Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Here’s the thing about Blake Marlin, CEO of Marlin Enterprises. Billionaire extraordinaire. General hottie with a body.

He’s not technically my boss. I mean, he is, but not really. He’s been tangentially responsible for my career, but even that’s the thinnest thread connecting us. I’m sure, to him, I’m small-time. Nothing important. A girl who writes romance books. He’d probably assume I was some starry-eyed cat lady if he ever gave me a moment’s thought, which I doubt he ever has.

This is my way of trying to talk myself into dating him—or rather, approaching him and seeing if I can lure him in. Hayley’s words. She wouldn’t let me choose a new guy—big surprise—convinced Blake is not only the natural choice, but the easiest of all. Otherwise, I’d have to go out into the world and search for a single father or police officer to date, and that would take a lot more time.

Time I don’t necessarily have. While I’m not completely frivolous with the money I’ve earned—I save for retirement and a rainy day and all that—I can’t afford to go too long between releases for more reasons than just finances. An author is only as good as their next book. Readers nowadays tend to take a what have you done for me lately attitude toward even their favorite authors since self-publishing lends itself to rapid releases. People have started to believe that’s the way all writers should work when it just isn’t possible for many of us.

I can’t let my name wither on the vine, in other words.

“And he’s speaking at a media conference in two days,” Hayley informed me over our burgers the other night. “You can get in at the last minute—if anybody can, you can. Maybe Lois could help. I’m sure you’ll think of something to catch his attention.”

“But what?” I groaned, a French fry hanging halfway out of my mouth.

“Oh, definitely eat like a slob. I know I’d be turned on if I liked women.” Hayley snickered. “Earth to Kitty. You’re the romance writer. You always write little meet-cutes in your books. How do you come up with those?”

“There’s a big difference,” I countered. “I can control what both parties say and do and think. I can’t control what Blake thinks of me or whether he wants to go out with me.”

“Don’t worry,” she assured me. “I’ll give you a few pointers. You wanna know how to get a guy’s attention and keep him hooked? Look no further.”

So, here I am, in a car on my way to the hotel where the conference is underway. The keynote speaker is due to make his presentation today. None other than Mr. Marlin himself.

“Why is this so important?” Lois said when I—gasp!—called and asked her to do something an agent normally did.

“Because I want to meet a few industry professionals,” I fibbed while pacing my office. “I need to keep my options open right now, Lois, what with things being in flux at the publisher.”

She managed to score me a pass into the conference well after the tickets had sold out, so I guess I owe her a floral arrangement. I make a note of this in my phone before referring to the list of tips Hayley gave me.

Don’t be too open. Men like mystery.

Let him chase you. Men like to feel like they’re in charge, especially wealthy, powerful men.

Toss your hair a lot.

I roll my eyes at this one, though I deliberately left my hair down today. Do men really go for that? I always figured that was some sort of a silly generalization, but maybe there’s something to be said for it after all. If it works, I’ll have to put that in my new book.

It’s been a long time since I’ve flirted. Shamefully long even. I’ve spent way too much time wrapped up in work. Sometimes, I even forget the day of the week when I’m good and busy.

How does a person catch the attention of a billionaire?

Actually, my first problem is getting into the conference room where he’s speaking. It’s standing room only at the back, rows of chairs between me and the stage set up at the far end.

What am I supposed to do? Set myself on fire? That’ll get his attention.

“Excuse me,” a man murmurs as he brushes past.

At least he excuses himself or even acknowledges my presence. I’ve been nudged aside and ignored more times in the last few minutes than I can keep track of. It’s mostly men here. They’re not exactly thoughtful or observant, these guys. One thing I’ve learned over the years of researching men and their habits for my work: true alphas aren’t rude, especially to women. They might be forceful or brusque, but they wouldn’t shove a girl aside to claim a seat.

The lights in the room dim right on time, just as the stage lights brighten. Moments later, a handsome young man strides out onstage, and the room erupts in respectful applause. I join in because, well, the guy’s practically a legend at the young age of thirty-two.

And because, holy moly, he’s even more gorgeous in person. Whoever came up with the idea of placing screens around the room so those of us in the back could see him was a genius and probably deserves a bouquet larger than the one I plan to send Lois.

