The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride by Nadia Lee

Chapter Sixteen

Declan

“What do you want for lunch?” I ask Yuna about half an hour before my regular lunchtime.

“Whatever you’re having,” she says.

Her cheeks are slightly flushed from the hours of waltzing we’ve put in. I’ve mastered all the ones she introduced, but I insisted on practicing, claiming to get anxious when I have to do an audition. “I might screw up if I don’t commit the entire thing to muscle memory.”

Thankfully, she bought the bullshit and I got to hold her the entire morning. Which was awesome. Nancy’s permanently fired.

“You don’t have a preference?”

She shrugs. “You’re the boss.”

“But you helped me with the waltz, and this is your first day. It’s a ‘thank you and welcome’ combo lunch. I do it for all my assistants.”

I can hear Benedict screaming, What the fuuuuuck? in my head. But he isn’t here to protest.

Her lips curve slowly into a smile. “Well… In that case…”

“Go ahead. There’s no limit or budget or anything.”

It’ll be fun to take her someplace fancy and indulge her. She’s from a rich family, so she’s probably used to wining and dining, even for lunch. Maybe that bistro at the Aylster or the restaurant at the Ritz… It’ll take the best part of an hour to drive into L.A., but it’ll be worth it. It isn’t like I have anything urgent to do this afternoon.

“Mexican,” she says.

“What?”

“I want Mexican. Homey…filling… And oh-so delicious.”

“But why?” I rack my brain for something at a top restaurant that could be labeled “homey.” “We could go to the Ritz. I really meant the no-limit thing.”

“It isn’t about the budget. I can eat at the Ritz or other fancy places anytime. I’ve actually eaten there a few times when I was in town. It’s just that there are no authentic Mexican restaurants in Seoul. The food is lacking something like limes or cilantro or some spice I can’t put my finger on. Or it’s ridiculously fancy, like gold flakes and caviar burritos.”

I make a face. “Burritos stuffed with gold flakes and caviar? That sounds disgusting. Also, can you even digest gold?” Or does it come back out? I decide not to ask.

“Not stuffed, just topped with gold and caviar.”

“Still a big fat no from me.” Don’t need somebody breaking into my home to steal my shit. Literally.

“Right?” She smiles. “I knew you had good taste.”

“Okay, well… Is there a particular restaurant you like?”

“How about Manny’s Tacos?”

If she’s going to be this specific, we’re having Mexican. “Why don’t you call and see if we can get a table?”

“Got it.”

Yuna manages to score a private party room for us at Manny’s without dropping my name. I have to admit, I’m impressed.

“How did you do that?” I ask.

“The usual way—connections and networking.” She winks. “A friend of mine’s uncle owns the chain, actually. And nobody’s using the party room.”

“Come on. Let’s go.”

We go to the garage and climb into my green Lamborghini. Yuna regards the car without much interest, like she carries one in her purse or something. It’s a…different reaction. Most women tend to fawn. But I like it that she’s cool. Makes me feel like an actual person rather than a celeb to score so you can brag about it.

“So where did you park?”

She frowns. “Park?”

“Yeah, park. Your car.”

“Oh. Don’t have one.”

“How come? No time to go buy one?”

She’s only been in the city for a few days. She might not have had time to shop. Although with the kind of money her family has, why would she need more than a day to leave the lot with a Porsche or something?

“Among other things.”

“You need to get one soon. It’s hard to get around in the city without your own wheels.”

“I know.” She smiles politely, but doesn’t elaborate.

Maybe she’s one of those people who likes to spend a lot of time shopping. My stepmom Chantel is like that. To her, half the fun is looking around. I don’t get it, because isn’t it more efficient and sensible to just get what you want and get the hell away from pushy salespeople?

The car is starting to take on Yuna’s aroma. The same hot-as-hell floral scent combined with warm, sweet woman. I inhale deeply, then sigh over how addictive it is. She must’ve laced her body wash with opium. There’s no other explanation for why I not only want to inhale her but consume her. I can’t just ignore her and think about something else like I did with my exes. Her very presence puts my nervous system on full alert.

I watch her surreptitiously to see if she’s checking me out. Her eyes shift my way a couple of times, but she doesn’t look like she’s really cataloging my assets. I even flex my arms a little, but—nothing.

