Her Billionaire Boss Read online

  Her Billionaire Boss

  A Protective Possessive Instalove Romance

  Regina Wade

  Copyright © 2020 by Regina Wade

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Ca$h Money Playlist

  1. Beau

  2. Brooklyn

  3. Beau

  4. Brooklyn

  5. Beau

  6. Brooklyn

  7. Beau

  8. Brooklyn

  9. Beau

  10. Brooklyn

  11. Beau

  12. Brooklyn

  13. Beau

  14. Brook

  15. Beau

  16. Brook

  Epilogue — One Year Later

  Epilogue — Ten Years Later

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  Also by Regina Wade

  About the Author

  Ca$h Money Playlist

  Billionaire, Travie McCoy Feat. Bruno Mars

  Rich Girl, Hall & Oats

  Nine to Five, Dolly Parton

  Money, Money, Money, Abba

  Material Girl, Madonna

  Love Don’t Cost a Thing, Jennifer Lopez

  Price Tag, Jesse J

  Money, Pink Floyd

  Money (That’s What I Want), Barrett Strong

  She Works Hard for the Money, Donna Summer

  Money in the Bank, John Anderson

  Started from the Bottom, Drake

  For the Love of Money, The O’Jays

  Money Honey, Lady Gaga

  Rich Girl, Gwen Stefani

  Just Got Paid, ‘NSYNC

  Chapter 1

  Beau

  Oh every time I close my eyes, I see my name in shining lights yeah. A different city every night. Oh, I swear the world better prepare for when I’m a billionaire.

  My Ferrari California T roadster isn’t the most expensive toy in my garage. It’s not even the most exotic. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it’s my favorite, though. The Tesla is efficient. The Bugatti is fast.

  But there’s just something about cruising in the T with the top down. Flooring the sleek red sports car and pushing her along the curving roads of Malibu Canyon to the PCH. Something about the views of the Santa Monica Mountains as I slice through the canyons at ninety-five miles per hour. It’s almost a religious experience, something everyone should experience at least once in their life.

  I’m lucky enough to call this place home.

  I follow the crisp scent of the ocean, watching as the sun bounces off the endless green of Pepperdine University’s lawn. Just beyond the sprawl of libraries and post-modern dorms is the endless blue of the Pacific.

  I make it a point to cruise these mountains every time I get back into LA. Not always in the California, though more often than not.

  It is, after all, the most fitting car for the job.

  My family built most of Malibu and the surrounding valleys. There’s a sense of pride, an undeniable responsibility that comes along with driving through these hills. Just seeing the sprawling university walls, the soaring dome of the observatory, the sleek lines of the modern art museum… it all hammers home the significance.

  Somewhere on the deed to all of those buildings is Someday Came, Inc: the land development and real estate company started by my great grandfather and handed down to me.

  “Siri, what does the rest of my morning look like?” I ask the sleek iPhone sitting on my passenger’s seat.

  One of the best parts of being a real estate mogul is the fact that I get to travel as much as I do. The last three weeks have been a whirlwind of activity in Paris and Milan as I finalized plans for new hotels and private golf retreats. It’s hard to keep up with the demand for buildings with the SC at the top.

  No matter what, I always make sure to leave myself time for a decompressing drive whenever I land back on the west coast. It lets me arrive back at the SC headquarters in Malibu with a clear outlook and a fresh mindset.

  “You have first-round intern interviews at nine am, Mr. Addison.” Siri’s robotic voice replies from atop the neat stack of files on the shotgun seat.

  I slow down, preparing to coast the Ferrari off the highway and onto the surface streets for the last stretch of my commute into town. My private penthouse isn’t terribly far from the office— I work too hard for that— but I do like my privacy. It’s tucked away at the base of the Santa Monica Mountains. Close enough to still have its own stretch of beach at the end of a secluded road, the sprawling post-modern building still affords me a zen retreat from the rat race when I need one.

  One of the benefits of my upcoming fortieth birthday, I muse, is having the important things like balance figured out.

  Unfortunately, when you’re an Addison, that serenity comes at the cost of a very intense schedule. A quick glance at the digital display on my dashboard lets me know that taking the scenic route into the office means I don’t quite have time to cruise by my favorite coffee shop for an espresso this morning. Luckily, I have a coffee bar set up on the ground floor of the SC building.

  I like to sit in on as many interviews as I can for the company. From interns fresh out of college all the way through to upper management. My father taught me early on that Someday Came is only as strong as the weakest employees. It’s a conversation that’s always stuck with me.

  A familiar restlessness stirs inside of me as I cruise to a stop behind a line of cars at a red light. There’s something especially frustrating about encountering traffic after being on the open road. I try not to let the annoyance bubble to the surface as the light in front of me changes from red to green and the car in front of me makes no forward motion. From my seat, I can see the driver of the other sports car looking down, clearly distracted.

