Page 11 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)

DAMIEN

“ S o, who’s the girl?” Wyatt asks, holding up his phone to show the lead story on Page Six. It has a photo of me with Willow.

In his defense, I’m looking at her with a strange expression on my face. Something between respect, puzzlement, and annoyance. Since I generally just look annoyed in press photos, his question is valid.

Who’s the girl? Hell if I know. I’ve been trying to figure that out for days. Willow has occupied my mind since I first saw her with that kitten in the middle of the street. Who is she? And more importantly, who is she to me?

Finn looks over at Wyatt’s phone and whistles. “She’s hot.”

I growl.

The other five look at me over their cards. Great. Now I’ve done it.

“Oh, I think someone might be a wee bit possessive.” Finn laughs, pushing back his sun-kissed blond hair, mussing it even more than it already was. “Too bad.”

“Yeah. Too bad. I mean, that rack—” Brad teases .

“Do not finish that sentence if you want to live,” I snap.

They all look at me again curiously. “Okay, who had Damien down as ‘first to lose the bet’ on their bingo card?” Finn chuckles.

“He’s not married yet,” Gabe says in a measured tone, examining his cards. “Bet.”

“Fold.” Wyatt sets his cards down. “Sorry, this is too interesting to move past so fast. Damien getting all possessive over a woman?”

“Are we playing cards here or not?” Alec asks in a clipped tone.

“Not,” Finn responds easily. “We’re talking about a bet with much higher stakes now.”

Obviously, they are not going to let this go. “I’d rather play cards, if you don’t mind,” I grump, burying my face in my cards.

Finn laughs. “Check it out. His ears are pink.”

“You know what, fuck this.” I toss my cards onto the table. “I’ve got an appointment to get to anyway. I can be early. She won’t be, but I will.”

“Oh? Does she not have a schedule rammed up her ass?” Finn grins.

I think my ears might be more than just pink now, because there is about to be steam coming out of them. “ She is a wonderful person, but she’s undisciplined. And she is cheerful all the damn time.” Scowling, I shake my head. “No, I’m in no danger of losing our bet.”

Wyatt glances at me. “So you wouldn’t mind if I swung by Silver Hearts and?—”

“I mind. Now leave it alone,” I grumble. I snatch up what little is left of my pile of chips and head for the door while the others chuckle and toss aggravating comments after me .

“Don’t be such a grump!” Alec calls out as I’m stalking out of the room.

I’m so tired of being called a grump I could scream.

Once I’m in my Mercedes, I smack my hands on the steering wheel, then press my forehead to the leather.

I have to get Willow Harper out of my mind.

I just have to. We’re from two completely different worlds.

There’s no way I should be attracted to her.

No fucking way.

And yet…

Damn it all to hell, I am.

I reluctantly return to the Silver Hearts office fifteen minutes early for our meeting. To my absolute shock, Abby is not the only person there. Willow is sitting in her office among her piles of files. However, the chair she cleared off for me is open, waiting for my arrival.

She’s turning something on stiff cardstock over and over in her hands, but when she sees me, she quickly pops it in her top desk drawer. “Oh, hey! You’re early.”

“So are you, I see.” Her warm smile is hard to resist. I take the chair across from her and take my tablet out of my briefcase. I pull up the file related to the fundraiser. I’m trying not to look at her, but as the silence continues, I glance up and my pulse quickens.

Willow is wearing a dress with a somewhat tighter bodice than usual.

Her luscious breasts are two beautiful, trembling mounds swelling just over the top.

When she breathes, the fabric stretches just enough that I can imagine the full, perky globes.

My hands itch to touch them. Hell, my hands itch to touch her anywhere.

I realize I’m ogling her and force my eyes to continue up the pale line of her neck to her heart-shaped mouth and finally up to her mysterious hazel eyes. She isn’t looking at me, though. I’m relieved I haven’t been caught.

“Willow?” I ask, clearing my throat pointedly. I want to get down to business and get out of here before I’m tempted to do something truly stupid. Like actually kiss her.

“Hmm? Sorry. Sorry. Right. Um… where were we?” She’s flustered, and while it would annoy the hell out of me on anyone else, the only thing irritating me at the moment is the way my cock is responding to Willow’s every movement.

