Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club Book 2) Page 6
“I do not,” I said primly. “Nor do I remember peeing in a closet, asking the arresting officer if he liked my boobies, or being handcuffed.”
“Lucky you, there was a break-in or something down the street, so he let had to let you go to answer that call.”
I sighed. “Can we not spend the rest of the morning recalling the bad old days?”
“Bad old days? I had a ball at that party.”
I spluttered. “Um yeah, because you spent most of it in a guest bedroom screwing Chad Matheson.”
Zoe shrugged, nodded, laughing. “True. God, he was hot. Dumber than moldy bread, but so hot. And he could do this thing where he—”
“I KNOW WHAT CHAD MATHISON COULD DO WITH HIS PENIS,” I cut in. “You’ve told me. Repeatedly.”
“Well I’m sorry. I’ve just never been able to replicate the orgasms he gave me that night.” She sighed. “If only he’d been able to talk and think at the same time, I might have been able to stand his presence while sober and in the light of day, in public. But alas, he was only given enough brain cells to operate his dick. And surf. Boy, could he surf.”
“Wasn’t he caught plagiarizing a Western Civ paper from his high school sophomore brother?”
“Yes, he was. He also tried to write the answers to a remedial algebra test on his forearm, only he wore a tank top, and it smudged.”
“I only judge him for not being able to cheat properly. Algebra will push anyone to cheat. It’s from Satan.”
“Hear hear.” Zoe glanced at her phone. “You need to shower and get dressed. Lizzy’s only going to be so understanding, and if we’re late to lunch, you’ll be doing office work for a month, and she’ll stick you with selling vacant strip mall slots in Reseda.”
“She’s going to chew me out.”
“Which you deserve.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to subject myself to it.”
“Woman up, Autumn.”
I huffed. “Fine.” I threw back my coffee, put the mug in the sink, and headed for the bathroom, stripping on the way. “Can you pick my outfit for me? I don’t have the brainpower to think about it yet.”
“Sure.”
I got the shower going, dragged a brush through my hair, used a makeup remover wipe on my face, and brushed my teeth. While I was in the shower, Zoe continued our conversation through the open bathroom door.
“Are you really not going to call Seven St. John?”
“He said he’d call me,” I answered. “If he wants to give me another shot, he’ll call.”
“Chicken.”
“It’s not being chicken,” I shot back. “I threw myself at him once already and was shot down—why would I do so again? I can take rejection just fine. It hurts, I’m embarrassed, but whatever. I’m a big girl, I’ll get over it. I’m just not going to subject myself to it voluntarily a second time.”
I was clean in record time, toweled off, wrapped it around myself and started drying and styling my hair.
“I guess I get that,” Zoe said. “But it wasn’t, like, actual real rejection. He didn’t say he didn’t want you. He just wanted to be sure you were sober enough to know what you were doing.”
There was more to it than that, but I didn’t know how to explain any of it out loud, even to my sister, the closest, dearest human being to me on the planet.
Leaning against the doorframe, arms akimbo, foot crossed over the ankle with the toe propped on the floor, Zoe regarded me with a serious, inquisitive expression. “Are you mad at me? About the ad.”
I sighed, keeping my gaze focused on the curling iron in my hands. “A little. The pregnancy thing with me is still a touchy subject and you know it. I don’t care how many years ago that was.”
“Autumn, I just…I hate seeing you stuck. You deserve to be happy. You’re a talented real estate agent. You’re beautiful, smart, funny, successful, athletic. You have everything going for you. And you’ve had some really great guys show you interest, real genuine romantic interest. But you won’t give them the time of day, all because of something that happened more than twenty years ago.”
“And so doing to me what we did to Lizzy is the most logical way to force me past my emotional baggage?”
“Lizzy is blissfully happy with Braun. They’re married. They have a beautiful baby. She’s selling more than ever because Braun has freed up so much of her mental and emotional space, not to mention the fact that he’s stupid rich. It worked out for her. It could work out for you.”
