Page 10 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)

WILLOW

M y mind spins as quickly as the pen in my hand as I think about Damien and our almost kiss for what has to be the hundredth time.

I would have done it, too. I totally would have fused my lips to that tempting mouth of his and given him the most toe-curling kiss he’d ever had.

I think it would have been the same for me—a spectacular, fireworks inducing, tell-your-grandkids-one-day-about-it kiss.

The kind of kiss that would be the last thing you lost in late-life senility.

A dreamy sigh slips from my lips as my office door swings open and Abby pokes her head around the door.

She clears her throat and gives me a slightly panicked look. “Ms. Harper, sorry to interrupt your work.”

Ms. Harper? Since when does she call me that? “Is everything okay?”

She looks around. “Mr. Langley is here.”

I glance at the Minnie Mouse alarm clock on my desk. “He’s twenty minutes early.”

The pen still twirling between my fingers suddenly falls on the desk. I scramble to catch it, but it rolls off and under my chair. I scoop it up and smack my head on the desk as I straighten. Rubbing my now pulsing skull, I frown. “Tell him I’ll be right out.”

Abby anxiously looks over her shoulder and disappears. She is immediately replaced by the living and breathing definition of my daydream.

Damien walks into my office wearing a polo shirt and honest-to-god jeans. If he hadn’t been mouthwateringly handsome before—which he definitely was—he sure is now. It feels like someone’s put a heat lamp on over me and suddenly I need a cool drink of water.

He’s also talking to me, which I only realize after I’ve ogled him in mute stupefaction for several moments.

“…a few reporters,” he finishes, sounding annoyed.

“Sorry, did you say reporters?” I repeat distantly, trying ever so hard not to get caught up in the pleasing fit of his shirt over the hard planes and muscled slabs of his broad chest and trim torso.

In my defense, there is nowhere to look!

Every inch of him is perfectly sculpted, including his face.

“Yes, Willow.” He sighs, looking miserable.

“Okay.” I don’t want him to know I wasn’t listening. Mostly I don’t want him to know why I wasn’t listening. I turn my smile up to 100 and look into those mesmerizing emerald green eyes of his. “Should we get the day started? We need to load the van.”

He gives me an odd look, then shrugs and heads out of my office to walk toward the back where the loading area is located.

I know I’m going to hell for this, but I cop another look at his wide shoulders and perfect butt as he stalks ahead of me.

How soft must his thick black hair be? I’m willing to bet it’ll feel amazing in my hands.

Preferably while he’s got me pinned beneath him on a bed somewhere and making me scream in pleasure.

Oh, god. Eye-fucking my company’s temporary help is probably not a great way to start the day. I have to focus! I follow Damien out back where he’s already begun loading meals into the van to ask him what he was trying to tell me about reporters, when a flash makes me jump.

“Mr. Langley, how long have you been helping out at Silver Hearts?” a woman, clearly a reporter, asks, holding up her phone and taking another flash photo.

I don’t see why she needs to have the flash on in broad daylight, but I’m not a photographer. “What the—?” I murmur.

“Ms. Harper, what’s it like having Damien Langley working for Silver Hearts?” another reporter, a man this time, asks me.

Oh. This is what he meant. I swallow my disappointment and dial my smile up to 150.

Try to think of the upside. This could be good press for Silver Hearts, too, after all.

I can roll with this. “It’s great! He’s a hard worker and really cares about the people we serve.

As you know, Silver Hearts is dedicated to keeping elderly people in their homes for as long as possible.

Providing the means for our community’s seniors to lead fulfilling lives and to enjoy their later years at home is not just our mission, but our passion!

We’re so happy Mr. Langley has chosen our organization?—”

“Mr. Langley? My question?” the female reporter interrupts rudely.

There are at least fifteen reporters standing behind her, all of them vibrating with questions I know are going to come bursting out of them at any second .

“I’ve been volunteering here for a little over a week,” Damien replies, still going back and forth with stacks of meals. His voice is very cold.