  Even in the middle of town, the salty scent of the sea is never far in Malibu. Bright flower bushes and painted awnings splash against white walls like a movie still. Here and there, the vivid blue of the ocean peeks out from between the buildings.

  Finally, after what feels like forever, the Corvette driver finishes sending his text and peels off. Before I can take off after him, someone dashes off the curb, dashing blindly into the intersection.

  “Oh! I’m so—”

  I don’t see the woman until she’s already in front of my car, my foot slamming reflexively on the brake. My heart slams, too. Hard and fast, dead center in my chest at the same time. But I already know it isn’t just because the brunette beauty threw herself blindly at the nose of my little red roadster like she’s got a death wish.

  “Are you alright?!” I crane my head out of the door, more grateful than ever that I put the top down this morning. Instinctively, my eyes rake the stranger up and down for obvious signs of injury.

  “Sorry!” she finishes over me.

  She doesn’t appear outwardly hurt. There’s a spike of relief in me at the realization.

  One hand is still braced along the cherry red hood of the Ferrari. She’s managed to drop her slim portfolio and the navy blue suit jacket she was holding in her free hand. The other hand, I notice, has managed to spill an entire paper cup of takeout coffee all over her button-down shirt.

  At least one of us managed to stop for coffee this morning.

  I want to ask her if she’s hurt. I want to ask her what possessed her to dash behind a moving car without so much as looking for more traffic. I want to climb out of my s
eat and pull her into my lap, hold her until I’m sure for myself that she’s safe.

  The last reaction stops me cold.

  She looks up, then, finally snapping out of her sudden stupor. I meet her big blue eyes and for the first time in my life, I know that there’s something more beautiful than the Pacific Ocean.

  Her.

  Chapter 2

  Brooklyn

  You’re a rich girl, and you’ve gone too far. ‘Cause you know it don’t matter anyway. — Hall and Oats, ‘Rich Girl’

  This is not how I am supposed to meet Beauregard Addison Jr.

  There isn’t a single doubt in my mind who the man navigating the sexy little red car that nearly ran me over was. How can there be, when I’ve read his autobiography cover to cover three times? My heart is still racing, pounding erratically in my chest over the encounter; as much because of who was driving as what happened.

  Beau Addison is one of the few famous faces in California that’s never graced the silver screen. I’ve been obsessed with the man from the first time I read an article about him. It was in a newspaper I was using to wash a car window at the time. I was fifteen years old, living in a group home in East LA and doing everything I could to squirrel away money for college on the side.

  It was a revelation. Reading about the way he ran his company, his work ethic, the singular drive and determination with which he lived his life and ran his company. I began devouring everything I could get my hands on that had his name on it. Books, magazine articles, the occasional social media posting. Despite everything conspiring against me, I graduated with honors and made it to UCLA right on time.

  I knew the whole time I’d do whatever it took to get a job working for Addison’s company someday.

  Now here I am, eight years later.

  I can’t believe that was really him…

  My heart is still hammering away behind my ribcage. Less because I almost made myself roadkill and more so because Beau Addison is, somehow, more handsome in real life than his pictures lead me to believe. I only got a quick look, but that’s all it took. The way the sun glinted off his short sable hair made my hands itch to run my fingers through it.

  If they hadn’t been busy spilling my coffee and dropping my resume on the dirty asphalt, of course.

  Ugh. Not now.

  I push the encounter firmly from my mind. As thrilling and terrifying as my brush with the actual Addison was, I have more important things to tackle this morning. It’s not like the owner of the biggest land and real estate development firm in America is going to bother to sit in on interviews with the college interns. Hell, even if— ahem, when— I manage to land this job, I doubt I’ll be working anywhere near my dream mentor. At least not for a few years yet. So as long as I can make it through the first round unscathed, I might still have a shot at working with Beau Addison soon enough.

  Too bad it looks like I accessorized my suit with half a pot of dark roast.

  One step at a time.

  Just walking through the front doors of the Someday Came building gives me a little shiver of excitement. I’ve seen more pictures of the soaring glass and chrome building than I can count, and practically memorized the entire company’s Wikipedia page over the years. Even nearly getting run over by the man himself isn’t enough to dim my shine as I bustle towards the elevator.

  It’s taken a hell of a lot of hard work, applying for more scholarships than I thought humanly possible, and the complete and total sacrifice of any chance of a social life throughout college, but I am finally on my way.

  I catch sight of my reflection in the polished glass of the elevator wall and almost ride all the way back down. Americano and shame are splattered all over the front of my white blouse. There’s also a little gap in between my two top buttons— an unavoidable casualty of reusing the same “good” dress shirt for far too long after I’ve outgrown it.

