Page 5 of Vicious Arrangement (Alpha Billionaire Daddies #7)

Chapter Five

ARIA

After a double shift at the hospital three days later, my bones are so exhausted I can barely move.

I’m exhausted and the only thing on my mind is ordering in pizza and a night snuggled in front of the TV with Angus.

After a shower because I’m filthy and I probably smell like Quentin Memorial, so when my phone buzzes, I answer it in a daze.

“Hi, Gramps, what’s up? I’m still coming to dinner on Sun?—”

“Aria, I just heard back from Noah. I’ll text you the details for dinner tonight for the two of you. And if you change your mind, let me know. I’ll deal with it, darling girl.”

“No, it’s good. Love you.”

I hang up. Who the hell is Noah and what dinner?

I manage five steps before I falter, and it’s like a shot of adrenaline to my system.

Oh, fuck.

Noah.

As in Noah Templeton, the man I told Gramps I’d marry. Shit.

My insides clench, but it’s nothing compared to the flare of heat when my phone buzzes once.

Gramps: 7 pm. Wolf’s Bane in Greenwich Village. It’s followed by a phone number for Noah.

Shit. I call Katie in a panic. “Can you meet me? That monster of a man, Noah has decided to have dinner tonight and just got a reservation at one of the coolest restaurants below Fourteenth Street. And I don’t have time to shop. I need a dress.”

She squeals. She actually squeals. “I’ll meet you at your place in twenty minutes. Be showered and ready to throw on a dress and jump in an Uber. Got it?”

“Wait, I just need something simple. Black will do, but pretty and worthy of that place. I don’t have anything that says date but expensive dinner.” I wore my one good dress out to her birthday dinner, which is why it’s usually at work in my locker for emergencies.

But it’s in a ball on my floor waiting for a visit to the dry cleaners.

“One totally hot dress coming up.”

Crap. I roll my eyes and just mutter, “hurry up or I’ll put you on Angus duty.”

“Are you kidding? I love Angus!”

I get home and jump in the shower. My hair takes a few extra precious minutes to blow dry into some semblance of tameness, and I slap on some makeup.

I’m just pulling on a robe when my doorbell rings.

Angus is a monster and barks like mad as he rushes to the door. He thinks he’s a small puppy and not a big, slightly round chocolate lab.

“Angus, baaabeee!” Katie cries as I open the door holding a dress in a bag up high. She thrusts it at me. “Put it on.”

Then she goes back to hugging and kissing Angus.

I sigh and stomp to the bedroom, aware of the ticking clock in my head. I’m not late yet, so I throw the dress on and then look.

“Katie!”

The dress is gorgeous. It’s stretchy black velvet, which makes the black richer, and it’s got thick straps, almost no back, and it plunges to show cleavage like I’m some kind of femme fatale.

And it clings all the way to my hips, flaring mid-thigh a little to give an elegant twist as it flirts as I move, the hem brushing just above my knees.

I need stockings. I need a new dress, but I don’t really have anything. This is the perfect dress that can be dressed up or down and worn to cocktails, dinner or just a nice night out.

“Fuck.” The clock ticks louder, and I put on a pair of pretty heeled sandals.

Katie comes in and claps. “You don’t have better shoes?”

“These shoes are fine.”

“But sky-high heels will be so much better.”

I shake my head and put my fists on my hips. “Do I look like someone who owns sky-high heels?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t. I’m a nurse, I don’t get that many opportunities on double shifts to wear sky-high heels in the ER. Funny, that.”

“Ha ha and ha.”

I frown at my reflection. “I can’t wear this.”

“You can. I can go shopping again. Do you have another half hour to an hour because I’m really going to have to look hard for something that meets your high standards.”

I shoot her the filthiest look I can muster and grab my Balenciaga bag Gramps got me last birthday. It’s one of those dress up or down things and big enough to be practical and small enough not to be the equivalent of a backpack.

“No. I don’t have time, and I need to get to the subway and?—”

“Nope, no you don’t.” She shakes her phone at me.

“Your Uber awaits. Just call me your hot and sexy fairy godmother.” Katie waves at me, shooing me to the door.

“I’ll hang out with Angus for a bit to make sure you don’t need a shoulder to cry on, and then I’ll jet.

Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or you can, y’know if you wanna bring him back and?—”

I walk out, slamming the door behind me.

The table he chose is one of those attention-getter tables and I’m beyond pissed.

I check my phone for the tenth time in ten minutes.

Katie: Well????

How is he???

Go to the bathroom and give me a report.

Is he all we dreamed he could be?

I snatch up my wine, because even though I know it’s not done, I need something, and drinking a shot of whiskey might not be the done thing. But I’m both wired tight and exhausted and something’s got to give before I storm out, burst into tears, or both.

I’m not given to tears, but a seventeen-hour shift—seventeen because I was needed—wears down all your edges and there are times when the smallest thing makes you snap or burst into stupid tears.

But right now, it’s anger ruling.

Me : No need to go the restroom for a report.

Katie: that good? Are you heading to his penthouse? I bet he lives in a penthouse on top of his own building.

Me: No need as he isn’t here.

Katie: Rude.

I send her a thumb’s up.

It is rude. I rushed to get here, I’m dead on my feet, and he doesn’t even have the courtesy to get my number to let me know he’s late.

Fifteen minutes now, and counting.

Me: I’m leaving in ten.

Katie: He’ll have an excuse. Besides, he’s rich, busy and you’re marrying him. We’ll get a prenup for half his holdings and buy a wedding dress triple the amount I was thinking of making him spend.

