Blind Date With a Billionaire Single Dad Page 2

  “Ha-ha, very funny.”

  There was a knock, and Anthony, my house manager opened my bedroom door a crack but didn’t come in. “Blair Whitney is here to see you, Mr. Wellington.”

  I groaned. “Doesn’t she know how to call and set up an appointment?”

  “Would you like me to send her away?” Anthony asked from the other side of the door, still not showing his face.

  “No. She’ll just return another time. At least today I have a buffer.” I glanced sheepishly at Rupert.

  “That’s my cue to exit,” he said, heading towards the door.

  “Don’t you dare leave,” I said, pointing a finger at him. “I’m serious about this. If you leave—”

  “Fine.” He headed back reluctantly with a smirk on his face. “But you owe me one.”

  Mrs. Dawson patted me on the shoulder and said in the sweetest voice ever, “We’re done for now. I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.” She was so happy to get out of there she might as well have pinched my cheeks to prove her point. I didn’t blame her though. I wished I could leave before Blair made her entrance, but life was full of things we didn’t want to do.

  A few minutes later, Blair Whitney sauntered in with a hand on her hip and a look that said I’d done something wrong. I probably had but couldn’t think what it was at the moment. She wore a tight gray pencil skirt and an overly frilly pink blouse. Her nude stilettos were so high they could pass as stilts.

  “Why haven’t you called me?” she asked, brushing back her shoulder-length blonde hair with her hand. “Don’t you ever pick up your phone?” As soon as she said it, she must have realized how ridiculous that sounded given I couldn’t pick up anything at the moment.

  “I…I mean.” She twirled a piece of hair and bit down on her bottom lip. “You should have that nurse,” she snapped her fingers twice as if trying to remember her name, “Mrs. Donaldson—”

  “Dawson,” I corrected.

  “Right…Mrs. Dawson. You should have her hold the phone for you or something.” Her eyes widened. “Don’t you want to call me?”

  I paused for a full five seconds to make my point. “Sure, if I thought a phone call was all you’re after.”

  Rupert, the good friend that he was, took that moment to offer her a chair. She declined in favor of sitting on the edge of my bed. Bummer.

  She frowned and leaned closer to me, her perfume so pungent I nearly coughed. “Seth…if you would only let me—”

  “We’ve talked about this. I’m not ready for a relationship.” I had to head her off before we had a repeat of our last discussion. “It’s just not the right timing.” I glanced at Rupert and gave him a look that begged for help. He leaned against the wall as if enjoying the show with a smirk that said help wasn’t available.

  “There never is good timing when it comes to you,” Blair said, pouting. “Allie has been gone for two years, and it’s time for you to move on. If nothing else, do it for Zac. He needs a mother figure in his life.”

  Blair wanted to be that mother figure without having to do any mothering—I was sure of it. She had some crazy idea that she and I were perfect for each other, or maybe she was thinking of my bank account. Still, she was a family friend—her parents and my parents had known each other since Blair and I were children—so I couldn’t just cut her off.

  She changed positions on the edge of my bed and smiled in a not-so-subtle way. “Promise me that when those casts come off, you’ll take me on a real date.”

  I’d tried everything short of telling her I wasn’t interested and never would be. Though it was possible I might have to do that at some point, I didn’t want to create more conflict than was necessary and upset her parents. As annoying as they could be, they were the only parental figures I had in this world after my parents died.

  Rupert must have sensed my dilemma because he pushed away from the wall and crossed the room like he was about to intervene. “I’m sorry, but he can’t go on a date with you, Blair.”

  I nodded in agreement though I had no idea where he was going with this.

  A startled expression flitted over Blair’s delicate features. “Why not?”

  Rupert pressed his lips together as if he were about to deliver bad news. “Because we have a marketing plan for the Dateable app which means Seth can’t have anything going on in his personal life. At least not love-related.”

