Her Two Billionaires

“No. I know. That's not how it's supposed to work,” Dylan answered, “but what am I supposed to do? She won't let me even say a word.”

“I think you should go find her.”

“Find her where?”

“You know where she works, right? You even know the floor. Can't be that hard. You know her name. You know what she looks like. You may not be the brightest bulb on the string, but...”

“Hey!”

“It's not hard to find her. Go after her, Dylan. Maybe that's exactly what she's looking for.”

“Why would she want me to chase her when she's cutting off all contact with me, or at least not answering anything? I mean 34 messages is pretty...”

“You sent her 34 messages?” He knew it, but the reality hit him, hard, in this moment, with adrenaline making his veins feel like balloons, the steady throb of blood rushing through him like the beat at a Blue Man Group concert. “Jesus, Dylan, are you nuts?”

“What? I was impatient!”

“If I were Laura and some guy sent me 34 messages through an online dating site after our first date, I'd run away screaming, too! And I'm a guy.”

Dylan laughed ruefully. “Alright, you've made a good point. I just, you know...”

“So how many texts did you send her?”

“Just three.”

“Three?”

“Yeah, and I left a couple...a few...okay.” Faltering, he confessed. “Six voicemails.”

“Oh, God. Really? You're worried that I'm blowing this for us? How about you? Come on, Dylan. It's one thing to be the alpha, it's another to be the nutso!”

“Hey!” Mike was right. He'd gone overboard. “So, you're saying the only way to make this right...?”

“Yep, go find her.”

“Don't you think, if I would have scared you off from all the messages and texts, and phone calls, and voicemails, then won't showing up at her place of employment pretty much guarantee me a visit with the cops?”

“Well, it all depends on how you present yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Go there with flowers and a latte, make it a double with some vanilla, and you may have a chance.”

“How do you know how she likes her coffee?”

Mike grinned.

“Ahhh, geez. You spent more time with her than I did, didn't you?”

“After our date, we ended it with a nightcap. She got hers decaf but I'd imagine that during the day she drinks it straight up. Go find some coffee shop, get her a double latte with...”

“With vanilla?”

“...with vanilla. And show up with a dozen roses and see what happens next. Just don't go all Richard Gere and do the Officer and a Gentleman thing.”

“Well, I am a firefighter. I'm used to carrying people up and down stairs and across places.”

“Yeah, I know. You are used to carrying people.”

A silence hung between them.

“But you weren't gonna let me do that this time were you?” Dylan asked Mike. They stared off at a stand off.

“Just go see her. See if you can fix this.”

“But what about...us, the three of us?”

“I don't know. That's a good question.”

Nostrils flaring, Mike's answer pissed him off. Dylan puffed up and got closer, in Mike's personal space, his own boundaries barely drawn. “I don't want to go see her till we've – until you and I have settled that.”

“Fine. So what are we doing here?”

“Um...”

Neither man knew what to say.

Mike's eyes lit up. “I have an idea, but it's really out there.”

“How out there?”

“Way out there! It's kind of a long shot. I…I don't know.”

“Spit it out.”

“Tell you what, you go and talk to Laura and see if you can convince her to date you again. Don't bring me up, don't talk about us. Don't talk about our...you know...relationship.”

“Our threesome.” The men spoke in unison.

“Okay,” Dylan said “Fair enough.”

“Just get the lines of communication open and get her to have a date with you. Not tonight. Tomorrow night.”

Dylan scrunched his face up. “Why?”

Mike smiled “Because I have a plan.”

The idea hit Dylan as the elevator dinged and the doors opened on the thirty-second floor of Stohlman Industries. He was holding a giant vase filled with eighteen red and pink roses sprinkled with baby's breath and was carrying a double latte with vanilla as well. He could pretend to be the deliveryman – that's how he'd get access to her.

The receptionist made it easy. “Hey there,” he said, grinning madly. “I'm looking for Laura.” Pretending to fumble with the card to read her name, he shot the woman his conspirator's grin. She smiled back, leaning forward on her desk.

“Last name?” He paused. Let his smile deepen enough for the dimples to show. Flirting with receptionists was one of his finest arts; helped him with fire investigations. As her face changed from all business to wishful pleasure, Dylan knew that he was about to get access to Laura in two seconds.

“Michaels.”

Her eyes widened. Somewhere in her twenties, she was exactly the kind of woman people assumed were his type. Long, silky brown hair. Big eyes. Great cheekbones. A v-neck top that showed everything but her belly button. If he wanted to, he could take her out for lunch and have a nooner with her in her car. Or a spare office.

Fucking a receptionist, though, wasn't part of the plan. It also wasn't part of Dylan's heart. Dead to the idea, he only had room for Laura right now. The receptionist perked up, tilting her head and brushing her hair forward, over her clavicle. “Oh, yeah, Laura! What beautiful flowers. I'm Debbie.”

