Billionaire With a Twist by Lila Monroe

dudes
want? Let’s see, there was a dreadlocked guy leaning into a
blonde’s personal space, a clean-shaven polo player topping up
a redhead’s drink, a sloppy drunk bearded hipster trying to hug
a brunette and toppling onto the couch instead—
    Okay, let me rephrase that: what do
twentysomething dudes want besides sex?
    I looked deeper. Dreadlocked guy had a
shirt with Bob Marley and an inspiration quote on it. The polo player
was plying the redhead not just with alcohol but with Maya Angelou
quotes. And from the couch, the bearded hipster was protesting that
he’d totally had the brunette’s back at that march last
weekend when some scumball tried to make off with her purse.
    Underneath the hormones and bravado,
these were just kids. Kids who wanted to belong, and make a
difference, but were afraid to go looking for something on their own.
    But I could show them the way.
    And just like that, I knew exactly what
the new tagline for Knox needed to be.
    I stood, eager to find Martha so that I
could get back to my little guesthouse desk and start writing all of
this down.
    Unfortunately, as I stood, the surface
of the Earth decided to take up waltzing.
    Shit. The punch hadn’t been
nonalcoholic after all.
    I never should have trusted that
douchewaffle trying to bring the seventies porn mustache back. That
had been the most untrustworthy facial hair I had ever seen. You just
knew his whole life was going to be a series of increasingly terrible
decisions. And I thought it had tasted a bit off. Crap.
    I wandered through the house, trying to
keep my legs steady as the walls spun around like a teacup ride. My
eyes refused to focus properly on the faces of the people I
passed—they were doing all they could to keep track of up vs.
down—and I couldn’t see Martha anywhere. Damn, whatever
had been in that drink was strong.
    I pulled up a cab number on my phone
before remembering that it was for a company in D.C. Damn, I wished I
could afford a smart phone! One Google search and it’d be
problem solved. I eyed the iPhone in a rich frat guy’s hand,
but didn’t approach him. Considering these guys’ track
record with the punch, a request for a cab company number would
probably get me the digits of a crack house.
    Still…asking someone for help
wasn’t a bad idea. I scrolled down to the number for the manor
house. I hated to get one of the servants up out of bed, but they
could fire up a computer and get me a cab number, and I’d get
them something nice in thanks.
    But it wasn’t one of the servants
who answered.
    “Hello?”
    Hunter. I almost hung up.
    “Hello?” he asked again.
There was a pause—he must have been looking at the Caller ID.
“Ally, where in the world are you? We’ve been worried
sick.”
    A silly grin spread itself out over my
face before I realized what I was doing. Why should I care if he was
worried about me? He was strictly off-limits.
    But that grin wasn’t going away.
    I leaned into the wall, my eyes sliding
shut as I imagined leaning into his arms.
    “Did you miss me?” I
teased. Shit, was I slurring? I tried to focus, make my words come
out crisp and clear. “There was a, a party. Martha. Martha
party. At a frat.”
    Hunter sighed, a mixture of
exasperation and amusement. “Of course there was. I know
exactly where you mean. I’m on my way.”
    “No, I didn’t mean, I just
wanted—”
    But he had already hung up.
    Well, I guessed that meant Prince
Charming was on his way in his carriage, whether I liked it or not.
     
    #
     
    “Well, this is a new side of
you,” Hunter said, eyeing me up and down. His voice was
tight—almost…angry? “And here I was, thinking you
were a pure professional.”
    “Well, I’m not onna—on
the clock, am I?” I snapped back, embarrassed. I could feel my
blush burning my cheeks as I became even more aware of the short
plaid skirt, kitten heels, and low-cut red blouse that Martha had
talked me into purchasing at the mall en route. “Is it a