  Blair frowned. “Marketing plan… What does that have to do—"

  “To get the kind of publicity we need, Seth has agreed to go on a date with a user of the app. It’s a great way to put Dateable in the public eye, and who better to do it than the man who owns the rights to the app.”

  My eyebrows flew up. This was news to me.

  “But surely he can pick me,” Blair said. “That shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

  Rupert shook his head. “No, it won’t look like he’s serious about using the app if he chooses someone who hasn’t created a profile.”

  “Well then I’ll just create a profile,” she said, irritated.

  “You don’t understand,” Rupert said. “The matchmaking process is a complicated business, and a plan is being set in motion as we speak.”

  Oh, great. What was he getting me into? I had looked to him for help, not to make things substantially worse. Now I had another woman to contend with?

  “I see.” Blair deflated in front of us like an old birthday balloon. “Well, maybe once you’ve gone on your date, you’ll find time in your schedule for me.” She lifted off the bed and walked towards the door, her heels clicking on the marble floor. She turned as she grasped the doorknob. “I’m keeping tabs on you, Seth Wellington. You haven’t gotten rid of me yet.” She smiled and winked and then flounced out of the room.

  I looked at Rupert, my shoulders instantly going rigid, and I had only two words. “No way.”

  Chapter 2

  Emery

  Did anyone in this house clean or was I the only one? Maybe it was time to get the twins to help out because Mom and Dad weren’t going to lift a finger.

  I scrubbed the kitchen counter, oblivious to everything else except my bottle of all-purpose Lysol cleaner and the rock music pouring through my headphones. I moved to the beat while I finished cleaning before the boys arrived for breakfast.

  I didn’t have to wait long because seconds later, my brothers Finn and Wynne crashed into the room, unsettling my peace as they wrestled to see who would make it to the table first. It was a thing they did every morning to my annoyance, but they were eighth grade boys so I figured they’d grow out of it eventually…most likely. I hoped.

  Finn won out this time and sat at the table where I’d placed a plate of food. He picked up a piece of toast and smothered it with butter and grape jelly. “Morning, Emery.”

  “Morning, kiddo.” I ran my hand over his messy brown hair and grinned.

  I turned to do the same with Wynne who had just sat down and was picking up his fork to dig into the hash browns I’d made earlier, but he moved out of the way before my hand got near his head. “Don’t touch,” he said, wryly. “It’s got hair product in it.”

  “Oh, excuse me,” I said with a smirk. “Should’ve known not to get anywhere near the hair.”

  Wynne and Finn were fraternal twins, so they didn’t look identical—only related. Not only did they have their own distinct personalities, but they also had separate “looks.” While Wynne tried to appear Rico Suave for the girls with his over-styled hair and trendy clothes, Finn wasn’t interested in impressing anyone and wore his hair the way it stuck when he got out of bed. He pretty much put on whatever was clean and didn’t worry if it matched.

  The boys weren’t the only ones who had a special “look.” I was Mom’s wild-child and had a style of my own. In my early teens, I could’ve passed for Laura Ingles Wilder (the TV version) with my long braids and tomboy ways, but once I hit eighteen, I rebelled in the only way I could—my appearance.

  Well, I’d had a
child out of wedlock at fifteen, but it wasn’t done out of a rebellious spirit. I didn’t have much supervision back then, so I was able to get away with a lot and often did. Life was my teacher, and the lessons were sometimes cruel.

  The things I got away with in my earlier days hurt me in ways I still didn’t want to think about today. It wasn’t as if Mom and Dad tried to control me and couldn’t. They didn’t have rules, and they let practical consequences be the guide, not because they had a liberal child-rearing philosophy, but because they were just…dead-beats. Sorry to put it that way, but it was true.

  It was the main reason I ran off and got married at eighteen, but that was another story. Come to think of it, maybe I was an itsy bitsy rebellious back then. The marriage hadn’t lasted, but I didn’t like to dwell on those days.