“Oh, yes,” she says, searching for the pen that’s barely visible under one of the piles of paper on her desk.

“I was asking about the venue’s accessibility, right?

We may have clients coming, and many of them use wheelchairs and other assistive devices. ”

I raise an eyebrow. “We covered that at our last meeting.”

“Right. Right! Um… what were we talking about again?” She gives me a sheepish smile.

“We hadn’t started on anything yet. I just got here, remember?” I respond, frowning slightly. Honestly, sometimes this woman is in her own little world, but right now, I think she might be universes away.

“Right,” she says again. She opens a folder in front of her, realizes it’s the wrong one, and then goes hunting for another in the pile next to her desk.

I’m used to her informal color-coding system now, so I pull the purple folder immediately to her left between us while she is still thumbing her way through a stack on the right. “Willow, it’s this one. ”

“Huh?” she asks, and I give the folder a little shake. “Oh! Oh, right. Yes, that’s the one.”

“Purple is for the Silver Hearts Charity Dinner, donations, and donor information.” I’m reminding her of her own system, I know, but she’d also been digging in a pile that had not one purple folder in it, so I was starting to worry if she was going a bit senile like some of the people she serves.

Is it stress? I wonder as she opens the folder upside-down and just stares at the contents blankly.

I pointedly turn the folder around. “Does that help?”

“Oh! Yes, immensely.” She blushes. “Sorry.” She looks up at me and grins. “No press tonight?”

“No,” I say emphatically. “God, no. I didn’t want to drag them around here the first time. It’s that stupid Alfred…” I begin working up a full head of steam just thinking about him.

She winces. “I was joking.”

“Oh.” I back off my tirade.

She falls silent and stares down at the folder again, but she still doesn’t seem to be focused.

I clear my throat. “Last week we left off on whether or not we want to do a silent auction. Or, rather, what we wanted to auction. I think we both decided it was a good idea,” I prompt her. “We just had a difference of opinion on what was appropriate to auction at a high-end charity function.”

A pensive little furrow creases her forehead.

“Yes, I remember. I said I wanted us to auction items our clients have made. Some of them are very gifted crafters. Tony Marzetti is a top-notch woodworker and Pamela Finch makes quilts you wouldn’t believe!

She’s friends with Betty Nordam who can crochet anything—and I do mean anything.

She’s got a whole host of Baby Yodas marching along the back of her sofa right now. ”

“Baby… Yoda….” I repeat, blinking at her.

She waves her hand. “Okay, I think it turns out the thing’s name is Grogu. I should probably call the little guy by his proper name, right?”

“That wasn’t why…” I begin.

“Oh! And baked goods. So many baked goods! I’m sure Juana would love to make some Guatemalan breads for sure. Or dulces of some kind. They’re not as sweet as some people like, but they are sooo good, trust me,” she goes on.

I think of the lawsuits Silver Hearts would get if any of the homemade baked goods caused food poisoning, even accidentally. “That’s not really a good?—”

“Did you know Jack Cromer still does pottery out of his garage?” she says excitedly.

That stops me. “Jack Cromer? The sculptor? He’s one of your clients?”

Willow puts a finger to her lips. “Yes. But he doesn’t like that broadcasted around.

I’m only telling you because we might be asking him for some pieces.

” She looks sad. “He lost a lot of money in his divorce, and then again when the housing bubble burst and the stock market took a dive a while ago. He’s developed a hand tremor and doesn’t think any of his current works are good enough to sell, and he doesn’t have the resources to get home care.

He’s one of those people who isn’t poor enough to qualify for services through the county or state, but also doesn’t have enough money to hire the help he needs. ”

“Is that who’s been on your mind this whole time? Jack Cromer?” I ask. “Any work by Jack Cromer, whether he thinks it’s good enough or not, would be well-received at a charity auction.”

She raises her chin. “I think all of their crafts would be well-received at a Silver Hearts charity event.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Not unless you also added twelve-year-old scotch to the basket.”

Willow perks up. “Wait, we can do that!”

“What?” I ask.

“Your idea! We can make baskets. We can put things in there that you think are more appropriate for a high-end charity event, but we can also put the clients’ crafts inside as well,” she replies. “I think it will make them unique and charming.”

