“He’s twenty-one,” I tease. Let’s see how she likes it.
She doesn’t. “Moving on.”
“Okay, okay. Hmm. Firefighter, single daddy, cowboy, rock star, doctor, motorcycle club, actor, prince/royalty, lifeguard, race car driver, foreign lover, tattoo artist, police, boy next door … there are so many!”
I have to laugh since I’m nowhere near halfway through the list. My social life’s about to get pretty interesting.
Then, another option catches my eye. “Hot Santa?”
She waves a hand at me. “I added that. I thought it would make a fun holiday edition. Plus, you’ll get to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what a naughty girl you’ve been.”
“Do you have any idea what the chances are of actually finding a hot Santa?” I ask with a giggle. “Maybe a dancer in a Santa costume, but the type you see at the mall? Normally not that hot.”
“You’re the writer.” She shrugs as our burgers arrive. “You’ll figure it out.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Here’s the thing about Blake Marlin, CEO of Marlin Enterprises. Billionaire extraordinaire. General hottie with a body.
He’s not technically my boss. I mean, he is, but not really. He’s been tangentially responsible for my career, but even that’s the thinnest thread connecting us. I’m sure, to him, I’m small-time. Nothing important. A girl who writes romance books. He’d probably assume I was some starry-eyed cat lady if he ever gave me a moment’s thought, which I doubt he ever has.
This is my way of trying to talk myself into dating him—or rather, approaching him and seeing if I can lure him in. Hayley’s words. She wouldn’t let me choose a new guy—big surprise—convinced Blake is not only the natural choice, but the easiest of all. Otherwise, I’d have to go out into the world and search for a single father or police officer to date, and that would take a lot more time.
Time I don’t necessarily have. While I’m not completely frivolous with the money I’ve earned—I save for retirement and a rainy day and all that—I can’t afford to go too long between releases for more reasons than just finances. An author is only as good as their next book. Readers nowadays tend to take a what have you done for me lately attitude toward even their favorite authors since self-publishing lends itself to rapid releases. People have started to believe that’s the way all writers should work when it just isn’t possible for many of us.
I can’t let my name wither on the vine, in other words.
“And he’s speaking at a media conference in two days,” Hayley informed me over our burgers the other night. “You can get in at the last minute—if anybody can, you can. Maybe Lois could help. I’m sure you’ll think of something to catch his attention.”
“But what?” I groaned, a French fry hanging halfway out of my mouth.
“Oh, definitely eat like a slob. I know I’d be turned on if I liked women.” Hayley snickered. “Earth to Kitty. You’re the romance writer. You always write little meet-cutes in your books. How do you come up with those?”
“There’s a big difference,” I countered. “I can control what both parties say and do and think. I can’t control what Blake thinks of me or whether he wants to go out with me.”
“Don’t worry,” she assured me. “I’ll give you a few pointers. You wanna know how to get a guy’s attention and keep him hooked? Look no further.”
So, here I am, in a car on my way to the hotel where the conference is underway. The keynote speaker is due to make his presentation today. None other than Mr. Marlin himself.
“Why is this so important?” Lois said when I—gasp!—called and asked her to do something an agent normally did.
“Because I want to meet a few industry professionals,” I fibbed while pacing my office. “I need to keep my options open right now, Lois, what with things being in flux at the publisher.”
She managed to score me a pass into the conference well after the tickets had sold out, so I guess I owe her a floral arrangement. I make a note of this in my phone before referring to the list of tips Hayley gave me.
Don’t be too open. Men like mystery.
Let him chase you. Men like to feel like they’re in charge, especially wealthy, powerful men.
Toss your hair a lot.
I roll my eyes at this one, though I deliberately left my hair down today. Do men really go for that? I always figured that was some sort of a silly generalization, but maybe there’s something to be said for it after all. If it works, I’ll have to put that in my new book.
It’s been a long time since I’ve flirted. Shamefully long even. I’ve spent way too much time wrapped up in work. Sometimes, I even forget the day of the week when I’m good and busy.
How does a person catch the attention of a billionaire?
Actually, my first problem is getting into the conference room where he’s speaking. It’s standing room only at the back, rows of chairs between me and the stage set up at the far end.
What am I supposed to do? Set myself on fire? That’ll get his attention.
“Excuse me,” a man murmurs as he brushes past.
At least he excuses himself or even acknowledges my presence. I’ve been nudged aside and ignored more times in the last few minutes than I can keep track of. It’s mostly men here. They’re not exactly thoughtful or observant, these guys. One thing I’ve learned over the years of researching men and their habits for my work: true alphas aren’t rude, especially to women. They might be forceful or brusque, but they wouldn’t shove a girl aside to claim a seat.
The lights in the room dim right on time, just as the stage lights brighten. Moments later, a handsome young man strides out onstage, and the room erupts in respectful applause. I join in because, well, the guy’s practically a legend at the young age of thirty-two.
And because, holy moly, he’s even more gorgeous in person. Whoever came up with the idea of placing screens around the room so those of us in the back could see him was a genius and probably deserves a bouquet larger than the one I plan to send Lois.
There’s only so much a photo can convey. Magnetism isn’t one of those qualities. And the man has it—in spades. I can barely keep track of what he’s talking about, as I’m so busy noticing the dimple in his left cheek, his obnoxiously long eyelashes—seriously, what’s up with men having thick, lush lashes? How unfair is that?
Instead of being forceful and loud, the way some of the men around me were speaking just before the talk began, he’s friendly. Even playful. Serious about business, no doubt, but if he ever decided to give up being a mogul, he could make a mint as a public speaker.
He’s a leader, in other words, and I can practically hear the audience soaking up every last word as they scribble on notepads, type into their phones and laptops. Poor them. They don’t get to watch and admire the way his eyes twinkle when he makes a joke.
Then again, maybe they’re not as interested in his sparkling brown eyes as I am.