He nodded. “Dylan.” Her eyebrows arched as she looked him up and down, apprising him like a piece of meat. Oh, boy. Being hit on like this didn't surprise him.

Having zero internal response did.

“Yeah, I need to deliver them. You know the drill.” He leaned on the desk, peering into her eyes. Play it up, man, if it could get him what he wanted. “Somebody must really appreciate her.” He eyed the flowers; the spread was gorgeous. The receptionist's could be, too, and from her body language it was clear he could dabble in it at his discretion. “So, can you tell me where her office is?”

“Oh, oh no, you can just leave those here. She's...I don't want to disturb her right now.” A look of fake sympathy washed over her face as she created a reason to wave him closer. He obliged, his nose inches from her as she whispered, “She...she actually...well, I'm kind of glad to see the flowers here because she seemed a little upset this morning and we managed to pry it out of her that she was having some man problems.”

“Oh, gotcha.” He ran a hand through his thick hair, drawing attention to his face, posing just a little. One of his model poses that he knew would show off his biceps. Debbie practically ate him with her eyes. “Oh, man, I hate guys like that.” Dylan shook his head. “Just, you know...it makes me want to be a better man. Flowers don't solve everything. You can't be a dick and expect a few roses to fix it all.”

Ding. That seemed to get her, and now all he had to do was go in for the kill. “You know, if she's had that rough a time, I think it would be better if I just brought these in and delivered them myself and that way, you know, give her a little extra perk up to a crappy day.”

He wasn't even making any sense at this point, but it didn't matter; he could have been reciting the Pledge of Allegiance for all Debbie the Receptionist seemed to care. She was practically drooling. “Yeah, sure. Room 311,” she said, pointing vaguely down a hallway.

“Thanks so much, Hon,” he answered. Following her directions, knowing that if he turned back around her eyeballs would be glued to his ass, he sought out room 311. Down a corridor, past the coffee machine, past the bathroom, and then...whoa! Some tiny little interior office. Poor Laura didn't even have a window. Maybe being a business analyst wasn't as glamorous as he'd thought. He knocked softly.

“Just a minute,” shouted the voice from the other side. Yup, that was her. This was going to be one wild surprise. Steeling himself, he arranged the latte in one hand and the flowers in the other, trying to decide whether to smile or not. Too cheesy? When she opened the door, her expression was not quite what he expected. He thought he might see surprise. He thought he might even see fear.

Disgust had never occurred to him.

“Dylan, what are you doing here?” She glanced around the hallway as if his mere presence were something she wanted to hide from others.

“I'm delivering roses from an admirer,” he said, piling on more charm, hoping this was going to take.

“Really? Aren't they better suited for your girlfriend?”

Where was that one coming from? “My girlfriend? What girlfriend?” he asked.

Someone at the copier a couple of offices down paused and craned their neck, their ear perked, catching whatever wave of gossip they could grab from the conversation he and Laura were having right here in the hall and he took that as a cue.

Nodding toward the person he said “Do you really want to have this conversation out here?”

Her face changed. She glanced over. “No, I don't.” Ice Queen voice. If she could be any colder she'd be a glacial shelf in the Arctic. Ouch.

“Please, let me come in and let's talk, 'cause I don't have a girlfriend and I don't know what you're talking about!”

She frowned, seeming to consider her options. Finally, she reached for the flowers, grabbed the latte with a yank, turned around and left the door open. He took that as an opportunity, stepped through and closed the door. She set the flowers on a filing cabinet and took a swig of the coffee.

The room was the most boring office he'd seen – and he was a firefighter, so he'd seen his share. At least the fluorescent lights didn't blink on and off like crazy and trigger eye tics. Everything was beige. The floor was beige. The walls were beige. Nope, change that. Putty, he had recently learned, was the official name of the most boring shade ever. He'd learned that because he'd had to do some requisition forms for some boring filing cabinets. Replacing some pre-World War II office equipment at the firehouse.

None of that mattered. What mattered was that the dozen and a half roses that he bought were by far the only color in the room other than Laura's perfect lime-green sweater covered by a nice double-breasted suit. She leaned back against the front of her desk, her butt forming beautiful curves against the edge, her arms crossed over her now-swelling breasts. He could tell that she was aroused just by the sight of him, but could also tell that her anger ran deep.

Where on earth had this come from? he wondered. At least he had some explanation for why she'd fled his bed at three in the morning. She thought he had a girlfriend? What the hell had Mike been telling her? Wait, that didn't make any sense, 'cause Mike swore up and down he hadn't said a word about them to her. So...what?

“Why do you think I have a girlfriend?” he asked.

She said, “Well, when your bedroom is plastered with pictures of someone who looks like she was part of the Olympic beach volleyball team, it's kinda hard to come to any other conclusion.” She gestured down at her belly and hips. “I, obviously, wasn't picked to play for that team.”