Pretend To Be Mine: An Alpha Billionaire Romance Page 7

  I laugh harshly. “Sweetheart, until you’ve lived under the roof of a sociopath and an alcoholic, you have no idea the hell I’ve gone through.”

  A cool gust of wind whips around us, and she shivers, wrapping her arms around herself.

  “Right,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I should get dressed.”

  Shit. I’d almost forgotten about dinner. The thought of Brooklyn around my father makes my skin prickle. Hell, if he ever figured out that she’s my assistant and not really my date, I can only imagine what he’d try with her.

  “Just stay away from my father.” I grip her wrist when she gives a small shake of her head and turns away. “I mean it, Brooklyn. I don’t need any more embarrassing situations.”

  “I’ve embarrassed you.” Her brows draw down, and I see the hurt in her eyes.

  Shit.

  “I just want you to be careful around him. Just remember why you’re here.”

  “Thank you for the reminder.” She tilts her chin and narrows her eyes. “I wouldn’t want to confuse this thing between us as anything more than a job.”

  That’s not what I fucking meant.

  I see the tears gathering, and I have to force myself not to pull her into my arms and tell her the truth. That it’s so much more than that. I’m just not the man that she deserves.

  “We’re expected at dinner,” I say stiffly, still holding onto her as if she’ll flee the minute I let go.

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “Don’t be stubborn. You haven’t eaten all day.”

  She doesn’t meet my gaze, just stares at the spot where my fingers connect with her flesh.

  “I’m really sorry about your mom,” she says softly. “I get why you don’t trust your father. Why you’re angry at the world. It sucks. But you’re not the only person in this world that’s suffered.”

  “I didn’t say I was.”

  “Maybe not. But you sure as hell act like it.” She pulls from my grip, then races to the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

  “Brooklyn.”

  A small sob is her only reply, then the sound of running water.

  What a fucking mess.

  I walk away, knowing there’s nothing I can say to make it better. Or at least nothing I’m willing to say. Because this thing between us can’t go any further than this weekend.

  Come Monday, we’ll go back to the way things were, the way that they should be.

  Her as my assistant.

  And me, her boss.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Brooklyn

  I don’t even want to go through with this anymore.

  There was a moment when I thought we made a real connection. But I’m just fooling myself thinking that Ross White will truly open up to anyone, least of all me.

  My stomach growls. He was right, I am being stubborn. I’m so freaking hungry my stomach hurts. But I can’t keep up this charade. It’s just too much.

  I walk around the room trying to figure out what I should do. I could call a cab. Or maybe I could convince Ross’ driver to take me home.

  Sure, it’ll mean that come Monday morning I’ll be out of a job. But can I really work with him after all this, anyways?

  No. I shake my head as I search for my phone. I need to call Dana. She’ll know what to do.

  “Brook?” There’s concern in her voice when she answers.

  “I need your help.”

  “What’s wrong?” She knows me too well, but I feel like a kid calling her about my troubles. I've never done that before.

  “Ross.”

  A small sigh. “What’s he done now?”

  “He’s like ice one minute and fire the next. I know this whole weekend was just supposed to be about sex, but…”

  “Your heart’s involved.”

  “Yes,” I sigh, knowing it’s the truth.

  The last twenty-four hours only confirmed my biggest fears. I’m in love with my boss.

  A man who only cares about two things – business and himself.

  “So come home. There’s a million fish in the sea. Sure, most aren’t hot, billionaires that look like Henry Cavill, but…” She giggles, and I hear a man’s voice in the background, which tells me that at least one of us is having a good time this weekend.

  “Sorry, you’ve got company.”

  “It’s fine. George can wait.”

  I hear a grunt of disproval.

  “George doesn’t sound very happy about waiting.”

  She laughs. “I’ll make it up to him.”

  I have no doubt she will.

  “What are you going to do?” Dana asks.

  “I don’t know.” I look in the direction of my side of the closet to see them full of dresses, which were picked by both Jessica and Wendy for me to enjoy. It seems a shame to let them go to waste.

  As if reading my mind, Dana says, “Go put on one of those fancy dresses he bought you and show him what he’ll be missing if he lets you go.”

  “You scare me sometimes.” I swear the woman has some weird psychic ability.

  “What?” she laughs.

  I shake my head, knowing she’s right. I’m acting juvenile. I signed up for this weekend, knowing full well what the conditions were.

  “Come back to bed.” I hear the guy who’s apparently waiting for Dana on the other end.

  “You’re right,” I say, forming a plan in my mind.

  “Good. Now can I get my groove on?”

  “Your groove?” I laugh at her quirky choice of words. “Sure, and get a bit on for me too.”

  “Go get your own.”

  Tossing my phone on the bed, I move to the closet and take out a hot red number, a cross-over dress that is sexier than anything I’d normally wear.

  I quickly wrap my hair up in a bun and apply make-up the same way that Carlos did back in the boutique to my neck. I find a pair of matching stilettos, then glance at my reflection in the mirror.

  Good enough.

  One more night.

  I can do this.

  Act the part. Be what he needs me to be. Show him what he’ll be missing when this game is all over.

