The Bad Boy Billionaire: What a Girl Wants Read Free Page B

pint.
    “Oh.”
    “Everyone has said no to me Jane.” He glanced nervously at me. The sadness in his brown eyes kind of broke my heart.
    “You just need one yes,” I said, trying to be encouraging. “You’ll get it.”
    “How are your books doing?” Sam asked.
    “Really well,” I said. Then I thought maybe I should have downplayed my success for him now. But then I thought: fuck that. It was Roxanna’s influence that I was thinking in swear words, and her influence that I was no longer putting the men in my life before myself. It was also thanks to her influence that I was dating a great guy, published and basically being more successful and happy than I’d ever imagined.
    Maybe Sam ought to be having drinks with Roxanna instead.
    But it wasn’t all due to her. I had typed—and imagined and felt—every word of my novels. I offered up my heart and soul—aka my novels—to the world and that had been terrifying. I weathered the good reviews and the bad. Everything wasn’t always perfect with Duke, either, but I held on and had faith.
    So I was sorry Sam was having a bad time, but I didn’t want to apologize for my own success.
    I sipped more of my wine and couldn’t help but note how the tables had turned. Sam had once been the darling of the Montclair University English Department who mocked women’s fiction and other genre authors so much that I kept my romance novels hidden under the bed. I didn’t dare let my guy see the real me. Until now.
    “That’s great Jane,” Sam said. I breathed a sigh of relief. Too soon. “Well, all those desperate housewives in the red states need something to get them off. Your book is as good as any I suppose.”
    I spit out an ill-timed sip of chardonnay, spewing it over my jeans. Curses!
    I couldn’t let that dig at romance readers slide.
    “Sam, all kinds of women read romance novels. Red states, blue states. Happily married, or single. Young, old. Lots of education. Or a little. There are too many of them to fit neatly into that stupid stereotype.”
    He ordered another beer. I eyed him nervously.
    “Sam, did you take the bus into the city?”
    “No, I drove.”
    “Are you staying over? Because drinking and driving is a bad idea and they’re going to close the bridges and tunnels before you can sober up.” I checked my watch. “In an hour, to be exact.”
    “I don’t know if I’m staying over or not. Am I, Jane?” He lifted his head and fixed his darkened gaze on me. In all our years together, I’d never seen him so wounded, haunted, troubled. I wasn’t in love with him anymore, but my heart ached for him all the same.
    “What’s going on Sam?”
    He shrugged those broad shoulders of his. He sighed wearily.
    “Everything in my life has gone to shit since you left, Jane. When we were together, I knew who I was and where I—we—were going. We had a house—a fucking home . I had someone to come home to. I was the rock star of my English Department with all the promise in the world. Then I lost you. Then I lost my job and now I’ve got nothing and you . . .”
    He stopped talking then. Just laughed bitterly.
    I had blossomed since we broke up. But Sam had clearly stumbled. And fell. On his face.
    “Sam . . .”
    “Now you’re a successful published author and dating a fucking billionaire. And I need you back. So tell me how to win you back.”
    “Sam, I don’t think that’s in the cards for us.”
    “You’re not wearing your ring,” Sam pointed out.
    “I lost it.”
    That, at least, made him laugh. A bitter laugh that made me cringe.
    “You lost that rock? Jesus, it must have cost what, a hundred thousand? More? That thing was huge. Bigger than anything I ever could have gotten you. But he’ll just buy you another won’t he? Won’t even notice a few hundred thousand missing in his bank account.”
    “It was insured,” I lied. I didn’t want to explain that it was only a cubic zirconia piece of gift shop junk—that would have