Page 19 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

Eep. “Technically…no.”

“Are no and technically no the same thing?”

“Kind of.”

“Is something holding you back?” he asked gently.

“You mean, apart from anxiety, insecurity, and raging imposter syndrome?”

“Yes.”

I sighed. “I guess I keep tinkering pointlessly with it?”

Even little silences felt epic on the phone.

Finally, he said: “Would it help if you shared it with me?”

I blinked. “Seriously? You want to read my crappy article?”

“Well, I did. But”—his voice turned teasing—“now you’ve told me it’s crappy, I’ve changed my mind.”

“Hey, I’m just managing your expectations. I…um…I could read it to you. If you have, y’know. The interest.”

“Of course. Give me a moment.” I heard the click of a lighter. Followed by Caspian’s indrawn breath. “How about we make a pact? You read it to me and then submit it to Milieu.”

“What if you think it’s terrible?”

“Unless I think it’s terrible. But if I don’t think it’s terrible, you have to send it.”

“Um. All right.”

Wait. What was happening?

Had I really offered to read my article to Caspian? And had he really said yes? I was suddenly and completely overwhelmed by self-consciousness. This was a man whose time was so valuable he needed his own plane. Also, what if I sucked? What if I sucked so badly he stopped believing I was charming and special and adorable? What if I put him off wanting to fuck me?

Ahhhhhhh!

But then. Did I trust Caspian or didn’t I? In what deranged world did I live in, that I as up for him tying me up and hitting me, but so-so on showing him some words I’d arranged into a particular order? And, hell, if I didn’t have the bollocks to share this with someone who was demonstrably on my side, how in God’s name was I going to face editors and publishers and a public who would have nothing else to judge me by?

So I did it. I read the damn article to Caspian Hart.

And he was…nice about it. I wished I could have seen his face, but he made soft, amused noises at the bits I’d intended to be funny and, afterward, he told me he liked it with just the right amount of conviction that I got all flustered and glowy. As praise went it was pretty straightforward, but any more and I would have felt patronized. I was under no illusions that what I’d produced was a heartbreaking work of staggering genius. But I hoped it was, well, good enough to entertain someone while they were on the loo or stuck in a queue anyway.

“You have a very engaging voice,” Caspian said. “Although, of course, I’m somewhat biased.”

I squirmed with pleasure. “Thank you.”

“Given this is not my field and I have little experience or expertise to bring to bear, would my feedback have any value to you?”

And that was when I realized he was self-conscious too—in his own way—and wanting to be helpful. It steeled my nerves and made me nod pointlessly into the phone. “Absolutely.”

My trepidation wasn’t entirely unjustified. You didn’t become a billionaire through sensitivity and good karma. I was half expecting him to annihilate me—not maliciously, but by dint of having no conception of how lesser mortals might feel about things. But he was actually perfect. Focused and thoughtful and…gentle, so that rather than leaving me crushed into the dust, I felt weirdly excited about what I’d written. The ways I could refine it and make it even better.

None of his observations were particularly harsh—they just drew my attention in small, careful ways to places where my meaning wasn’t quite clear or the structure wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t anything any other moderately astute reader couldn’t have told me. Except it was exactly what I needed. And it was even better because it was Caspian.

I didn’t for a moment believe this was how he interacted when he was billionaire-ing. But it still offered a glimpse of that side of him. A man who, for all his cold ways and his locked-up heart, understood people. And how to motivate and inspire them.

“I, ah, I hope it’s useful,” he finished. “I’m not exactly a literary critic.”