Dreaming of the Billionaire (2 page)

“I can’t stop throwing up.”

Amy is sprawled across the bathroom floor, bringing back visions of her early years in college when she came home from her first party. This time, though, she’s not hung over from drinking too much. This time she’s experiencing the worst morning sickness of her pregnancy to date.

And she’s only eight weeks in.

I hold a damp washcloth over her head and offer her a small glass of water. She refuses it and I don’t blame her. Throwing up is awful. Throwing up water is even worse.

“I miss mom,” she tells me, and I cringe, even though I knew it was coming. My first thought when she announced that she was expecting wasn’t, “but you’re so young.” It wasn’t, “but you aren’t married.” It wasn’t even, “Are you going to keep it?”

My first thought was, “I don’t know how to help you through this.”

I’ve never been pregnant and the only other woman Amy could turn to just died.

It’s been less than a year since our mom finally lost her battle to cancer and we’re both still struggling to make things work in a world without her. For the most part, our lives have been uneventful, but now Amy is going through one of those things you
really, really, really
need your mom for.

And she’s not here.

“I know,” I tell her softly, and stroke her hair. “I miss her, too.”

Amy sits up and leans against the wall of the bathroom. “I appreciate you helping me,” she says, “it’s just that I always miss her when I’m sick.”

“Me, too.”

A big sister can only do so much. I get it. Somehow the way I care for Amy will never be quite as nurturing or sympathetic as the way our mom managed to do it. I still try, though, and I promise to help her through the pregnancy as much as I can.

“I’m going to lie down,” she says after a minute, and manages to crawl from the bathroom to her bedroom. The small house we rent together has hardwood floors, and I make a mental note to get a rug for the hallway so she’s not hurting her knees when she crawls around. I have visions of her learning to walk as an infant.

But that just makes me think of mom even more.

“I’ll be in the study,” I tell her, and head into our shared 3
rd
bedroom. We opted to rent a three bedroom home simply because it enabled us to have a multi-use room that we could do anything with. I have my computers and gaming consoles set up on one side of the room. Amy has her art projects on the other side.

I slide into my comfortable seat and turn on my computer. I didn’t manage to finish everything I needed to do at work today, so it’s time to start conquering the mound of paperwork I brought home.

I glance at the first sheet. It’s a request for a new staff member to have his own profile page on the website. Easy enough. I open up a web browser and prepare to log in to the school’s website, but instead find myself Googling
Sean Moormead
.

His picture pops up and I melt.

It’s him.

It’s the hottie from the luncheon, and I am smitten.

I promised myself that I wouldn’t Google him. I had good intentions, too. I’m not the type of girl who just looks up boys in the Internet and cyber-stalks them.

Then again, I guess I am.

With just a few clicks, I find out that Sean’s father, Marcus, is the CEO of Strongdelt Robotics. They’re the ones who make those vacuum robots, I think. I have no idea they're based near Southvale or that they have an interest in our school. From my reading, I learn that Marcus Moormead has an interest in encouraging students to pursue careers in engineering and that he offers scholarships and internships at his company.

I wish I knew about this when
I
was in college.

Despite working my way through school and applying for scholarships and grants, I still managed to rack up quite a bit of student loan debt. I make double payments each month to whittle it down as quickly as possible, but I find myself envious of students who get free rides through school.

I wonder if they actually appreciate what they’re getting.

I hear Amy heaving in the bathroom again and I glance at the clock. Nearly an hour has gone by and I’m no closer to completing the paperwork than I was before.

All I’ve accomplished is actually lowering myself to the same status as one of those dorky girls who drools over strangers she barely knows.

Awesome.

I really
do
need a man.

I arrive at work 10 minutes early and my phone is already ringing.

Awesome.

Way to start my Friday off with a
bang
.

I glance at the receiver and realize that it's an outside number. Strange. Usually when I get phone calls at work, they're from another department asking me to update something for them or to come over and fix their computers. Not this morning.

"Violet's office," I answer the phone, not bothering to sit down yet. It's not the most professional way to answer the phone, I realize, but it's the most they're going to get from me. I don't like giving out my full name over the phone, especially when I don't know who's calling. I'd rather just answer it, "Hello," but my boss won't go for it. Violet it is.

"I'm glad I caught you," a sultry voice tells me over the phone. It's a man's voice, and a handsome one from the sounds of it.

"How can I help you, Sir?" I try to remain professional, secretly wondering who has my number, who is calling me, and what they could possibly want from someone like me.

"Violet, this is Sean. We met at the banquet yesterday."

My purse falls to the floor and I slump into my seat. Dreamboat Dreamerson. He's calling me. Sean Moormead is calling me. Sean fucking Moormead. Sean please-let-me-have-your-babies Moormead. Sean.

I want to purr like a kitten or make some other similar sound, but I don't. Instead, I take a deep breath, making sure that I sound as professional and grown up as possible, and I speak like I'm talking to anyone else. After all, he's just another person, right? He's no one special. If he were ugly or mean or smelled bad, I wouldn't even think twice about talking to him on the phone.

But he's none of those things
, I remind myself.

"It's nice to hear from you, Mr. Moormead," I say politely. "What can I do for you?"

I'm wondering how he got my phone number.

I'm wondering what he wants.

I'm wondering how many different ways he could get me off before the end of our first date.

But then I remember to breathe, and I calm down.

"Please, call me Sean," he reminds me gently. He's nothing if not polite.

"Of course," I repeat his name. "Sean."

"I have a business proposition for you," he says. "Of sorts."

Of sorts?

Does he want to hire me?

Does he need me to work for him?

What does he mean, "of sorts"?