  I was very responsible for the most part now…though one wouldn’t know it by looking at me. My brown hair was still long, and I continued to wear it in braids, only this time they were smaller, pulled from the front and clasped together in the back. I’d shaved all the way down to the scalp on the right side of my head between my ear and temple. It wasn’t a huge space, and I could pull my hair over the area to cover it if I wanted, but it was there all the same. I wasn’t going for punk exactly…more like Viking Warrior Princess. That was definitely a thing nowadays. Eventually, I’d grow out of the look, but, for now, it was working for me. You only got to be young once, and at twenty-two, I wanted to be my own person.

  The boys broke me out of my reverie with their constant squabbling.

  “You and your hair product,” Finn said between bursts of laughter. He was making fun of Wynne, and Wynne wasn’t liking it at all.

  “Hey, be nice to each other.” I gave them both a look that put an end to it and then shook my head. Since when did my little brothers start using the term, hair product? The boys were growing up way too fast. I tossed my headphones on the counter and then lifted my half-eaten plate of food and finished it off.

  “Where’s Dad?” Finn asked.

  “Outside, talking to the next-door neighbor.” Like always.

  Neither of them asked about Mom because if anyone couldn’t find her, there was only one place to look—her bed. When she wasn’t in her room, she was often out with her friends, but the latter was usually at night.

  After the boys finished breakfast, I handed them each a sack lunch and waved as they trotted out the door to head to the bus stop a block away. They were old enough to make their own lunches, but I continued to make them because someone had to mother those boys. Mom wasn’t going to do it. Okay, to be fair, once in a while, she came out of her room and made pancakes. It was a rare occasion, and she left the dishes for me most of the time, but it was a happy day when that happened.

  I dished up hash browns and bacon and then added two pieces of buttered toast. I took the plate out to Dad who was still talking to our neighbor, Brenda, and then I did the same thing all over again and made a plate for Mom.

  When I entered her bedroom, she rolled over and pulled the covers over her head. Hint hint…she didn’t want me to bother her. I set the plate of food on her nightstand and cleared my throat. “Made your favorite this morning—hash browns and bacon. Hope you like it.”

  She offered a grunt, but nothing more. She never thanked me for the food, but I knew it would get eaten. Maybe I was a sucker for doing so much for everyone, but if I stopped, what would happen? I already knew the answer to that. The household would fall apart, and I couldn’t let that happen.

  Mom didn’t move, but she was groaning like she had a headache. Good thing I was prepared with two Tylenol and a glass of water that I set on the nightstand next to her plate. “Long night?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Please tell me you don’t drink and drive, Mom.”

  “Of course not. Now, leave me alone.” Her voice was barely audible when she was like this, but I could usually make out what she said. She wasn’t an alcoholic—I rarely saw her with a drink—but she liked to party with her friends on occasion.

  I nodded even though she faced the wall and couldn’t see me. “Well, okay. Nice talking to you.”

  Mom gave another grunt, and I headed in the direction of my room. I needed to shower and then start the process of job hunting since I was jobless as of yesterday.

  Mom and Dad didn’t know it yet, and they wouldn’t be happy I’d quit. I contributed a large portion of the rent and utilities, but quitting was the only option. I worked as a driver for a delivery company, transporting goods locally within Los Angeles County.

  Basically, if a business needed anything moved from one place to another, they’d call us. I drove a van, and it was a great job, if not a little stressful, but the biggest issue I’d had was with my boss, Bernard. He had a terrible attitude and could be emotionally abusive at times. I told him to cut it out, but after a while, it just wasn’t worth the mental stress. It was a small business so there was no HR to complain to.

  But I would look for something else. I wasn’t the type to wallow in self-pity, nor was I worried since I was a hard worker and able to take on any challenge. Plus, I was articulate when I needed to be, and I’d have no trouble finding a better job. It was out there. I just had to search.

  After showering, I took off the shower cap and dressed. I sat down at my vanity and looked in the mirror as I brushed out my long hair. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the picture of my son, Zac. I’d stuck it in the edge of the frame holding the mirror so I could easily see it, and just looking at his sweet face made my eyes water.