  I’m simultaneously mentally scolding myself for stress-eating too many college vending machine snacks during late study sessions and trying to smooth down the wild tumble of my hair. When I left the house this morning it was neat and orderly; as close to well-behaved as my naturally curly tresses ever get. After three busses and a half-mile walk in ill-fitting pumps— not to mention a near-brush with a billionaire’s front fender— it looks more like an unruly black chrysanthemum.

  The soft ding of the doors opening snap me out of my pity party for one, and I head out.

  “Name?” The woman at the reception desk on the eighth floor looks at me from behind her silver-framed glasses.

  Her grey suit is tailored sharp enough to cut right through me, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bun pulled back that severely before. Just looking at the way her pale blonde tresses sit sleek and smooth against her head without so much as a bobby pin to be seen makes me want to sigh. Loudly.

  “Brooklyn Jones,” I say instead. “I have a nine am interview for an internship?”

  She doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the fact that I’m wearing my coffee instead of drinking it.

  “Please wait over there. Interviews should begin shortly.” Malibu Receptionist Barbie points me in the direction of a crowded waiting room, and my heart sinks.

  Nearly every plush seat and small couch is filled. Everywhere, hopefuls for my dream entry-level position crowd the space. Most of them look to be about my age— college juniors or seniors looking to work for one of the most well-known and respected development and real estate companies in the countries.

  I knew there would be other candidates called in to interview for the available internship, but I wasn’t expecting this many people waiting. Polished, professional, beautiful people. Most of them are clearly wearing designer suits and lacking a layer of java on their shirt.

  A momentary panic rises in me as I look around the room. Standing in the doorway to the waiting room, I’m suddenly right back to washing cars after school to save up for college. A thin sheen of nervous sweat breaks out along the back of my neck. I close my eyes, take a deep breath. When I open them again, I realize I’ve got a death grip on my slim leather satchel.

  Setting the portfolio with my resume and letters of recommendation down, I turn back down towards the reception desk.

  “Excuse me,” I ask with a small gesture to the front of my shirt. “I was wondering if—”

  “Down the hall.” She points without looking up from her computer screen. The tightly coiled bun doesn’t even move as she types. “Second door to your right.”

  “Thanks,” I nod at the top of her head.

  Ok Brooklyn. Time to get your game face on.

  Chapter 3

  Beau

  Tumble out of bed and I stumble to the kitchen. Pour myself a cup of ambition. Yawn and stretch and try to come to life. — Dolly Parton, ‘Nine to Five’

  My mind is still on the mysterious brunette as I pull the car into my spot in the company parking garage.

  Before I could get out of my seat, she’d darted all the way across the narrow street, calling a bevy of apologies behind her as she disappeared behind two buildings. I can’t shake the encounter, though. I need to know she’s alright, I need to know who she is.

  Her blue eyes are etched into my mind like twin sapphires against the brightness of a California morning sky. Even the forlorn look on her face as she looked down on her shirt, coffee splattered all over, plays over and over like a slideshow. There was just something so final, so heart-wrenching about the way she scooped her stuff up off the street and hugged it to her chest. I can’t remember ever holding my briefcase with that much heartache.

  I know it’s insane. The girl rushed off the curb and in between cars. She could have caused an accident— or worse. Hell, she almost caused her own demise.

  So why can’t I get her out of my head?

  I head towards my personal entrance and private elevator, closing the Ferrari door harder than necessary out of frustration. Absently, I take out my phone and pull up the contact informat
ion for Finn Campbell.

  One of my closest friends for years now, Finn left his job as a Texas ranger to open his own PI firm in San Francisco. He’s fantastic at what he does and I’ve hired him more than once on behalf of Someday Comes.

  The phone rings once before Finn’s familiar gruff voice picks up.

  “This is Campbell.”

  There’s a drop in temperature as I step into the cool air conditioning of the glass and chrome building, out of the sunshine of a morning that’s already warming up. It’s going to be a hot summer.

  “Finn,” I go on without preamble. We know each other well enough that I don’t need to introduce myself and Campbell is busy enough that he appreciates me not wasting his time anyway. “I need you to find someone for me.”

  “Ok. What’s up, Beau?” There’s the sound of shuffling paperwork on the other end of the line. “Who is it? Got a name for me?”

  “No.” I frown into the receiver. “She’s— I need you to check the intersection of First and Venus for cameras or… whatever. There was almost an accident. I nearly hit someone and I want you to find her.”

  “Nearly? Almost?” The obvious unasked questions hang heavy in Finn’s tone. Usually, I make it a point to stay as far away from drama as possible. Now here I am, asking him to move heaven and earth to find someone who I didn’t even actually come into contact with. “Can you describe her?”