Oh shit. I hadn’t noticed before, but Damien Langley has absolutely no game when it comes to PR.

“It’s been such an exciting ten days,” I say quickly. “Mr. Langley’s been doing the meal rounds with me—unfortunately, one of our volunteers is out sick and we need to cover her shift—and not only is he good with our clients, but he’s been helping me plan a fundraiser for Silver Hearts?—”

“Uh-huh,” the woman cuts me off.

Damien’s eyes flash. He’s completely aware that the reporter is being rude to me. He doesn’t like it. And he’s not hiding that fact very well. His scowl darkens and I swear he’s only about two seconds away from barking something disastrous at these vultures.

“Mr. Langley, over here!” another reporter calls. “After the recent article in The Adirondack Gazette, is this just a publicity stunt to bolster your image so you don’t lose your contract with Guardian Productions?”

Damien scoffs. “I was not aware that pathetic little wannabe newspaper had a name.”

Oh. My. Jesus.

I step in swiftly, even though I have no idea what article they’re talking about.

“What Mr. Langley means to say, of course, is that he was caught off-guard by the negative press. I can personally vouch for his character. This is no publicity stunt. Mr. Langley has dedicated much of his precious time to getting Silver Hearts ready for a successful fundraiser. He also went on rounds with me—when he didn’t have to—and he volunteered to fix one of our clients’ stoves.

He did it quite well, by the way. Now she can be independent in her home and cook her own meals.

” I glance at Damien and give him a smile meant to reassure him that I’ve got his back.

“This is just one example of how Mr. Langley, and Silver Hearts as a whole, make it possible for older adults to maintain their independence. Mr. Langley isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, and I like that about him.

Some people would just throw a check our way and be done with it, but Mr. Langley has really been stepping up. ”

Damien stares at me without blinking for a full thirty seconds. Then, without adding anything further, he returns to loading the meals.

“The article did paint you as quite a monster—” the female reporter I am really starting to dislike begins.

“Oh, would you look at the time!” I say, physically placing myself between Damien and the pack of reporters. “Mr. Langley, is that the last of the meals?” I ask as he carries out the final load.

He stacks them in the back of the van and nods. “It is.” He glares balefully at the reporters, so I turn him around and give him a well-meaning nod toward the passenger side of the van before he can say anything worse than he already has.

“Thanks for coming out today, everyone. Now, we need to be getting to the clients before they start gnawing their arms off!” I say cheerfully as I yank the driver’s door open.

“Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you not to follow us.

I am serious about maintaining the privacy of our clients.

Many older people feel ashamed that they need help, and I don’t feel a need for them to be broadcast. I’m sure you understand. ”

The members of the press mumble unhappily to each other, but I can also tell they’re eyeing each other like a school of great white sharks denied a juicy feast. I get the sense we’re not going to be followed, though.

They’re all too busy deciding if they’re going to eat each other.

I climb into the driver’s seat and carefully maneuver around the reporters to get out of the back alley.

“Smile and wave,” I say sharply to Damien through a smile that could power Manhattan for a week. “Smile and wave.”

Damien blinks, then puts on a professional smile and waves to the press as we pass.

It’s not like his real smile. I’ve seen his real smile.

In fact, his professional smile leaves me a bit.

.. cold. Not that there’s anything particularly wrong with it, and I’m sure it’ll come out great in the media.

I just know him well enough to value his genuine smile more.

“Mrs. Baumgartner today?” he asks as soon as we’re clear of the news vans.

“Yes.” I frown at him. “So, you brought the press today?”

He grimaces. “My board insisted on it.”

“Got a little negative press somewhere, did we?” I needle him. I feel bad about it when his shoulders stiffen, however.

“The Adirondack Gazette misrepresented something I said,” he grumbles.

“A couple of weeks ago, one of their reporters—if they even have more than one—painted me like some sort of thug who was throwing people out of their houses and onto the street. I was telling Bill, the negotiator for that particular project, to offer the people double the value of their houses so we could purchase the area for Guardian Productions’ new studio.

