Jessica Clare - Once Upon a Billionaire

Repairing her appearance as best she could, Maylee straightened her dress and gave it an approving nod. Polyester was a great fabric—she’d slept in the thing and nary a wrinkle. That was perfect. With one final smoothing touch to her hair, Maylee left the bathroom behind and emerged from the cabin.

A man sat in one of the big, buttery-soft leather chairs at the far end of the plane. An upraised newspaper hid his face from her, and she squinted, trying to recall what he looked like. Young? Old? Ugly? Had to be old if he was able to afford a jet like this, she decided. Elderly people were nice people, weren’t they? She rather hoped he was nice.

Maylee cleared her throat. “Mr. Griffin?”

The paper folded. A man stared at her from behind it, a frown on his face.

Well . . . he wasn’t old. His dark hair was slicked down into a neat part, and black-framed glasses hid part of his face. His features were regular and pleasant and average, she supposed. If she’d have passed him on the street, she wouldn’t have noticed him.

He gave her a dismissive look. “Are we back to ourselves now?”

She resisted the urge to rub her eyes like a sleepy child. “Beg pardon, sir?”

“I’m going to assume that’s a yes.” He folded the paper and set it aside, then stood. He was tall, she realized, that dark, slicked hair almost brushing the ceiling of the plane. He wore a crisp navy jacket with a symbol on one pocket, khaki-colored slacks, and a loose bow tie hung around his neck, as if he hadn’t quite finished dressing.

“I’m sorry if I took up your room,” Maylee said, resisting the urge to twist her hands in anxiety. “Did I fall asleep or something?”

His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “I trust you don’t remember flinging yourself at me?”

Maylee blinked. “I flung myself at you?”

“If I recall correctly, you asked for a hug,” he said in a sour voice. He gave her an unhappy look. Maylee straightened her clothes, but he turned to a mirror on a far wall and began to jerk at the tie around his neck, trying to tie it . . . and doing a rather lousy job.

“A hug?” Maylee choked on a laugh. That sounded so funny. “Really?”

The look he shot her wasn’t amused. He untied the tie and then tried to tie it again. “Yes, and then you crawled all over me and wept. It was not how I anticipated spending my flight, Ms. Meriweather.”

She bit her lip, a flush of embarrassment heating her cheeks. He sounded so utterly disgusted with her. So much for a great first impression. “Sorry about that. I must not have been myself.”

“You were not. You combined alcohol with your pills and it affected your brain.” He gave her another displeased look. “At least, I assume that’s not how you normally are.”

The smile that curved Maylee’s mouth was tight. She’d be nice and super polite to this man despite his mean words. “I can assure you I normally don’t go around asking my employer for a hug, Mr. Griffin.”

“Mr. Verdi,” he corrected. “My last name isn’t Griffin, it’s my first name.”

She knew that. It was a polite sort of thing to add a “mister” in front of a first name, but she supposed he didn’t grasp that. Well, it wasn’t her place as his employee to correct him. Instead, she watched as he knotted the tie, scowled at his reflection, and then undid it again. At this rate, he was going to destroy the poor thing. It already looked rather mangled.

“As soon as we get to Bellissime, I’ll book you a flight back home,” he said.

Maylee frowned. But . . . they were almost at the airport. The worst part of the trip—the flying—was nearly over. She wanted to see Bellissime and she wanted to get that double-time money. “I’m real sorry about my behavior last night, but I’m not normally that kind of girl. It won’t happen again.”

“I know that. I took your pills.” Before she could protest, he attempted to knot the tie again and continued speaking. “Are you aware that you have an exceedingly pronounced drawl, Ms. Meriweather?”

“Call me Maylee, and yes, I’m aware. I’d have to be dead not to notice,” she told him, smiling. “It’s a Southern thing.”

“And are you aware that you’re wearing a polyester one-piece that pretends to be a two-piece suit?”

She gave the too-large dress a little shake. “No wrinkles. I’d say that’s pretty spiffy considering I slept in it.”

The look he shot her was scathing, which surprised Maylee. “Ms. Meriweather,” he began again, dragging the tie from his neck and starting over once more. “I am the Viscount Montagne Verdi. You may call me Lord Montagne Verdi, or Mr. Verdi, but not Lord Verdi. Not Mr. Griffin.”

“That sounds like a mouthful,” she teased. “Bellissime titles are named after places, right? I read that on Wikipedia.”

He gave her a withering look for interrupting him. “Are you quite finished?”

Maylee swallowed. “I guess so.”

“As I was saying. My cousin is Her Royal Highness Alexandra Olivia the Third, Crown Princess to Bellissime. She is getting married next week. This means there will be social functions that require knowledge of the rules of etiquette, someone who is willing to work night and day to wrangle my increasingly difficult schedule and, above all, I need someone who is capable at my side. I do not need a ‘burn talker.’”

She flushed a little. Had she mentioned that to him? “You might if you burn your hand,” she said cheerily. This man was grumpy, all right. But it was probably because he had to sleep in one of these chairs. It looked like he was destroying his poor tie, too. She had to do something about that. If it was anything like Mr. Hunter’s ties, it probably cost more than her rent did every month.

Maylee stepped forward and before Griffin could protest, she swatted his hands away from his tie. Expertly, she flipped up his collar, smoothed the silk fabric along his neck, and then began to fix his bow tie, taking great care to make sure the knot was perfect. “Mr. Griffin, I understand that you don’t want an assistant like me on this trip. I realize I’m not fancy like you expected.” She kept her voice soft and apologetic, and he’d gone silent. “But I am real good at keeping out of the way. And I’m real good at managing a schedule.” She tweaked the now perfect bow tie and then smiled at him. “And I can tie a mean tie.”