“I have to want it to work out for that to apply.”
“You don’t want romantic happiness? A man who loves you. Maybe even, one day, a baby to—”
“Zoe, stop right there. I won’t talk about that, even with you. No, I don’t want any of that.”
“Baby topic aside, then. You legitimately do not ever want a real, working, happy romantic relationship?”
“If you’re so eager to see it work, do it yourself.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Okay, great. Leave me out of it.”
“I know how bad Bobby hurt you, Autumn. I was there for the whole macabre shitshow. But you can’t let his stupid ass keep hurting you, not all these years later.”
“It’s not just Bobby.”
“I know.”
“He’s dead, you know.”
“Who?” She stepped into the bathroom to gain my full attention. “Bobby? Bobby Reisz is dead?”
“Yeah. He joined the Marines two years after high school. He was killed in action in Afghanistan. I looked for him…what was it? Five years ago? I hired a PI to find him for me.”
She frowned. “And you never told me?”
I shrugged. “I was just curious. It didn’t mean much to me either way, oddly. I was honestly hurt much less by Bobby than by Mom.”
She followed me into my bedroom while I got dressed; she’d put out cream slacks, a sleeveless navy top, and a thin, t-shirt material charcoal duster, with black flats. “You were in love with Bobby, Autumn. You can’t act like how he treated you meant nothing.”
“I’m not. I’m just saying the bigger betrayal was Mom’s.”
She sighed. “Yeah, I know. She’d say she was just trying to protect you from making the same mistake she had, but that doesn’t excuse what she did.”
“I already had made the same mistake,” I said, sliding my favorite Chanel earrings in and wiggling my feet into my shoes. “I needed her help and support and love, and instead I got judged, condemned, and kicked out.”
Zoe just nodded, because this was old territory, and there wasn’t much else to say, at this point.
I quickly transferred my stuff out of my new YSL purse and into an old standby favorite, my Goyard. “Enough of this. How did we even get on this topic? I’m not calling Seven. If he calls me, I’ll answer. If he asks me out, I’ll go out with him, and I’ll stay sober, and see what happens. But neither he nor anyone else is going to impregnate me. Or make me fall in love with them.”
Zoe hid a faint smile. “Okay, Autumn. Whatever you say.”
I frowned at her. “What?”
“Nothing. That just sounds to me an awful lot like famous last words.”
I huffed, flouncing for the door. “It’s not famous last words, it’s not foreshadowing, it’s not anything except the truth.”
She held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I believe you.”
I didn’t have to look at her to know otherwise. “No you don’t.”
She chortled. “No, I don’t.”
“Well, keep your disbelief to yourself.”
“You wanna hear my prediction?”
“No.”
“Seven will call. You’ll go out with him, sleep with him, fight the fact that you’re falling for him, and then fall for him anyway. And in the process, discover you want to have his babies.”
I ignored this. “You’re driving.”
“Obviously,” she muttered. “You still can’t even walk in a straight line.”
“Whatever you say, Autumn,” she said, laughing.
Further discussion was pointless, after that, because I was annoyed and when she was in a mood like this, Zoe was imperturbable and unflappable, and I’d only get more irritated.
Instead, I mentally prepared myself for the well-deserved but unpleasant conversation I was about to have with Lizzy, who would be in boss mode, rather than friend mode.
4
Lunch was exactly what I thought it would be, a two-part drama featuring Lizzy, wherein she drilled me for details as to what happened last night, expressed sympathy and encouragement and agreed with Zoe that Seven was almost definitely going to call me and that I should get off my own ego and call him first, and then made it clear that friendship aside, she couldn’t let my irresponsibility slide because at the end of the day it was her name on the brokerage financials, and so the property I’d spent six months marketing, showing, and staging went to Zoe—deservedly—a real stinger, since I’d had those buyers lined up and prepped for a shoo-in sale. All Zoe would have to do is bring them through for one last showing and she’d have the commission in the bag.