They quoted me as saying, ‘They should be happy to give up their homes for this project.’ Completely out of context. ”

“I see. So, you did need a little PR bump after that,” I say. I try not to sound accusing, but it comes out in my tone.

Damien sighs. “Yes. I did. And my board arranged this whole thing. But the truth is, I’ve enjoyed doing it. And I’ve enjoyed spending time with you.” His face is stiff as though he resents saying it, which is how I know he’s sincere.

“Well, I’m not exactly happy about the PR stunt back there,” I mutter. “But it is good press for Silver Hearts. A little warning over the phone would have been appreciated.”

“I’m sorry, Willow,” he says, sounding sincerely remorseful.

I grin at him. “You know, you nearly blew it back there. Again! Then what would you have done?”

He purses his lips. “I suppose I did nearly blow it again.”

“Hopefully, tomorrow’s headline isn’t ‘pathetic little wannabe newspaper,’” I tease him.

Damien groans and drops his head into his hands. “God, no. The board will filet me. Alfred Rothchild will bring the knife. He wants me to step down as CEO. Or, rather, I think he’d prefer it if I were thrown out under a cloud of shame.”

“I’m sorry.” I wince, recalling Damien has mentioned the animosity between him and this particular member of his board. “This Alfred Rothchild sounds delightful.”

“He’s not.” He sits back up and stares out the window, his features tight.

“You know,” I say, “the clients love you. You’re not such a grumpy Gus around them.

And you really are a hard worker. I appreciate all the effort you’re putting in, even if I also know you really did just want to write a check and be done with it.

I’m glad that I—we—have you here to help.

And I’m glad you stopped that day on the street instead of just driving past me. ”

Damien rubs the back of his neck, then smiles slightly. A real smile. “If I hadn’t, what would have happened to poor Pixie?”

Is he actually joking around with me? I tilt my head at him. “I suppose I could’ve tried biking with him down my bra. ”

He chuckles. “That would’ve been quite a sight.” His gaze drifts to my chest and I blush when his eyes linger there a moment longer than necessary. He licks his lips, then squeezes his eyes shut.

My heart does a little flip at his reaction.

The van suddenly feels very small and I’m hyperaware of how close we are.

All I can think about is that moment the other day, when we almost kissed in my office.

How his eyes had lingered on my mouth, how the air between us had sizzled with possibility before he seemed to catch himself and gruffly drew away from me.

Does he ever think about it too? At moments like this, when he’s clearly trying to resist whatever this gravitational pull is between us? I should probably be trying to resist it as well. We’re from two completely different worlds.

I force myself to focus on the road, gripping the steering wheel a bit tighter than necessary.

“I think you should stick with us for a while,” I tell him, proud of how steady my voice sounds.

“You’ll get a lot more good PR. And you are a good worker and good with the elderly. You’re just not good with the press.”

“Oh?” he replies. “That bad, am I?”

“Damien, you have absolutely no game. None. Not a bit.” I laugh, then realize he’s frowning at me. “But we can fix that.”

“We?” I feel his eyes on me, studying me from his side of the vehicle. I glance his way, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. Curiosity? Gratitude? He exhales a sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “All right, then. What do you suggest we do when the press show up again?”

“You? Smile and wave. Let me handle the rest,” I say emphatically, trying to keep things light and professional despite the butterflies in my stomach .

He grins, then chuckles. “I suppose I can do that.”

“Good.” I look at him again and find him smiling at me. His real smile, the one that reaches his eyes, softening them from sharp emerald to something warmer. It makes me wonder how many people get to see this version of Damien Langley.

“Good,” he says, his deep voice wrapping around my senses and unleashing a fresh swarm of butterflies.

“Good,” I say yet again, so caught up in his smile I nearly rear-end the car in front of us before I slam on the brakes just in the nick of time. Shit.

Now, who’s the one with no game?