ROMANCE: Bear Naked Passion (Billionaire Bear Trio Book 2) (48 page)

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How to Date a Billionaire

How to Date a Billionaire

Chapter 1

Bridget Mason looked at herself in the bathroom mirror with a sigh. The dress that her sister had given her last Christmas was just as gorgeous as she’d remembered it, but a tighter fit than it had been all those months ago. Now it bunched at her sides and pinched her round stomach, making her feel like the pig of the ball.

              Well, it wasn’t like she was going to the Mayor’s Charity Gala to impress anybody. Honestly, she didn’t even want to go. But with Jessica out sick and no one left to cover the event, her editor had all but threatened her to do it.

             
Brring! Brring!

              Speak of the devil.

              “Uh, hello?” Bridget answered her cell hesitantly. She had her fingers crossed that the woman was calling to tell her that she was off the hook.

              “Bridget!” Pamela’s voice laughed through the line. “Glad that I caught you. I’ve pulled a few strings and gotten you a proper ride for the gala, so I don’t care if you’ve already left in that truck of yours, turn back around and leave it at your apartment. Tonight, you’re riding in style.”

              “Style…?” Bridget muttered, holding her cellphone to her ear as she tried to finish applying her mascara.

              “Tell me, kid,” Pamela asked, a touch of condescension in her tone. “Have you ever ridden in a limo before?”

              Bridget froze, one eye squinted closed as the other stared wide open at her reflection. “A limo?” she repeated. Sure, she’d never actually been in one, but she could certainly imagine: the leg room, the plush seats, the free drinks—

              The way everyone would look to see who had just arrived as it pulled up, and then turn away in disgust when it was only her in a tight dress.

              It sounded like a nightmare. “I-I don’t think—”

              “He’ll be there at eight,” Pamela spoke over her. “Dress nice, okay? Like we talked about. Ciao!”

              Bridget stood stock-still, listening to the sudden dial tone as Pamela’s words echoed inside of her head.
Dress nice
, she’d said.

              Bridget imagined that for bubbly, successful Pamela Carter, dressing nice was just a part of her genetic makeup. The woman practically
breathed
luxury, and with a size-two figure and long blonde hair, it was like she was doing clothes a favor when she wore them.

              Yet Bridget, on the other hand, was a size sixteen, with a round face and cropped red hair that barely touched her shoulders. She was fat, and short, and had never dressed in anything that was currently in style, let alone ride in it. Hell, at twenty-seven she was an editor at Cupid’s Call, a women’s fashion magazine that addressed everything from sex to gardening, and even there she was the boring one who only ever covered etiquette and manners.

              She never thought that she’d be squeezing into a dress and dolling up for a party like so many of her coworkers did to flush out their stories. Not that she was happy about it.

              Not that she could get out of it now.

              Bridget glanced at her wristwatch. It was fifteen to eight, and she still wasn’t even done with her makeup. Dropping her phone to rest on the marble countertop, she finished touching up her eyes and sprayed her curls. She was just thinking about fighting her tight dress to go to the bathroom one last time when her cellphone went off.

              The limo had arrived.

              As it turned out, pulling up to an elite party in a limo wasn’t the terrible embarrassment that Bridget had thought it would be.

              It was worse.

              Not only had her driver insisted on opening the door for her, but when she’d stepped out of the limo, pulling on her short dress in an attempt to readjust it, people had not only stared but made faces. Some had only given her a polite blink and a blank face, but others still had turned away with a laugh, or looked her up and down while making a dubious face.

              She could feel the burn of her blush before she’d even taken a proper step out of the vehicle.

              Her driver, Andrew, had assured her that he’d be back to pick her up at ten, and no earlier – Pamela’s orders. Bridget hadn’t bothered to try fighting him and gave a hasty goodbye as she’d hastily run into the building, using her clutch and invitation to cover up the worst part of her stomach.

Once she was finally inside, she acted like the invisible party guest she’d always been and quickly scouted out the quietest corner in the room to take a permanent seat within it. Her stomach grumbled as the smells of the buffet wafted over to her from across the room, but the last thing she wanted to do was pig out in public when she was already the biggest person there. Besides, she wouldn’t put it past the other party guests to take a picture.

              Sighing, Bridget pulled out her phone and took a small video of the party herself. She knew it’d come in handy later to watch when she was finally back in her apartment and sitting down to write her article, “Mister Mayor’s Money Mission.” The short video would remind her of the sights and sounds of the place, and get her in the right tone for the piece. As Pamela had warned her, it needed to differ greatly from everything that she’d written before, and be nothing less than perfect.

              According to Jessica, the staff writer who was supposed to cover the party, she’d need to include the subject of designer clothes and the party planner’s budget – the ‘money’ of the mayor’s party. But Bridget also wanted to be able to slip in the amount of money raised for the charities represented, so she snapped a picture of the projected earnings on the big screen. 

              Putting away her phone, Bridget frowned at the time on the lock-screen. It was already nine, and if she wanted to leave at ten when Andrew came back then she was going to need to gather her intel for the article sooner rather than later.

              She stood up cautiously, as if afraid that someone was going to stop her, and crossed her arms over her stomach self-consciously. No one was looking at her, thank god, but that was only because everyone was paired off in their own little social circles, laughing and chatting, obviously too busy to notice the fat girl in the room. It left Bridget standing on the outside, like always, except this time she actually needed to communicate with them.

              “You’d better get two – no, make that three – interviews,” Jessica had told her, coughing into the other end of the phone as she’d taken a breath. “It really adds genuine fluff to the article. Gives you more material to work with.”

