The Billionaire Dating Game: A Romance Novel (13 page)

My mouth dropped open.

“You think I’m that desperate? That I need to go on a dating show in order to find a guy?”

“What? No! I just meant—”

“What? What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Forget it.”

“No, let’s not forget it.”

“You decided to come on the show, didn’t you?” Piers asked.

“After you stormed into my office and conned my boss into going along with your stupid little plan! You know why I’m here?” I asked. “I’m here so that my boss doesn’t fire me. That’s the only reason I’m here!”

“That’s the only reason,” Piers echoed hollowly.

“That’s right.”

“It has nothing to do with the three orgasms I gave you in the elevator—”

“Will you shut up about the elevator already?”  I pressed my hands up to my face, trying to block out my shame. “I don’t want to hear another thing about the elevator. That was just one big embarrassing mistake!”

Piers’ face turned pale. I couldn’t tell if he was mad, or shocked, or something else entirely.

“Technically, it was three
mistakes
,” he said.

“Shut up—”

“Three little mistakes? Or three big mistakes? How big were those
mistakes
, would you say?”

His gaze burned into me. I faced forward and pressed my hands tightly over my ears.

“
Shut! Up!
”

“You’re so mature,” Piers said. “I’m sure you’ll get along great with the mature, intelligent billionaire who absolutely isn’t your soulmate.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“Oh, here. I have something that belongs to you.”

Before I could say anything else, he’d thrust a pair of panties into my hands. I stared down at them.

“What—what—”

“They’re yours. You forgot them on the floor of the elevator while we were being completely unromantic together.” The words came out seething with rage.

Oh, God.

I crumpled the panties in my hands. I didn’t know what to do with them. My pajamas didn’t have any pockets. The elevator came to a stop. I had to do something. I stuffed the panties down the front of my pants. Panties stuffed inside of panties.

“Clever girl,” Piers whispered, as the elevator doors opened.

“Panty-snatcher,” I whispered back.

“And here’s the penthouse you’ll be living in!” Piers instantly switched back into his fake persona as he stepped out of the elevator and into the luxury apartment.

I stopped in the doorway, frozen in awe. The ceilings were so high they could have had their own weather patterns. The whole apartment was white, pure white. White curtains, white furniture, white carpet. There was a white ceramic vase with white roses on a white wicker table. The entry walls were made from white marble. All of the other contestants were sitting primly on two oversized white leather sofas in the middle of all the whiteness.

It was an apartment meant for people without pets or kids, I decided. Totally sterile. Modern as hell. Jessica would have loved it.

“Ladies and other ladies, your tenth and final contestant—”

Piers gestured sideways, and then realized I hadn’t followed him in.

“Lisa? Want to come inside?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, stepping in nervously. “I feel like I’ll stain the carpet just by looking at it the wrong way.”

Piers laughed, a hollow fake laugh that boomed across the room. All of the other girls tittered along with him. As I moved forward, I saw a couple of them whisper to each other, looking at me.

It was then that I realized that everyone else was dressed up perfectly from head to toe. Their hair was combed, curled, and coiffed. Their fingernail polish matched their dresses. And they were all wearing heels. I suddenly felt terribly self-conscious of my tank top and ninja turtle pajamas, my un-made-up face and disheveled hair. After Emma and Jess had spent so much time getting me prepared, I was going to embarrass them like this.

“Sorry I’m dressed like this,” I said boldly. “Piers told me it was pajama day for the first contest, so you’re all obviously at quite a disadvantage.”

Every head swiveled to Piers in confusion.

“Just a joke!” I said quickly. I sank down on the edge of the nearest couch, next to the young blonde girl I’d noticed at the auditions. She looked even more nervous than she had before. “I really just overslept.”

“Oh my God,” the girl said, staring in unabashed horror at my pajama pants. “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Not the end of the world.” But she was looking at me like a global apocalypse would be preferable to the way I was dressed. I bit my lip. Maybe it was worse than I thought.

“The first contest is a cooking competition!” Piers announced. I could see relief washing over some of the girls’ faces. A few of them, though, were stricken pale.