"Okay..." I carry out the "ay" sound far too long and I worry that I come off sounding obnoxious instead of just confused. That's what I am, after all: confused. He knows that I have a job. It's a good job, too. I make great money and have a flexible schedule that lets me take time off for Amy whenever she needs me. So why is he calling me at work to talk about a business proposition? Shouldn't this be something that's discussed off-site of my current job?

He laughs, obviously aware of how I'm feeling.

"Don't worry," he quickly tells me, "it's nothing bad. I'm just very impressed with your work and I would love the chance to talk with you about it. I realize that it's terribly short notice, but can I meet with you tomorrow? Perhaps we could have lunch."

Tomorrow is Saturday, but it's also the day my sister is telling her boyfriend's parents that she's knocked up. They're insane, and I promised to go with the happy couple to tell them. Dammit. I want to flake out and go out with Sean instead, but that would be awful.

I'll be a good sister.

"Uh, Saturday afternoon won't work for me," I tell him. "I could do tomorrow evening, though, or anytime on Sunday."

I hope I don't sound
too
available. It's not my intention, by any means. I want him to know that I'm interested, but I also don't want to seem like I have nothing better to do with my weekend than sit around waiting for hotties to call me.

Even though that's almost entirely true.

"I know a place in Pinebluff," he says without hesitation. "It's called Happy Chance Steakhouse. We could get a quiet table and discuss my proposition over supper. Would 7:00 work for you?"

Would forever-and-always work for you?

I don't say that.

I just really, really want to.

Instead, I tell him that's fine and give him my cell phone number so he can reach me at home. He offers to pick me up, but I say it's not a problem to meet him there. I prefer to have my own car, anyway. Even if he does seem really normal, fantastic, and sexy, I don't want to be the kind of girl who gets trapped or feels obligated to go home with a guy because he paid for dinner.

That's not my style.

But listening to his voice, I realize that maybe it should be.

"I look forward to seeing you again, Violet."

"And I you."

I hang up the phone and mouth
What the fuck?
to myself. "And I you"? What does that even mean? Am I the star of some horribly awful romantic comedy about a modest girl stuck in the 50s? Why so prim and proper? Seriously.

I hope against hope that he'll quickly forget the awkwardness of our conversation, but I realize that the odds of that happening are basically nonexistent. Oh well. I still have sort-of a date, even though I realize logically that it's a business meeting. I can't help but pour over potential project ideas in my head. What does he want to meet me for? Maybe he needs someone to design a website for him. Maybe he has questions about the newest search engine updates and how they affect website traffic. Maybe he...

I try not to let my mind wander, but it does.

And before I realize what's happening, it's time for me to go home for the night.

I look at my desk for a moment before reaching for my purse and wonder what I did all day.

"I can't tell them," Amy and I are sitting in the car with Colby. We're outside his parents' house, exactly where we were 10 minutes ago.

"Babe, it's going to be okay," Colby reassures her, reaching forward. He's in the backseat, technically, but most of his body is squeezed up front between the two of us, touching Amy. It's an awkward, weird position, but it's the only real way he can talk to her without getting out of the car.

Chances are that his mom has been sitting at the front door, peering through the curtains at us since I parked on the road in front of their house. Our time is limited. If we wait too long, they'll come searching for us, and I'm not sure that any of us is in a good enough place to come up with a good lie as to why we were loitering in front of their home.

Amy sighs heavily, burying her head in her hands. She's not crying, but she's about to.

She doesn't know how lucky she is.

Or maybe she does.

Most girls would kill to have a guy like Colby helping them through this process. Most girls would kill to have a guy who wasn't afraid to move up the date of the wedding just because you accidentally got knocked up or a guy who didn't care what his parents thought. Most girls would kill to have someone tell you that he was gonna marry you anyway, with or without their support.

But not Amy.

She's just shaking, wondering what her future mother-in-law is going to say when she finds out. I know Amy better than anyone else, even better than Colby, and I know she's not going to handle rejection well if Tanya freaks out, but she's the only mother-figure Amy has now and I realize with a jab that on some levels, Tanya is the only one who is going to be able to help Amy through this.

After all, it's not like
I've
had a baby before.

"Amy," I place my hand on hers. "Amy, it's going to be okay."

I look back at the house and sure enough, the curtains slam shut as soon as my eyes reach the baby-blue flowered print on them. I know Tanya spent hours making them herself, slaving over her sewing machine for the perfect set of curtains for her living room. I wonder if she's going to enjoy making clothes and blankets for her new grandchild just as much as she loves making things for her own home.

Amy squeezes my hand. I know she's about to say she wants Mom. I know she's going to talk about how much she misses her, but this isn't the time. It's not fair to Colby or to Tanya or to Derrick to keep them waiting. I know Amy is scared, but it's time.

So I turn off the car and step out, walking around to my sister's side.

I open the door and practically peel her from it.

I hold Amy by the shoulders and look firmly into her eyes.

"You can do this, babe," I tell her. "You got this."

She nods, but I know part of her doesn't believe me. There's a part of her that's just hoping Colby will say he'll do it alone. There's a part of her that's saying
we don't ever have to tell them
. There's a part of her that's wishing she could just run away.

But she doesn't.

Amy takes a deep breath and reaches for Cory's hand. They both turn to me and nod, letting me know that they're going to be okay. This is going to be okay. Everything is going to be fine. I follow behind them as Cory places his hand on the lower portion of Amy's back, guiding her gently to the house.

Of course he would do that.

He's a perfect gentleman.

Part of me misses being in a relationship just for those things. Part of me misses being able to have someone to gently touch you, to let you know how safe you are without actually having to say anything. Part of me misses the way that such a touch feels.

But as Amy steps up to the front door and Tanya yanks it open, I don't envy my sister for anything in the world.