I laugh, shaking my head.

Me: I don’t think he’ll agree to that prenup and I’m not doing this to make money. I’m doing it for Gramps.

Katie: and a possible sainthood.

I smile and rub my temple, moving on to a second glass of wine.

The clock in my head ticks louder, slower, like it wants me to know exactly how stood up I am.

Katie texts some more, and I reply, but really, as time inches toward an hour and no show, I’m just humiliated and don’t want to talk about it.

The waitress asks if I’d like a menu, but I order their most expensive whiskey. “In a Manhattan, rocks, please.”

When I finish slowly sipping it, he’s passed the hour late mark and sympathetic looks come my way, thick and fast. I pretend to read on my phone, like he’s always late.

I’ve dated doctors, so I pretend he’s one. Sometimes a doctor can be insanely late and I don’t think I’ve ever once been humiliated. Probably because there are times my career has made me insanely late.

At ten past the hour I order a double Manhattan.

I’ll send him the bill.

When it hits one and a half hours I start questioning my sanity.

Katie texts.

Katie: Well?

Me: I’ll talk to you later.

I can see her sit back, breathing out her pent up breath, thinking he’s here. But I know she’ll hang out a little longer at my place and then head home.

But now I’m out of the humiliation stage and into possible insanity, the underlying anger reemerges.

He’d have my number. I know that. I have his, Gramps gave it to me in his text message. But I’m not calling. What kind of pathetic sad creature would I be?

Tomorrow? I’ll send him the check, and blast him via a text.

Noah, not Gramps.

But Gramps would’ve given this horrible, spoiled Noah my number. Yet Noah couldn’t be bothered to call?

At almost two hours, I cave. I text him.

Noah, this is Aria. I’m at the restaurant, and have been since the arranged time you chose. Are you still coming ?

Ten minutes later I get a reply.

One word.

One fucking word.

Yes.

I hate him. It’s like a fire in my veins that spits and flares.

A yes. One word. I shouldn’t have had to text him.

I order another Manhattan.

Christ, I haven’t even met the guy and I hate him.

Katie: it’s either going well or he’s murdered you. Please let me know.

Okay, that makes me giggle.

Me: He’s not here yet, but he’s on his way.

Katie: Fuckwit .

Me: Duh .

The waitress comes over with a plate of petit fours and the Manhattan. “These are on us.”

Heat flares in my cheeks. “He’s on his way.”

She nods, clearly not believing me. “There are plenty of better fish out there, so let me know if you want the number of a hitman or the bartender who said the guy’s a fool.”

My heart shrivels a little, along with what’s left of my ego but I hold my head up high. “He texted, so…”

She’s unimpressed. “If he doesn’t have flowers, I might have to spill something on him.” She pauses and does air quotes. “Accidentally.”

I laugh.

By the time I finish the petit fours I don’t want—delicious as they are—and my Manhattan, he’s two hours and forty minutes late and I’ve come to both my senses and my hard limits.

Wolf’s Bane is starting to jump, and I’m sure they can use the table. I’m about to catch my waitress’s eye and put everyone out of their misery by paying up and schlepping home when the door opens.

And my heart does an Olympic worthy triple somersault.

Oh, lord. It’s the hottest man alive, the one from the bar.

The one I humiliated myself with on Katie’s birthday.

I definitely have to leave now. I don’t need this on top of being stood up by a man who’s demanded I marry him.

Suddenly I’m destined to be a roadkill deer, trapped in the road, the headlights bearing down, and I freeze in my seat, unable to even tear my eyes from him.

Because what are the chances of seeing Mr. Sexy again? He’s even hotter, the suit like chocolate with the darkest lines of color to give the Glen plaid a touch of designer magic. His shirt is caramel, and the tie is gold, and yes, there’s a vest.

He really looks like he’s stepped out of the hippest men’s fashion line of suits. And I want to swoon.

And be swallowed by the ground.

Because as he talks to the host, his gaze casually moves over the room and he sees me. Stops at me.

A smile flares and sticks on my face, and butterflies swarm in my stomach. What the hell? What are the chances of seeing him again? And… god… he’s heading this way.

It’s not until he pulls out the chair opposite and sits that reality suddenly shoves me to the ground.

This isn’t a joke or an unformed dream come true.

It’s a nightmare.

“You’re Noah,” I say, my face now consumed by flame.

His smile is deep, flirtatious, and totally unaffected by anything even remotely resembling an apology for his unbelievable tardiness. “The one and only.”

The dimple flashes.

My traitorous heart swoons. My head rampages, and I stare at him. “You’re late.”

He misses the venom. “Yeah, sorry about that. See you started already.”

The non-apology ramps up my ire as he drops his gaze pointedly to my glass.

“Nearly three hours late.” My hand crushes into a fist on my lap.

“And I’m starving. Tell you what…” He picks up my glass and sniffs it. “I’ll have what you’re having, ah, Aria, and then we’ll take it from there.”

“From there?”

“You and me, talking, laughing, getting to know each other.” He signals the waitress. “Menus, the wine list and another round of Manhattans, please.” Noah leans in, touches my hand and my flesh sizzles. It’s like a shot of pure adrenaline. “Unless you want something else?”

“No.”

Behind him, the waitress mimes off the chart hotness and I can’t disagree.

I hate him. I hate the fact he is off the charts hot. I hate the fact I’ve got some kind of insane chemistry with this arrogant asshole.

Because I know such an immediate, visceral reaction is rare, and I’m at a loss as to what to do.

Out of everyone in New York, why did it have to be him?