“They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Piers continued. “So we’ve prepared a kitchen full of the most exotic, organic ingredients for you to make a dish that will impress a billionaire!”

Now all of the girls were starting to look worried. I was worried, too. All of the cooking I did was for Emma and Arlen. And both of them liked applesauce and burgers more than caviar and coq au vin. There was no way I was going to cook something that would impress a billionaire’s palate.

“There are five cooking stations set up inside the penthouse kitchen through that doorway,” Piers explained, gesturing behind him. “Two girls to a station, so you’ll have to share the workspace. You all have access to the pantry and fridge, where you will find all of the ingredients available to you. At the end of one hour, you must have a finished plate worthy to serve to a billionaire. Are you ready?”

None of the girls looked ready. Hell, I wasn’t ready either. But my competitive spirit was raring up inside, and my pulse was racing. I was putting together a plan in my head when Piers yelled “
GO!”

I might lose this contest. In fact, I was counting on it. Even if I got kicked out in the first round, I would have a decent story for
Moi
. But if I was going to lose, I was going to lose
my way.

Chapter Fourteen

I leapt over the arm of the couch and raced through the doorway to the kitchen. I’d expected to be the first person inside, but some of the girls were surprisingly fast in heels. I bumped into a girl in a gold miniskirt as I yanked open the giant fridge door, and she shoved into me to get a good look inside.

It was a huge fridge, but everything inside was labelled clearly. A basket of mussels. Kale greens. Venison and scallops, fennel and rutabaga. All kinds of herbs and fancy cheeses.

By the time I’d even glanced through the shelves, there were five other girls pressing from behind to get in. I quickly grabbed a package of chicken breasts, a couple eggs, and a handful of herbs. When I made it away from the fridge door, two girls were pulling at both sides of the basket of mussels.

“That was mine!”

“I got them first!”

“You can’t take all the caviar!”

I backed away from the mob. Mussels clattered to the floor amid shrieks of panic. One girl had already spread all of her ingredients over the entire stove top, and was arguing with the girl who was supposed to be sharing with her.

“I don’t have any room to cook!”

“I need all these pans! You can cook in the oven!”

“OH MY GOD! SHE STOLE MY POMEGRANATES!”

“There were only two of them! You don’t need both pomegranates!”

I spun around to find my station. The stovetop labeled with my name was right next to the pantry. Perfect. I got there and plunked all of my ingredients down onto the table next to the stove just as my partner arrived and did the same. It was the really young blonde girl from before, the one who thought I was serious about pajama day.

“Hi,” I said breathlessly. “I’m Lisa.”

“I’m Kate,” she said.

“Truce for the next hour? I don’t want to fight you over papaya slices.”

I offered my hand. She looked down, as though deliberating, and then shook it.

“Truce. Let’s be partners.”

“I’m going into the pantry,” I said, clutching a mixing bowl to my chest as gravely as though I was going to enter a warzone. “Do you need anything?”

“Oil. And flour.”

“You got it,” I said. “Don’t let anyone steal my chicken.”

She nodded, already starting to chop up a persimmon. The chef’s knife flew as she worked, dicing the fruit into perfect cubes. Within a moment, it was done and she was shaking almonds into a pan to toast.

My jaw dropped as I watched her flip the almonds expertly in the pan.

“Hurry!” she said. “We only have an hour!”

I nodded and spun away to the pantry.
Shit.
This was what I was competing against? I really didn’t have a chance.

Oh, well. I had an idea for something that would make a good story, even if I lost.
Especially
if I lost.

In the pantry, I grabbed oil and flour. Kneeling down, I found the rest of what I needed.  A box of breadcrumbs. A few potatoes.

“What dish are you planning to make?”

I dropped the bowl, startled. A cloud of flour erupted into my face as the bag split open.

“Jeez, Piers,” I said, frowning as I pinched together the bag of flour and gathered up the rest of the ingredients. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“What are you making?”

“None of your beeswax,” I said.

Piers grinned as I turned around and pointed to my head.