There’s only so much a photo can convey. Magnetism isn’t one of those qualities. And the man has it—in spades. I can barely keep track of what he’s talking about, as I’m so busy noticing the dimple in his left cheek, his obnoxiously long eyelashes—seriously, what’s up with men having thick, lush lashes? How unfair is that?

Instead of being forceful and loud, the way some of the men around me were speaking just before the talk began, he’s friendly. Even playful. Serious about business, no doubt, but if he ever decided to give up being a mogul, he could make a mint as a public speaker.

He’s a leader, in other words, and I can practically hear the audience soaking up every last word as they scribble on notepads, type into their phones and laptops. Poor them. They don’t get to watch and admire the way his eyes twinkle when he makes a joke.

Then again, maybe they’re not as interested in his sparkling brown eyes as I am.

How in the world am I going to catch those eyes and hold his attention? He’s spectacular while I’m … me. Hayley would be much better at this than I am. I should’ve sent her. That would’ve been a better idea! She could do the dating for me, and I could write about it.

Though she’s already spent enough precious time helping me out. I should send her flowers too. Maybe I’d do better by buying a florist shop.

The talk lasts an hour, after which time Blake answers questions sent his way prior to the conference. Some of them are really funny.

One guy asked how he finds time to sleep with all the work he must do, and he responds, “My best work is done in the bedroom … asleep—for anybody out there getting the wrong idea.”

I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t mind hearing that deep, rich voice murmuring my name while he …

Oh jeez, I should be taking notes. He’s giving me all kinds of interesting ideas I think my readers might enjoy.

He’s finished all too soon. I could listen to him speak forever. He could read a menu, and I’d hang on his every word. Except I still have no idea how to catch him.

I have to dash out of the room to beat the rush, hoping I can catch him outside in the hall. He’s supposed to be having a meet-and-greet with VIPs—aka people who spent extra money to upgrade their experience.

Lois wasn’t able to score me that sort of ticket though, so my best chance is either before or after that session. I’ll toss my hair a lot, make sure he knows how mysterious I am. Like I don’t even care that he’s super rich and hot as a ten-alarm fire—

The next thing I know, I’m hit from behind. My purse flies in one direction, and I fly in the other, landing on my knees on an uncarpeted floor. I hear people crying out in surprise and concern all around me while my knees scream obscenities and blood rushes in my ears.

“What the hell?” I gasp, looking up through the curtain of hair I was hoping to toss in Blake’s direction. I can’t tell who hit me as they rush past, but it doesn’t matter. The result was the same, no matter who did it.

“Are you all right?” a man asks, crouching in front of me.

I can only see his shoes, shiny and expensive-looking. He reaches for me, and there’s no missing a Rolex on his wrist. Terrific. I made a huge fool of myself in front of a rich guy who happens to be the only one nice enough to stop and ask if I’m okay.

“Nothing hurts but my pride,” I mutter, looking around for my purse. Thank God it was zipped or everybody in the hall would have been treated to a wide array of chewing gum, mints, lip glosses, and feminine hygiene products. That would’ve been the cherry on top of a half-melted sundae.

“Let me help you,” the man offers, taking my arms and practically lifting me onto my feet. He’s strong but gentle—though I have no time to reflect on either of those attributes since I soon learn it’s not only my pride that’s busted.

“Oof,” I groan the second I put weight on either leg. Neither knee is bleeding, but there are already bruises coming up.

“I wish I’d caught up to the guy who slammed into you,” my savior growls. “But I was a little too concerned with helping you. I’m sure there are security cameras all around here. If you want, I can have the footage examined.”

“Why would they …” I start, finally getting up the nerve to look Mr. Helpful in the eye. It’s not easy since I feel about as clumsy and awkward as I’ve ever felt, but I manage it.

Brown eyes. Ridiculous lashes. Tan skin, sandy hair, the sort of jaw that brings to mind a comic book superhero.

“You’re Blake Marlin,” I whisper, forgetting the pain in my knees and my pride for a second.

His smile widens. “And you’re my special guest for the rest of the day. Come on. Let’s get you into a chair.” As he helps me into the smaller conference room where his VIP event is scheduled to take place, he calls out, “Can somebody grab a couple of ice packs?”

That’s the thing about the very wealthy and very powerful. They don’t even have to direct their requests to anyone in particular. They just know they’ll get what they asked for.

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