  A woman dressed in a servant’s uniform meets me at the bottom of the spiral staircase. “Miss, the guests are waiting for you in the dining room.”

  She motions for me to follow her down the long hallway.

  I feel like Alice in Wonderland, because there's so many doors.

  I'm not used to wearing heels so high. I usually go for an inch or two, but these are at least three inches, and it takes all my concentration not to stumble.

  When the woman opens a set of doors that lead to the dining room, I stop and take in a deep breath.

  My eyes dart around the room to see six people seated at the grand mahogany table.

  A magnificent chandelier hangs in the middle of the room, and windows drawn open, displaying a picturesque view of the sea. But that isn’t what catches my eye. Not the strangers or even Ross, whose gaze is narrowed on me.

  What stops me in my tracks, and sends a stabbing pain in my belly, is Ella sitting next to Ross.

  What is she doing here?

  Did Ross know she was coming?

  “Brooklyn, so nice for you to join us. Ross said you weren’t feeling well.” It’s Ross’ father that speaks. He stands to guide me to my seat, which is opposite Ella. When he places his hand on my back to guide me, I can’t help but remember what Ross told me about him.

  I glance over at Ross. His nostrils flare as his gaze focuses on where his father’s hands touched me.

  Shit.

  “As usual, you look exceptionally lovely,” John says, pushing my chair in when I take a seat.

  “Thank you.” I lick my lips, a whirlwind of emotions whipping through me, battling with my out of control nerves.

  Ross doesn’t stop staring at me, despite the way Ella is all over him.

  She’s sitting in my spot. I should be beside him. And I would have been if I hadn’t
acted like a spoiled brat and locked myself in the bathroom. But it still doesn’t explain why she’s here.

  “You do look lovely, dear,” the lady on the left says to me. “I’m Louisa Holdgates and this is my husband, Stevan.”

  The silver-haired man on the other side of her gives me a small nod, then resumes talking to Ross’ father.

  As the dinner arrives, I find myself lost as I look at the cutlery.

  “Your soup, Miss.” The maid places an orange, pureed concoction in front of me, and the scent of curry and sweet potatoes makes my stomach growl.

  “Thank you,” I smile at her and reach for one of the three spoons. Nobody seems outraged by which one I pick, so I assume it’s the right one.

  Louisa seems to take pity because she focuses her attention in my direction.

  “Your dress is beautiful. Where did you get it?”

  “A small boutique on Strutton Boulevard. Ross had the ladies pick it out.”

  My cheeks warm, as all eyes turn to me. I hadn’t meant to make myself the center of attention, but my admission seemed to do just that.

  Ross coughs, and I see Ella’s face turn a shade of red.

  “I didn't know you knew anything about fashion,” Ella says to Ross, composing herself enough to give him a seductive smile, and placing her hand on his arm. “You really are full of surprises.”

  He doesn’t respond. Just glowers at me, like I’ve said something wrong.

  Shit.

  Ella turns her hawk-like gaze on me, “So, Brooklyn, I feel as if we’ve met, before last night?”

  Ross tenses even more, if it’s possible, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He clears his throat and reaches for his drink, downing the amber liquid in one swallow.

  “We have.” I glance at Ross for help, but he just looks away.

  One minute he’s all over me and the next, he’s treating me as if I’m at the bottom of the scrap pile. He knows how Ella knows me. She’d been to the office a couple of times when she was dating him, and each time she had asked me to do something unconventional, like, move her car out of the double space that she’d parked, or fetch her dry cleaning.

  Fetch was the operative word to use. She’d treated me like a dog.

  The woman has a way of words. The type that’s so sophisticated and stuck up that you always felt beneath her.

  “Where? Please remind me,” she says with her syrupy voice.

  All eyes are on me, waiting for my answer.

  “At the office,” I mutter, glancing down at my unfinished soup.

  Ella lets out a small gasp, then says, “You’re his secretary.”

  I cough, then reach for a glass of water.

  “Personal assistant,” I say quietly.

  “Really Ross, you couldn’t get a date for this weekend?” Ella laughs, obviously enjoying the situation. “You had to bring your secretary?”

  “Enough,” Ross growls out, making me jump. “Does it matter? Yes, Brooklyn is my assistant. So fucking what. Can we just eat?”

  The room is silent.

  All eyes are on me and I can only imagine what they’re thinking. That Ross paid me to be with him.

  Ella continues to chuckle, and the anger radiating from Ross is almost tangible.

  “I’m curious.” Ella taps her long nails on her plate, a smirk playing on her lips. “How much did he have to pay you to come here this weekend? And is there a bonus for sharing a bedroom–”

  “Enough,” Ross echoes my thoughts as he pushes his chair back and stands. “You don’t speak to her like that.

  “It’s fine,” I mumble, not wanting him to make the situation any more embarrassing. Which is exactly what he warned me not to do.

  Maybe I should have just lied.

  “It’s not fine. None of this is fine.” He slams one hand on the table causing plates and cutlery to rattle. “Let’s go, Brooklyn. Now.”

  “Sit down, son,” John says with a barely hidden restraint. “We have guests. Don’t be rude in front of my friends.”