Honestly, I deserved a much worse censuring for such unprofessional behavior, so I’d take what I got. After lunch, Lizzy brought me along with her to help stage her newest listing, a four-million-dollar place in Newport Beach. Staging it was a hell of a lot of work, as it was completely bare.
The truck with the furniture and decorations was waiting when we got there, and Lizzy set me to directing the movers with the bigger pieces. Most brokers of Lizzy’s caliber hired third-party staging companies, but Lizzy enjoyed doing the staging herself, and god knew she had the eye for it—I’d learned most of what I knew about staging from her, actually, and like her, I actively enjoyed the process of arranging furniture and candles and books and rugs and such to display the home to best effect.
By the time we had the place fully staged, it was after five.
We sat on the back porch, watching the Pacific crash relentlessly only feet away.
“I know there’s more to last night than you’re saying,” Lizzy said.
I held my silence a moment. “Sure, I guess. He was different. You know the guys I tend to go for—he’s nothing at all like anyone I’ve ever met.”
“You and I shared an unfortunate taste for the boring ones,” she said. “Nice, predictable, decent at conversation and decent in bed.”
I nodded. “Seven is literally none of that. He scares me a little.”
“Scares you how?”
“I don’t know, honestly. I mean, I don’t think he’d hurt me, physically, I don’t mean that kind of scared. But he’s big, intense…he’s just a lot. I’m used to being in control with guys, and I get the feeling if I spent much time with Seven, I wouldn’t be.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what you need.”
I laughed, but it had a cynical edge. “Maybe. But I’m not about to give up control.”
Lizzy reached into her purse for a bar of organic, stevia-sweetened chocolate, broke it apart and gave me half. “Which is why you should. It’s scary but liberating.”
I munched the treat, thinking. “This is all moot. He’s not going to call.”
And, at that exact moment, my phone rang.
“A-ha!” Lizzy said, triumphant. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
I pulled my phone from my purse and felt my heart skip a beat, momentarily—until I saw the number. “No, it’s a New York number.”
“Could be an East Coast agent with clients looking for a West Coast second home. You should answer it,” Lizzy advised.
A good point, that, and so I did.
“Hello, this is Autumn Scott, with Six Chicks Real Estate.”
“Hello, Miss Scott. Please hold for Charles Barrington the Third, Esquire.”
“Umm, who?” I felt immediately off-put, but intrigued.
There was only silence, however, and then a click as the line transferred. “Hello, Miss Scott. Thank you for taking my call.” A male voice, mellifluous and cultured, polished, educated and articulate. It thrummed with authority that was used to being listened to and obeyed.
“How can I help you, Charles Barrington the Third, Esquire?”
An amused chuckle. “I find myself in a highly unusual position, I must confess, Miss Scott. One of powerful curiosity which I find myself unable to assuage through any other means but the one at hand.”
I suppressed a sigh. “I confess I have not a clue what you’re talking about, Mr. Barrington.”
“Charles, please.” His tone suggested that to be invited to speak to him on a first-name basis was an immense privilege. “My niece recently did something very bad for me: she got me on the Instagram.”
I couldn’t help the groan, then. “Oh. I see.”
“I admit, I wasn’t expecting to enjoy it as much as I do. It’s rather distracting, I must say.”
“Mr. Barrington—”
“I saw your ad, Miss Scott. And as I said, I was powerfully…intrigued.”
“That ad was—”
“I have business in Los Angeles tomorrow—I’m flying in this evening. I would like to take you out, Miss Scott.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Barrington, I—”
“It might be worth noting that part of my business on the West Coast is looking for a winter home for my parents. They’re looking for a change of pace from the Hamptons, and I thought, perhaps if our…outing…went well, you could show me a few places. I’m prepared to pay cash on the spot when I find the right place. And if they enjoy their winter home as much as I suspect they will, I’ll likely end up needing one for myself, which of course would be significantly more…lavish, than what my parents are looking for.”