  The Wellingtons still sent me pictures every six months like clockwork, and I kept each one. I couldn’t believe he was seven years old already. Giving him up had been the hardest thing I’d ever done, and the wound in my heart had never quite healed. If anything, it hurt more the older I got, knowing I was missing out on his childhood, but I’d gotten better at hiding the pain.

  Sometimes I wondered where he was and if he was okay. I was fifteen when I chose the Wellingtons to be his parents. Teenagers didn’t always have the best judgment, so I could only hope my decision at the time was sound. I knew he most likely lived in L.A. since the envelopes the pictures came in had L.A. County stamped across the front. Beyond that, I didn’t know anything about him.

  I was about to put my shoes on when my phone dinged. It was from my best friend, Peyton. She and I mostly communicated through texting since she lived in San Diego. She’d recently graduated from UC San Diego and got a job soon after. Peyton was super smart, and when it came to appearances, she was the opposite of me in every way. She had short, reddish-brown hair, and she wore very conservative clothing.

  I opened the text and smiled. Yesterday, I told her about everything that happened with Bernard. She was being a good friend by checking in on me today.

  Peyton: Going job hunting soon?

  I typed a quick response. Yep. Getting ready now.

  Peyton: I’ll pray for you.

  Me: You do that.

  We were close enough that we often teased each other and said what was on our minds. She never took offense to my snappy replies. I wasn’t religious at all and she knew that, but I’d take any prayers she offered up. It couldn’t hurt.

  Peyton: Trust in Jesus. He has a plan for you.

  Me: Yeah, whatever.

  She knew me well enough to know I didn’t buy into that stuff. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in God. I just didn’t require His help. I’d taken care of myself my entire life, and that wouldn’t change anytime soon.

  Peyton: One day you’re going to realize you need Him.

  Me: Nice try.

  ***

  It had been a long afternoon of picking up applications and looking for potential jobs. Most, I had already filled out online, but there were a few places that handled things the old-fashioned way. I’d been all over the place, including three retail stores, several restaurants, and a couple of office positions. My last job had paid w
ell, but I wasn’t picky. Any income was good income at this point.

  I was currently at the bakery section of Gerard’s grocery, a hoity-toity market in Bel Air where all the customers looked like they’d just stepped out of a magazine shoot. To be honest, I felt kind of shabby in my jeans and purple top. The blouse was appropriate for job-hunting, but it wasn’t anything fancy.

  A friend of Peyton’s shared that Gerard’s paid well, and they were always looking for new workers. I asked for an application but was promptly told they weren’t hiring right now. The manager gave me a speech about how she’d call if an opening became available, but judging by her tone, I wouldn’t get my hopes up. I was one to have a good attitude about things, but I couldn’t help but feel a little defeated.

  I needed a cookie…or something else from that bakery to make it better. Not that it would fix the problem, but it would make me smile.

  For several long minutes, I studied the assortment of cookies behind the glass window, trying to decide which one appealed to me the most. A boy with brown hair walked over and stood next to me, pressing his nose against the glass. I glanced at his profile and then went back to studying the cookies. He turned around and hollered for someone named Bessie to come over, but I was too focused on perusing the different colored sprinkles on the shortbread cookies to look at him.

  I heard approaching footsteps and then a woman said, “Zac, you don’t need a cookie. Let’s go.”

  There were many “Zacs” in the world, so the fact that he had the same name as my son didn’t faze me at all. It was common enough, and if I stopped every time someone said his name, I’d be a complete mess.

  He pleaded with her to buy him a cookie, while I tuned them out and concentrated on deciding which one I wanted. Unfortunately, some people were so loud that tuning them out seemed impossible. She continued to discourage him from getting a snack, but he wasn’t giving up. I finally glanced at her and smiled. The scenario reminded me of the many times I’d taken my brothers to the grocery store when they were younger.