Sexy Australian billionaire Grant Devlin is ruining my life. He exercises shirtless in his office, is notorious for his lunchtime nooners, he even yawns sexily. If I didn’t need this job so bad, I’d take his black Amex and tell him where to swipe it.
He doesn’t even know I exist, but why would he? He jets off to Paris with supermodels, I spend Friday nights with Netflix and a chunk of Pepperidge Farm frozen cake—waiting for his call. Because every time he crashes his yacht, or blows $500k on a single roulette spin in Monte Carlo, I’m the PR girl who has to clean up his mess.
But this time, it’s going to take more than just a fat charity donation. This time, the whole company is on the line. He needs to show investors that he’s settling down, and Step #1 is pretending to date a nice, stable girl until people forget about what happened with the Playboy Bunnies backstage at the Oscars.
My plan is perfect, except for one thing:
He picks me.
You might think I’m exaggerating his attractiveness. I’m not. Picture a handsome man. No, more handsome than that. Square that jawline, brush those brown curls with gold, darken those blue eyes till they’re almost black, deep sapphire pools made for mooning over. Deepen that voice till it’s like dark chocolate, and thread it through with a sexy chameleon accent—one second so crisp and upper class it might almost be British, the second relaxing into long lazy vowels that conjured up visions of him kicking back beers on a sunny Australian beach, surfboard planted in the sand as he contemplated the rolling waves with a practiced eye. Strip away any hint of fat over that lean, muscular sailor’s physique; evenly tan his smooth skin until he’s a bronzed Adonis.
For intrigue, add just a few scars on his powerful arms—sometimes a wide-eyed young intern might ask where he got them, and he’d flex his arms and tell a completely different story than he had the last time, each more improbable than the last. And whether it featured great white sharks, modern-day pirates, or a knife-throwing bet, that wide-eyed intern would swoon right into those arms, disappear at the end of the day into his limo, and moon around the office for a couple of weeks, constantly checking their phones for texts that never came, until they quit or until security had to boot them from the building for trying to ambush him outside of his office with pleading love notes and recriminations.
But I’ve gotten off-topic. Back to your mental picture of a handsome man. Now picture that an entire team of crack tailors working night and day to create the perfect suit, cut to hang just right on his body, tight across shoulders you could build a house on and an ass that belonged in an underwear commercial. Imagine the world’s greatest stylists converging upon him with mousse and hairdryers until not a hair was out of place except the ones he intended to be, each chestnut lock artfully tousled for maximum effect.
And then he smirks.
Now freeze that perfect, sexy, infuriating bastard at that exact moment in time so that nothing ever musses him or ruffles his feathers or causes a single blip on the horizon of his life, and you’ve got Grant Devlin.