Lizzy was leaning close, listening in and was gesturing madly at me—say yes, she was saying.
I rolled my eyes at her, made a gagging face. But when Lizzy pointed an accusatory finger at me, eyes wide and threatening, I suppressed a sigh and rubbed my forehead with a fore-knuckle.
“What time were you thinking, Mr. Barrington?” I tried to sound pleased rather than aggravated.
“If we’re sharing an evening together, Autumn, I insist you call me Charles. I will conclude the majority of my business by five or six, I should think. I could pick you up at, say, six thirty? I have standing reservations at several of the most exclusive dining establishments in Los Angeles since I’m there fairly frequently, I might add, so…perhaps more formal attire would be appropriate.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Very good, then. Tomorrow, six thirty. If you would be so kind as to provide your address to my executive assistant?”
“Certainly.”
“I look forward to meeting you, Autumn. I look forward to it with great anticipation.”
“Likewise…Charles.”
“Till tomorrow, then.”
“Till tomorrow.”
A click, and then the same smooth, almost robotic female voice I’d first spoken with. “Miss Scott, may I have your address please?” I provided it, and was about to end the call when she continued speaking. “A few items of note: Mr. Barrington will arrive at six thirty precisely to pick you up, as punctuality is of the utmost importance. Mr. Barrington prefers you to not wear strong perfumes or lotions, due to an extreme olfactory sensitivity. Additionally, it is requested that any and all details of your evening be kept in strictest confidence, not to be shared in any manner outside of yourself and Mr. Barrington.”
“Um. Okay? Any other…rules?”
She didn’t seem to note the acid in my voice. “He prefers his dates to wear solid primary colors, especially blue or green.”
“Wow. Okay.”
“Footwear with heels over two inches in height are strongly discouraged, particularly if one is taller than five feet six inches.”
I had to literally bite the inside of my cheek. “Noted,” I said, my
voice drier than the Sahara.
“That is all. Thank you, Miss Scott.”
“Oh no, thank you.”
Click—she’d already hung up.
I set the phone on my thigh, and looked at Lizzy with disbelief. “Did you hear all that?”
“More importantly, do you know who Charles Barrington the Third even is?”
I held up my hand, palm out. “No, hold on, now. Let’s not gloss over this: his assistant gave me rules. For a date.”
She snickered. “He’s the fourth or fifth richest man on the planet, Autumn. His family is worth several hundred billion combined. He could buy a whole city block with pocket change.”
“Well bully for him. Clearly, all that money can’t buy manners or class.”
Lizzy laughed, and sang a little ditty about how money can’t buy you class, a somewhat obscure reference to her favorite TV show. “You can stomach one date with him, Autumn, especially if it nets you a sale, maybe even two.”
“What if he expects more than just the date? If he has rules for what his dates can and can’t wear, including heel height and perfume, I get the feeling he might just possibly feel more than a little entitled to just take what he wants.”
Lizzy made a face. “Possible. But feel it out. If you get a skeezy feeling from him, you can bail. Keep your phone handy and use the escape clause if you need to. Add the nine-one-one and I’ll be there to pick you up in minutes.”
I sighed. “I don’t like it. He’s probably a perv, and he sounds old.”
“He’s not. He’s like forty-five. Not even fifty, I know that much.”
“I’m not sleeping with him. I don’t care what the stupid ad says.”
“Of course not. Just go on the date, be nice, and don’t let him get the wrong idea.”
“Sounds pretty simple, doesn’t it?” I groaned, flopping backward in the chair. “Just go on the date with the entitled billionaire who gave me rules for a date with him, that he asked for. He asked me out, and then had his assistant give me rules about what to wear and what to do. Like, I don’t care how much money the arrogant cock-monkey has, who does he think he is? For real? Fuck that guy.”
“But one date with a miserable, entitled asshole can put a hundred, hundred and fifty thousand dollars in your pocket? Maybe even double or triple that?”