Chapter 11

Olivia

I shut down my computer, stretching my arms above my head. The contract had been burning a hole in my bag all afternoon, making it impossible to focus on anything productive.

My phone buzzed just as I was gathering my things. I grabbed it, heart jumping. Was it Ryan? Some pathetic attempt at reconciliation after I'd caught him balls-deep in my friend?

Or maybe Emilia was checking in. She'd been texting hourly updates since the party disaster, making sure I hadn't drowned myself in wine or jumped off my balcony.

Unknown Number: Be ready at 8 p.m. Wear something nice, something sexy. I'll pick you up for dinner.

I stared at the screen, mouth dropping open. Alexander fucking Carter. It had to be.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. How the hell did he get my personal number? Then again, the man had somehow known about my father's medical needs and my brothers' financial situations. Getting my phone number would be child's play for someone with his resources.

Me: How did you get this number? And why dinner? I haven't agreed to anything yet.

His response came immediately.

Unknown Number: Dinner is casual. No strings attached. Consider it an opportunity to get to know the man you might marry before signing anything. Be my girlfriend for the night. I promise to make it special.

I snorted. Special? What did that even mean? A five-star restaurant where the menu didn't list prices? Some exclusive club where celebrities snorted coke off each other's asses?

Me: Only for tonight. This doesn't mean I'm saying yes to your proposal.

I hit send before I could think better of it. Why the fuck was I agreeing to this? The man had basically offered to buy me as a sex slave with a wedding ring, and here I was, agreeing to play girlfriend for the night.

But I knew why. Curiosity. That's what I told myself, anyway. Not the way my pussy had clenched when he'd talked about making me come. Not the way my nipples had hardened under his gaze. Just simple curiosity about what kind of man would propose such an arrangement.

Plus, free dinner. My bank account was crying for mercy after covering Dad's last round of medications.

I slipped my phone into my purse and headed for the elevator, hoping to avoid further interrogation from my coworkers. No such luck.

"Hot date tonight?" Nova appeared beside me, eyebrows waggling suggestively.

"What? No."

"Liar. You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The 'I'm-about-to-get-laid' look." She grinned. "Is it the ex? Tell me you're not going back to that cheating bastard."

"God, no." I stabbed the elevator button harder than necessary. "I'd rather fuck a cactus."

"Then who's got you all flustered? Wait—" Her eyes widened. "Is it the CEO? Did Alexander Carter ask you out?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I said, hoping my face wasn't as red as it felt. "He's my boss. That would be totally inappropriate."

The elevator arrived, saving me from further interrogation. I waved goodbye and stepped inside, already mentally cataloging my closet. Something nice. Something sexy. What the hell did that mean?

I flagged down a cab outside the building, giving the driver my address while scrolling through my phone. Should I text Emilia? Should I tell her about this insane dinner invitation? No, she'd either try to talk me out of it or demand to come along as moral support.

"Twenty-six fifty," the driver announced as we pulled up to my apartment building.

I handed over thirty dollars. "Keep the change."

Inside my apartment, I tossed my purse and keys on the counter and headed straight for the shower. The hot water pounded against my skin as I tried to make sense of what I was doing. Having dinner with Alexander Carter?

"You've lost your fucking mind, Olivia," I muttered, squeezing shampoo into my palm.

Fifteen minutes later, wrapped in a towel with my hair dripping, I stood before my open closet. The contents looked pathetically inadequate for a date with one of L.A.'s most eligible bachelors.

I pulled out a black dress, too funeral. A green jumpsuit, too casual. A white sundress, too innocent.

"Fuck," I muttered, checking the time. 7:15 already.

My hands landed on a red dress I'd bought for a company Christmas party, but I chickened out of wearing it. The neckline dipped low between my breasts, and the fabric hugged every curve before ending mid-thigh.

Ryan had called it "slutty" when I'd tried it on, which was rich coming from a man who'd picked out that black dress with the plunging neckline.

I slipped it on, turning to check my reflection. My breasts swelled above the neckline, creating cleavage that even I had to admit looked spectacular. The dress hugged my waist before stretching taut across my ass.

"Jesus, is this what he meant by sexy?" I wondered aloud, turning to see how much of my ass was visible from behind. Enough to get me arrested in some states.

I tried on a blue dress, which was more conservative in the front but with a completely open back. My nipples poked against the silky fabric, clearly visible if I didn't wear a bra.

"Red or blue?" I asked my reflection, holding both up.

The red was bolder, sexier. The blue was more elegant but still seductive.

I went with the red. If Alexander Carter wanted sexy, I'd give him fucking sexy.

As I applied makeup, I couldn't help wondering what he saw in me. He'd probably been with supermodels and actresses, women with perfect bodies and flawless faces. My breasts were nice, sure, but nothing special in a city where plastic surgery was as common as coffee shops.

Was he obsessed with my tits? He'd certainly stared at them. Maybe he had a thing for marketing executives with student loan debt and family problems.

I added a final coat of red lipstick to match my dress, slipped on black heels, and grabbed a small purse. The clock read 7:55.

"Here goes nothing," I muttered, heading for the elevator.

Outside, a sleek black Bentley idled at the curb. The driver's door opened, and Alexander stepped out.

Holy shit.

If he looked good in a business suit, he looked fucking edible in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down that stretched across his broad shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal muscular forearms.