Page 3 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad

I open and shut my mouth. Jesus, was I this difficult growing up? This stubborn? At least, I know where she gets it from. My daughter's a chip off the old block. Warmth fills my chest. I've delivered many chart-topping hits in my career, but my proudest creation is, without doubt, this lively little bundle right here.

"You don’t want pancakes?" I tilt my head and hold her gaze.

She juts out her chin, then, "Fine, fine." She throws up her hands, in a very grown-up gesture. "You choose the book, just as long as I can see you when I wake up."

2

Julia

"Did you know that hating someone feels disturbingly similar to loving them?" the female radio announcer asks her co-host.

"You mean when your stomach twists at the thought of that person and your chest hurts?" The man responds.

"Oh, so you do get it?" she exclaims.

"I thought that was heartburn." He chuckles.

She groans, "Wolfbane you suck, you know that?"

"It’s Wolfe, and PS, that’s only one of my many talents, darling Poison Ivy."

"It’s Ivy," she retorts, "and if you’re listening, don’t forget to tune into the next episode of this guest edition of the Daily Date, where we invite you to speed date on air. Send your application via email to—"

I switch off the ignition of the Volkswagen, and the radio shuts off. Speed date...and that, too, on-air? Who'd set themselves up for that torture, huh? The only thing worse will be walking into this party where I don't know most of the guests. I glance up at the imposing building that overlooks the Thames. What the hell am I doing here?

I should be back at my apartment—okay, technically my friend, Amelie's apartment. Right about now, I’d like nothing better than to be tucked into bed and sleeping; instead, I'd accepted Amelie’s boyfriend’s invitation to a Christmas gathering because… Well, I don’t want to disappoint them. Besides, I do want to see her, and if that means having to put up with a bunch of strangers, well then, guess I’ll simply have to suck it up.

I get out of the car, walk into the reception area of the apartment block. The porter glances up at me.

"Julia Andrews here to see—"

"I know." He smiles. "They're in the penthouse." He jerks his chin toward the bank of elevators, "I was told to expect you."

Right. And of course, it had to be the penthouse. Where else do full-of-themselves, upper-class prats live, huh? Okay, come on. So maybe I shouldn’t judge them before meeting them. Yeah, best save that for later. I chuckle as I ride up the elevator to the top floor. I step out, and straight into a living room filled with so much natural light that I blink. Talk about being on display, huh? The floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end reveal a view of London that makes me catch my breath. I walk forward, then pause when I spot Amelie, and next to her, a familiar face. Wha—? No, it can't be, can it?

He glances in my direction and my pulse begins to thud.

He stares at me and the full blast of those arctic blue eyes slams into my chest. I gulp; my stomach twists. The rays from the setting sun casts the lower half of his face in shadow. His shoulders bunch as he glares across the short distance that separates us.

He tilts his head, and I take in the hollows beneath those cheekbones, the hooked nose, that prominent jawline, that beautiful throat with tendons that flex, the hollow at the base of his throat, and that sculpted chest… That gorgeous eight pack, which obviously, I cannot see through his T-shirt, but I know is there because the last time I saw it was on the celebrity gossip sites. I blink. No, it can’t be. Is it…is he who I think he is? I frown; he glowers back.

He props his hands on his hips and his biceps stretch the sleeves of his leather jacket, which only enhances the breadth of his massive shoulders.

He widens his stance, drawing my attention to those narrow hips, the powerful thighs clad in jeans with the kind of distressed look that he must have paid thousands to get just right.

He slides his hand into the pocket of his jeans, outlining the length of what he’s packing… And trust me when I tell you that all of those accounts by the paparazzi don’t do justice to Damian 'Big D' Savage. Bad boy rock star, famous for his onstage tantrums and offstage dalliances. What’s he doing here?

I move forward. Damian’s scowl deepens. What’s his problem?

He rakes his gaze down my face, to my chest, down to my hips, my ankles, then says something to Amelie.

Amelie frowns at him, then jerks her chin in my direction.

Gah! Are they talking about me? No. No way. He can't be interested in me, can he?

I drag my fingers through my shoulder length hair. My fingernail catches on a knot. Damn. I should have, at least, made an attempt to freshen up before coming here, huh? Except, I couldn’t be bothered. Not after the debacle that my life has turned out to be.

I’d gone to Australia, excited to be with my boyfriend and looking forward to exploring an entire freaking new continent. I had returned heartbroken, with no savings and in urgent need of a job to pay my bills. Welcome to my sorry-ass life, peeps. That's why I’ve sworn off men. And that includes hot as hell, macho rock icons as well... Right?