              As it was, Bridget had noticed one or two designer labels, but even she knew that taking an awkward photo of someone’s shoe would never be as good as inserting a direct quote of a fashionista gushing about what she was wearing.

              With a deep breath, Bridget approached the gaggle of women closest to her. “Uh, pardon me?” she said awkwardly, her notebook and pen held out before her like a shield. “I’m from Cupid’s Call, and—”

              “Oh my god, CC?” a woman squealed. The others stopped talking and turned to look at her.

              “Er, yes,” Bridget nodded stiffly. “I’m doing an article on the fashion worn here tonight, and—”

              “
I’m
wearing a Hermes bracelet,” the blonde across from her proclaimed, thrusting out her wrist. “Christian Louboutin for my heels, though. Can’t beat that red stripe,” she winked.

              “Please,” another scoffed. “Givenchy, boots,” she said, sticking out her foot for Bridget to see.

              “I wore my Dior dress,” a brunette chimed in, putting her manicured hands on her slim hips to better outline her figure. Bridget tried to ignore the way that her own dress clung to her fat folds, and she forced a smile at the women.

              “Mind if I snap a picture?” she asked hopefully, holding up her phone.

              They didn’t, of course, and it was with a small wave at the group that Bridget moved on to the other side of the room. It was louder near the DJ, and Bridget found herself wandering very close to the buffet. She hadn’t eaten since noon, not that she hadn’t tried but the thought of the gala had simply made her too nervous to actually hold anything down.

              One plate wouldn’t hurt.

              Grabbing a dish, Bridget followed the other two stragglers who were filling up on food and quietly grabbed up a few pieces of fruit. She glanced at the meats, but decided against it and went further down, looking for some other finger food that wouldn’t leave a mess on her hands and hurt her dress if spilled.

              “Who do you think you’re kidding?”

              Bridget paused at the voice, and glanced behind her. A boy, maybe eighteen or so, was standing there with his arms crossed. A thin teenager was hanging off his arm, and they were both smirking at her with a smugness that just seemed to ooze out of them.

              “Pardon?” Bridget asked. What could two kids possibly want with her?

              “You know you want more,” the girl sniffed.

              “Yeah,” the boy chuckled. “You didn’t get to be that size by eating a handful of grapes and two apples. Take more, pig.”

             
Pig.

              Bridget tried to hide how the insult bothered her, to hold back her blush and keep the little shits from knowing just how hurtful the word was, and dissuade them from ever using it again. But Bridget had never been good at hiding her emotions, and the blush stained her cheeks all the same.

              “Oh, is she embarrassed?” the boy raised an eyebrow.

              “Ashamed, more like,” the girl snorted. “Showing up alone, like
that
. What did she expect?”

              She wished that she could say that she’d been expecting the human race to just do her a general favor for the night and fuck off, but that, obviously, was not going to be the case. And hey, if she was being honest, then Bridget would admit that she
had
been expecting this, because, just like every other time that she’d gone out, something went wrong.

              It had to have been almost been ten o’clock by then. She had half a mind to put her plate down and march out of the room, maybe lean against one of the pillars outside until Andrew showed, when a man spoke up beside her.

              “Hey.”

              It made her jump, and Bridget whirled around, sending one of the grapes rolling off of her plate and onto the floor. It bumped against the man’s shoe, and she felt like dying right there.

              “What do you want, Robert?” the girl seethed.

              “I want to know,” he said, coming up to stand beside Bridget. “Why you’re bothering this nice lady here.”

              Nice lady? Bridget stole a glance up at the man’s face, and immediately took half a step back from him. He was gorgeous. Like, most handsome guy in the room, gorgeous. The man didn’t seem to notice her move away, and he simply crossed his arms as he addressed the teenagers.

              “Remind me again whose party this is?” he said cockily.

              “Uncle Peter’s,” the girl ground out. “But—”

              “And just who is Uncle Peter, again?” he asked innocently.

              “The mayor, but—”

              “And just who,” he continued, pointing a thumb at Bridget. “Do you think covers his events and writes about his life as the mayor?”

              “R…reporters…” the girl said slowly, and her eyes widened as she looked at Bridget again. “She’s a—”

              “Whatever,” the boy muttered, grabbing the girl’s hand. “Come on, Sophie.” He led her away, and the man just shook his head as he watched them go.

              “Sorry about that,” he said, stooping down to pick up the grape that’d fallen and fleck it into the trash. “My sister, Sophia. She’s usually not quite so nasty, but that boy has had a less than desirable effect on her. Kids, you know? Oh, and I’m Robert. Robert Arkell,” he said, extending a hand.

              “B-Bridget Mason,” she said clumsily, shaking his hand. She wanted to thank him, to explain that she’d never had anyone stand up for her like that before, but the words seemed to be stuck in her throat.

              “The writer from Cupid’s Call, right?” he said, releasing her. At Bridget’s dumbfounded look, he snickered and pointed to the girls that she’d interviewed just minutes earlier. “Word gets around. We’re actually used to seeing Jessica at these things for CC, so they were a bit surprised when you introduced yourself.”

              “Jessica’s out sick,” Bridget blurted. “I was the only one available to pick up the story.”

              “Ah, well,” he shrugged to himself. “Things happen. I just hope that you plan to give us the same sort of generous article that she would’ve written.”

              Bridget paused, his words like poisoned darts to her chest, pinning the swirling butterflies that’d felt so free just seconds before. “I usually write articles on etiquette,” she said quietly.