“You have a little—uh—”

I blew upwards onto my bangs, and a white puff of flour burst out of my hair and right into Piers’ grinning face.

“Thanks, Piers,” I said. “You’re the best!”

I ducked back out of the pantry before he could ask me again. I didn’t want to let him know what I was working on.

Kate was already working on slicing thin strips of a vegetable I couldn’t recognize. She pulled the pan of almonds off of the stove.

“Sorry,” she said. “I stole one of your burners. And do you mind if I use the oven?”

“No problem,” I said, handing over the oil and flour. “I’m only using one burner anyway.”

She eyed me incredulously, as though she couldn’t believe that I could make a dish with only one pan. But I’d lived with Emma in an apartment for a year where we only had a George Foreman grill to work with. A single pan was a luxury to me.

We worked side by side for the next hour. As the clock ticked, I became more and more sure that Kate was going to win the first contest. She had three separate parts to her dish - a caramelized vegetable side, a butter pastry that she was filling with roasted persimmon, and a main dish of what I was pretty sure was going to be seared tuna. Both of our plates were finished at the last minute.

“Is that—”

“Yep,” I said, looking proudly down at my plate. “Chicken nuggets and french fries.”

If I was going to lose this contest, I was going to lose doing what I knew how to do best. And so what if I had made finger food? I wasn’t going to change myself and pretend to be something I’m not. If I was going to date a billionaire, he would have to love me for who I am.

At least, that was the angle I thought would make the best article for
Moi
. “I Got Dumped by a Snobby Billionaire.” I could see the headline now.

“Your plate looks great,” I said, gesturing down to Kate’s dish. Her vegetables were julienned, her tuna was garnished, and the pastry she’d made glistened golden brown. “I think you’ll win for sure.”

She twirled her hair around one finger nervously and looked around the kitchen.

“Well, I don’t think I’ll lose.”

Two of the girls were yelling at each other over a plate while behind them, a pan billowed out black smoke. Most of the dishes, though, looked nice, with pretty plating and sauces around the rim. My pulse was still racing from the adrenaline of the contest when Piers came into the middle of the room.

“Congratulations on finishing your first contest!” he said. The camera crew circled him as he gestured back to the living room. “And now to introduce you to the man you’ve all been waiting to meet… billionaire Dylan Chase!”

I had expected a suave billionaire to come sauntering through the room in a business suit and gold cufflinks. I’d pictured a Christian Grey, with perfectly styled hair and manicured nails. Someone who looked at home in a luxury yacht or a velvet smoking jacket. Someone with
panache
.

The man who appeared in the doorway was none of that. He was dressed in ripped-up jeans and a T-shirt that said “Bacon Is My Favorite Vegetable.” He looked like an All-American quarterback, with a muss of blond hair and muscles so ripped that I could pick out the veins on his biceps from across the room.

“Yo!” he said.

I nearly burst out laughing.
Yo?
Nobody else seemed to find it funny, and Piers glared at me when I stifled my laugh into a cough.

“Oh my God,” Kate whispered under her breath. “Dylan Chase. That’s his name.
Dylan Chase
.”

“Of course it is,” I said.

I looked around. Most of the girls were standing in front of their plates, posing like runway models at the end of a catwalk. Dylan Chase, suave billionaire, rubbed his hands together, ignoring all of the pouting lips pointing his way.

“Let’s eat!” he said. “I’m starving!”

He plopped down at the small table that had been set up in the middle of the room and grinned expectantly.

My Lord. This was the man that we were all supposed to be impressing. This was the billionaire they had chosen. I suddenly felt glad that I would be kicked off the show early. I didn’t want to have any part of Dylan Chase, jock extraordinaire.

“Our first competitor,” Piers said, “is a former Miss America contestant. Her name is Mia Firenze!”

“Of
course
it is,” I mumbled.

It was the girl in the gold skirt who had been screaming at her partner about caviar. She strutted forward with her plate and bent at the waist to set it down in front of Dylan. Her long black hair flowed silkily over her shoulders, and her cleavage nearly popped out of her bra as she leaned forward.
Mia Firenze, everybody!