Griffin frowned at his reflection, touching the tie as if he didn’t quite believe she’d fixed it so quickly—or so effortlessly. “I can manage a schedule well,” he said.

“You too? Then why do you need me?”

“I was correcting your English. The proper phrase is ‘I can manage a schedule well. Not ‘I’m real good with a schedule.’”

“But I am,” she told him, and then ran a hand down the front of his jacket. He’d buttoned it wrong, too. She quickly undid his button and then redid it. Did the man not know how to dress himself? Lordy. He needed her more than he realized. “I’m real good with schedules. And men’s clothes.”

And when she looked up from fixing his jacket, she winked at him.

She could have sworn he blushed just a little.

* * *

This was a predicament. Griffin touched his tie again as he waited at the front of the plane for the stair car to arrive. Behind him, the flight attendant chatted with Maylee, and both women were laughing and talking as if they were the best of friends.

Maylee was totally wrong for this job. She was a train wreck. She wore polyester. She drawled like a hillbilly.

She’d cuddled against him last night in his lap.

She tied a mean tie.

And she was already here.

He wasn’t sure what to do. The smart thing would be to immediately send her back to the States. But then what? Admit to his mother that his one assistant had fallen sick and now he had to rely on her tender mercies? Hear the same talk he’d heard a dozen times before about hiring more staff and acquiring a massive residence to live in the style that was expected of a viscount of Bellissime? When all he wanted to do was work on his research and sponsor his pet projects?

It was one reason why he had more money than anyone else in the family. Griffin was the wealthiest national of Bellissime. While all of the royal family was wealthy to an extent, they also had extravagant households, multitudes of country homes that featured twenty rooms or more, and dozens of staff to take care of their needs. Griffin used his money for other things—like investments and joint projects with his friends in their small secret society—and he’d made his money double year after year.

So . . . he didn’t want to hear disparaging remarks about his lifestyle.

He looked back at Maylee. She was grinning at the flight attendant, pinching her dress to her side as the other woman safety-pinned it back. She was friendly, that was obvious. And surely she couldn’t be that incompetent or Hunter would not have kept her on as an employee.

And she could tie a crisp tie.

Griffin sighed. He supposed he could give it another day or two. It couldn’t possibly hurt things, could it?

Adjusting his cufflinks (another blasted item that was difficult to put on without Kip), Griffin prepared himself to emerge as the stair car arrived. Below, there was already a crowd of paparazzi waiting, along with several people from the local newspapers. Here in Bellissime, he was an important person.

How he hated that.

As the stair car came to the door, the attendant hurried forward and a moment later, the door opened. She gave him a warm smile. “Welcome to Bellissime, Mr. Verdi.”

He nodded at her and stepped into the sunlight.

A roar of voices went up.

“Lord Montagne Verdi! Lord! Look over here!”

“Viscount!”

“My lord! Is it true you’ll be looking for an eligible bride while attending the royal wedding?”

“My lord! Over here!”

On and on, the cacophony of voices shouted. Griffin ignored all of them, raised his hand, and gave a polite wave. He put on a fake smile for the cameras, thinking that he loathed this part of his life more than anything else.

“Lordamercy!” he heard a voice exclaim behind him. “Look at all these people! You some kind of celebrity here, Mr. Griffin?”

“Mr. Verdi,” he said, pausing at the top of the stairs. “And only here, I’m afraid.”

Which was why he never came home if he could help it.

These people were plumb crazy over the man. They must not know him real well, Maylee thought to herself. Sure, Griffin Verdi looked suave and elegant, but he was not a nice man. He’d done nothing but snarl at her since she’d woken up, mocked her clothes, said she wasn’t a good employee, and then tried to ignore her. She could see why his last assistant hadn’t wanted to come with him.

She’d been nice and fixed his clothes, and had he even said so much as a thank you?

Not a peep.

Still, he’d stopped talking about sending her back, which was a small win. It’d be a long trip, but she’d smile and take the double time and enjoy her first trip to a foreign country. She’d dealt with cranky men before—her Pepaw wasn’t exactly a gem—and she knew how to handle men like him. You simply ignored their pissy moods, remained pleasant, and they’d eventually come around.

Maylee followed Griffin as he walked down the red-carpeted tarmac and followed him to the limo waiting for him. It was ridiculously shiny, the windows heavily tinted, and on the door was another one of those family crests like the one that had been on the wall of the plane.

Not exactly inconspicuous.

Maylee shouldered her bags as assistants loaded Griffin’s luggage into the car. No one touched her bright plaid suitcase. She guessed the help’s luggage didn’t get to mix with the viscount’s.

“Shall I take that for you?”

Maylee turned around and saw a man in a suit and a dark hat. The chauffeur. He was young and handsome and had the same accent that Griffin did. He was also smiling at her with appreciation, his hand extended to take her things. She beamed a smile at him. “I’m not sure where my stuff is supposed to go.”

“It can go up front with me. Just like you.” He winked at her. “So I can listen to that lovely accent of yours.”

She grinned at him. “Well, thank you kindly, sir.”

“Mr. Sturgess,” he said, taking her bag and giving her another flirty smile.

“Mr. Sturgess,” she repeated, smiling and extending her hand. “I’m—”

“—my assistant,” Griffin cut in, clearly displeased. “And she will have to ride in the back with me to go over my schedule.”