Page 32 of Billionaire Grump
Deep breaths.
I dry my hair, leaving it down, flowing silkily over my shoulders.
I shimmy into the dress Cleo raved about. It’s got a fitted lacy halter top that ties at the back with a satin strap, and also behind my neck. It definitely shows off my boobs, which I know is part of the reason Cleo chose it. The skirt is pink and lightly fitted—and very short—with a slightly flouncy hem. I put a few gold cuffs around my wrists, put on some gold hoop earrings and drape a gold chain necklace around my neck.
My eyelashes are naturally long, but I put on some Magic Length mascara, Barely There Flawless foundation and Candy Pink Lusciousness lip gloss.
Finally, I find my gold heeled sandals to complete the look.
I take a few photos in my mirror, tagging my clients.
Cleo was right though. I love this outfit.
Ready or not, Mr. Hot MegaBucks, here I come.
I quickly text Josh.
Going to a wedding in the Hamptons this weekend, believe it or not! Hope you’re having fun (but not too much fun haha)
Checking the time again—oh, shit—it’s 4:37. Oops, I’m seven minutes late.
I grab my bag, my wheeled weekend suitcase, my keys, my charger, and I let myself out.
8
By the time I get to the street—whoa—the limo is waiting there, the driver leaning casually against the car checking his phone.
He looks up when I struggle to get my bag through the door with one hand. He steps onto the sidewalk to help me. “Miss Ivy?”
“Yes. Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s not a problem, Miss Ivy. May I?” He reaches for my small suitcase. I nod and he takes it and puts it into the trunk of the limo. Then he opens the passenger door for me. “Can I pour you a glass of Moët?”
“Um…no, thank you.” But Cleo’s command echoes through my brain. Let loose and have fun. That’s an order. “Actually, maybe just one.”
“Of course, Miss Ivy.”
He pops the bottle that’s on ice and as I slide into the back seat of the limo, he hands me the glass.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Miss Ivy. My sister’s a big fan.”
“Oh. Tell her thank you.”
He bows a little, then closes the passenger door and soon we’re on our way through Friday afternoon rush hour traffic.
I use the time to answer a few emails but we don’t have far to go and before I know it we’re pulling up in front of a large, intricate iron gate.
Who has a gate in New York City?
On Park Avenue, no less.
The gate is part of a walled courtyard that leads to the entrance of a tall, very stately-looking building. The driver retrieves my bag and uses a key card to unlock the gate. A doorman is waiting for us. The driver gives him my bag, bows again and leaves me with the doorman. From there we enter the building and take an elevator up.
“Are we meeting Mr. Maddox at his apartment?” I ask the doorman.
“No. At the helicopter. It’s ready to depart. He’s waiting for you.”