  “Friends?” Ross laughs, coldly. “A friend you’re hoping will fund your campaign?”

  Louisa lets out a small gasp beside me.

  Ross leans across the table, dark gaze focused on his father. “How much does it cost to be your friend? One million? Two? Because I know how much it costs to be your son. Everything.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ross

  This is one big mess. I don’t lose my shit like that, not in public.

  Ella always has a way of winding me up. Even when we were dating. Like she knows exactly how to pull my strings. I knew the moment I saw her in the dining hall that she was there for one purpose – to cause trouble.

  But it was the way she attacked Brooklyn that set me off. Brooklyn wouldn’t hurt a fucking fly. She didn’t deserve the bullshit Ella pulled back there.

  And what was my father thinking, inviting that viper here?

  I take Brooklyn’s hand, ignoring the gaping stares of the others, and pull her out of the room.

  “Ross, stop. I can’t walk that fast in these shoes.”

  Stopping, I release her hand and drag my fingers through my hair. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter, I just want to go home.” She doesn’t look at me, just keeps her gaze downcast.

  “Okay, I’ll get the driver to collect our stuff and then–”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “Now. I can’t stay here. Not when everyone thinks I’m your….your whore.”

  “No one thinks that.”

  “Of course they do. And you know they’re kind of right. You’re paying me for this weekend. Paying me to have sex with you–”

  “I am not paying you for sex.”

  “Really? So that wasn’t your intention when you made the agreement?”

  “I never forced you.” My stomach twists. Did she feel like she didn’t have a choice?

  “No.” She looks away, eyes clouded with what I can only interpret as self-loathing. “I wanted it. But that’s the problem.”

  I take a step towards her, and she puts her hand out to stop me.

  “This was a really bad idea.” Her eyes are clouded now, and I can tell she’s trying to hold back the tears from falling. “I should have known it would end this way.”

  But she hadn’t. I see it now. The glimmer of hope. The desire for more than I could ever give her.

  I wasn’t built for relationships. Brooklyn must have known that. She’s been working with me for six months, and apart from the first couple of weeks when I was seeing Ella, she hasn’t seen me with anyone else.

  Until her.

  “Brooklyn, I–”

  “Please. Can we just go?”

  “What about your clothes?”

  “I don't want them.”

  Letting out a heavy sigh, I run my hands over my face. “I’ll have someone collect them and bring them to your apartment.”

  She shrugs, and starts down the hall towards the foyer. I follow her outside, not knowing what to say, or how I’m going to fix this.

  “Home,” I say to the driver when he meets us at the car.

  Brooklyn sits in the limo, posture stiff, expression distant, making sure that she’s as far away from me as possible.

  As the engine starts, I lean my head back and close my eyes. What a fucking difference a few hours can make. Coming here there was nothing between us, just lust, and if I’m honest with myself, something more. The first spark of emotion that I’ve felt. Ever.

  Now, I just feel empty. I listen to the sound of the engine and the wind as I roll down the window slightly.

  She’s hurting. Because of me. I hate myself for it.

  Then fix it, asshole.

  “I’m sorry about what Ella said to you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She shrugs and continues to look out the window. “People like her will always find some reason to look down on people like me.”

  “People like you?” I narrow my eyes, kno
wing what she means, and also knowing that she puts me in the same category as Ella. People of privilege and money. People who look down on those who have less than us.

  Brooklyn looks at me then. I can’t see much in the darkness, but I can feel the pain in her gaze.

  “You think we’re so different, and maybe in some ways we are. But I understand more than you think I do.”

  There’s something dark hidden in her words.

  “What do you understand, Brooklyn?”

  The thought of her suffering seems unlikely. She’s always been so put together. But what do I really know about her anyways?

  She shrugs and looks away again.

  “Don’t do that.” I move closer to her, but she draws back. “Tell me what you meant?”

  “Just that. Everyone has a story.” She twists her fingers together and shakes her head.

  “I’d like to know yours.” I place my hand over hers, stopping her from fidgeting.

  She glances at me, green eyes sharp. “Why?”

  “It’s only fair. I shared mine with you” I try to smile, but it comes out forced.

  Silence stretches between us.

  Finally, she says softly, “I understand the pain you went through with your mom.”

  She tries to pull her hand away, but I tighten my grip. “Tell me.”

  “My dad was always hopping from job to job. He could never seem to keep one for long, so we moved around a lot.”

  She goes quiet.

  “Brooklyn?”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

  She takes a deep breath. “My dad got a job working on construction sites. He would go away for days, sometimes weeks at a time, come home exhausted, and...changed.”

  She uses the same word I did to describe my mom’s drinking.

  Shit. The thought of her suffering through even half the hell I did makes my stomach coil.

  “He was drinking. Heavily. Started going to work drunk. Eventually got laid off. The bills started to pile up slowly. Mom did her best, working two jobs, but it was never enough.”

  More silence. I don’t push her, knowing she’ll continue when she’s ready. Her fingers twine through mine, and we both sit their staring at our conjoined hands.

  “I begged my mom to leave him. But she never did. He would accuse her of having affairs. One time he went to her work, he ended up going to the wrong place, because she was working a shift at a different one…”