decide to have lunch together. Or have a drink together. Or just take a stroll in the park together. It’s what people do. They make the effort to get to know each other. They share stories. They discover common interests. And then they fall in love.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Nobody said anything about falling in love. All we’re doing is eating a meal… at the same table… in the same place.”

  “All you’re doing is putting up your defenses, Matthew Darcy. Just relax. Have a good time. Take things as they come.” Mrs. Mulroney plucked a red rose from a bunch sitting in a bucket, then walked over to me and tucked the flower into the buttonhole of my jacket. “All I’m saying is, perhaps it’s time to let Jesus take the wheel.”

  “Oh no, really? You had to bring Jesus into this?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because now if Cal wants to make a move on me and casually slide his arm around me, all I’ll be able to think about is Jesus behind the wheel, waving at me, giving me a friendly flash with his headlights. And what if Cal wants to go a little further? What if he wants to kiss me? Boom, there’s Jesus, giving me a little wink. Then what if Cal wants to undress me? What happens if he finally wants to have his way with me? There’s Jesus standing over the bed, no doubt giving a little helpful advice. ‘Lift your butt higher, Matthew
.’ ‘Make it sound like you’re enjoying things, Matthew.’ ‘Are you gonna make him do all the work, Matthew?’”

  “Jesus doesn’t have to be in the bedroom to see what you get up to. He’s everywhere, my dear boy.”

  “Again, not helping.”

  “How do you know Mr. Bazillions is even gay?”

  “I asked God,” I replied. “He just nodded and said, ‘Yep. Sometimes I like to make a really hot one gayer than cotton candy, just to remind straight women what they’re missing out on.’ He can be a cruel God sometimes.”

  “Sweet Jesus live at the Comedy Store. There you go again, mocking the Lord.”

  Thankfully a limousine pulled up out the front of the flower shop at that moment, sparing me another clip behind the ear.

  “Holy shit, it’s him!” I said a little too excitedly.

  Mrs. Mulroney quickly brushed my dinner jacket down one last time and straightened my collar.

  “Whatever happens, just be yourself,” she said, imparting her best advice so far.

  “Thanks,” I smiled warmly.

  “But not too yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well don’t tell him about the time you accidentally broke the handle off the toilet and locked yourself in your own bathroom overnight. That’s a little embarrassing.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “And you probably shouldn’t mention that time when you were pet-sitting for Tilly and sat on her hamster and killed it. He might call the ASPCA.”

  “Good point.”

  “And if you think that incident with the Coke bottle might make for an unforgettably hilarious anecdote… it won’t. Twelve hours in the emergency ward is no laughing matter. Think of the poor nurses next time. Scarred for life, they are. They’ll never touch a fizzy pop again without thinking of your hairy little arse.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  And with that I raced out the door before Mrs. Mulroney could dredge up any more cringe-worthy capers from my past.

  The driver of the limo—whom I was relieved to note was not Jesus at the wheel—was already opening the back-passenger door of the vehicle.

  A second later, Calvin Croft emerged, looking suaver than ever in a suit and matching cashmere scarf.