I stare at her for a moment. Then I crack a smile. “That’s actually not a half-bad idea. It would make them unique. I also know of a boutique North Fork winery that I’m sure would donate some of their best bottles for visibility at such an event.”

Her own smile falters and I frown. “Willow? What’s the matter? You have a problem with wine?”

“No. It’s just…” She sighs and opens the drawer where she’d secreted away the card stock she’d been looking at when I came in. She hands the rectangular, embossed, heavy card over to me.

I glance at it and I still have no clue what the problem is.

“It’s an invitation to an Alzheimer’s Search for the Cure event at the Westchester Country Club.

That seems like it would be right up your alley.

It would probably also be a great place to mingle with potential donors and give a few pitches for the Silver Hearts charity event. ”

Willow then takes out a letter and hands it to me. I skim it.. The invitation is for Willow to speak at the Alzheimer’s Charity Speaking Engagement—tonight. I look up at her and grin. “They’ve invited you to say a few words about Silver Hearts? That’s great.”

“I know, right?”

She’s obviously not enthused about the invitation. “What’s wrong? Are you nervous about speaking? That doesn’t seem like you.”

“I’m not nervous about speaking,” she replies glumly. “It’s a fancy country club gala. And I don’t have a date.”

“A date? What does that have to do with anything?”

She points to the bottom of the letter. “‘We look forward to meeting you and your plus one,’” she quotes.

“Ah.” I think about her predicament. Not to mention mine.

Silver Hearts could really use the visibility and, though I hate to admit it, so could I.

Alfred Rothchild will probably blow his combover right off if he sees me being proactive about my own image.

It’s really a no-brainer. “If you need a date, I’ll take you. ”

She gapes at me, incredulous. “You will? Really? But it’s such late notice. I’m sure you must have something already on your schedule for tonight.”

I probably do, but damn if I can think of anything I’d rather be doing than solving this little problem for her. And for myself. It’s a win-win. “It’s no trouble at all.”

“Damien, that’s… I can’t thank you enough.”

The ease with which she accepts my albeit forceful self-invitation warms me to my core. I’m suddenly excited, too. I have no idea why. I’ve been to a thousand of these things and all I’ve ever really been was bored stiff.

But now I get to go with Willow. The idea intrigues me more than I’m willing to admit. God knows, nothing is ever boring with her around .

“I’ll pick you up at five-thirty sharp,” I warn her gruffly as I message Rhonda and add the gala to my schedule in my phone.

Willow grins at me. “I’ll try not to be even a minute late.”

“I mean it, Willow. If you’re not downstairs when I arrive, I will go in and carry you out in your underwear if I have to.” I can’t keep the grumpiness in my tone, however. I smile, even as I say, “You’re far too loose with time.”

“Yes, Mr. Organized, I will be ready on time. Mainly because I don’t really want to give a speech about Silver Hearts in my underwear.” She giggles. “Though it might attract some attention to the organization.”

“Hmm.” I suddenly don’t like the idea of Willow being in her underwear in front of anyone. Anyone who isn’t me, that is.

She either doesn’t catch my grumble or chooses to ignore it. “Now, about the baskets…”

I watch her as she uncovers her errant pen and starts scribbling notes, her demeanor back to its usual thousand-megawatt brightness.

She babbles on about the fundraiser and I nod where it seems appropriate while I stare at her sweet little mouth and the pink gloss on her lips that makes me think about all the places I’d like to feel those lips on my body.

Each time she stretches to reach for a file on her cluttered desk it’s all I can do to keep from lunging across it and dragging her into my arms.

Damn. I don’t know what kind of hold this woman has on me, but it’s getting harder to fight it. Harder to admit I’m not totally turned on by everything about her—even the aggravating parts. Christ, maybe especially those.

Willow Harper is not my type. She doesn’t come from my world, I remind myself sternly. And there’s a million bucks saying I shouldn’t be thinking about her, anyway.

“What do you think, Damien?” she asks.

“Hmm?” This time I’m the one who sounds genuinely confused. I’ve been too busy wondering what Willow looks like in her underwear. And out of it.

“The baskets?” she prompts me. “Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

Shit. Now it’s my turn to be embarrassed. “Of course I have. The baskets. Right. Whatever you think is best.”