Well, whatever. It’s just the first day out of eight weeks we’re going to spend together, and my face and body are all the convincing that’s needed. She’s playing it cool now, but eventually she’ll crack.

Forty minutes later, we pull into a garage with a few empty spaces and park the car. I slap on a pair of sunglasses, and we walk over to the restaurant.

Manny’s Tacos is crowded, the cool air replete with the smell of Mexican food that starts making my mouth water. After Yuna speaks to the hostess, we’re taken to a private room in the back, where Yuna immediately orders the beef taco lunch that comes with a side salad and a Diet Coke. I order my favorite, the beef burrito special—no rice—and mineral water.

Our server brings a generous basket of chips and salsa. Yuna immediately digs in.

“Mexican food isn’t complete without chips and salsa, and I missed this salsa so much,” she says with a sigh. “Go ahead and have some.”

“No thanks. I’m trying to stay away from carbs.”

“Oh, right. You want to look good for the next photoshoot.”

“Something like that.” I want to look good when I see Melvin on Friday. Unfortunately, too many tortilla chips will ruin the effect. So it’s best I don’t even start.

She shrugs. “More for me.” She bites into another chip laden with salsa.

It fascinates me how she can eat such normal food with gusto, when she looks like she might actually be more comfortable with those gold flakes and caviar.

“So tell me something. Why do you want to work?”

She gives me a look. “For the same reason everyone else does. To support myself.”

“Okay, but I don’t pay enough to support…that.” I indicate her outfit. “Georges Hobeika and all.”

She smiles. “Actually, this is a Dior.”

“The point is, it’s expensive.” Like a few thousand bucks expensive. Like you don’t need a job expensive.

“Can I be honest? I feel like I might as well be if you’re going to react so oddly to the kind of outfits I wear.”

“Sure. I love honesty.” Here it comes. She’s going to tell me what she really wants is me, not this lousy temp job. Because somehow she found out she’d be working—and spending—all that time with me.

We’re interrupted by the server bringing our food. But as soon as we’re alone again, she takes a bite of her taco and sighs. I start eating my burrito and wait.

“My family wants me to get married. To a man of their choosing. I refuse, so that means I need to be gainfully employed and support myself with what I can make on my own. Which is why I got a job with you.”

Okay, this isn’t what I expected.“People still do arranged marriages?” Talk about cultural shock therapy. “I thought that kind of thing died out in the Middle Ages.”

“In some circles, yes. They still do.” Her mouth twists.

“What’s wrong with the man they chose for you?” Hopefully, he’s old, unhealthy, had his prostate removed years ago and can’t get it up. And has to wear diapers. All excellent reasons for turning him down and seeking a superior candidate.

Like somebody rich, hardworking and smart. With a face many a woman has swooned over, I might add.

“Actually, it’s more like men. There are a hundred of them. Or so.”

“A hundred?” My jaw goes slack.

I try to picture how that would work. A hundred men? Do they all get to have sex with her? If so, how many at a time? If it’s one by one, it’d take over three months before a guy had his turn again. Actually, more like four if we factor in menstruation. So that wouldn’t be a popular option.

And what about her? A woman always has her favorite—favorite lipstick, favorite purse, favorite shoes. Why not a favorite man?

And if she gets pregnant, how do they know who fathered the child? Do they need to run a hundred paternity tests?

And then, how does she manage having so many men around? How big of a house does she need? How does she decide who she’s going to have dinner or go out with? Most restaurants don’t have seating for a hundred and one.

But my mind keeps coming back to the critical question: sex. Do the men do rock-scissors-paper? It would take forever with a hundred guys.

A raffle? A lottery? Are the men going to be okay with only random chance?

Or maybe she’d have some type of reward system. After all, she isn’t going to sleep with a man she doesn’t like much if she has ninety-nine others at her disposal. She might adopt the system my kindergarten teacher used. Yuna could give men stickers every time they do something that pleases her, such as cleaning or cooking or something of that nature. And if they collect a certain number of stickers, they can redeem them for sex. Like airline miles.

Of course, none of that would matter if she had me in the group…

“So, it’d be like a kind of…reverse harem?” I say finally.

She shakes her head. “That’s never been a thing in Korea. If it was, I might’ve chosen a man for now to mollify my family, then gathered a harem, adding the love of my life later. Then favored only my pick and lived happily ever after, like Korean kings used to with their favorite concubines.”

“So you’d divorce your fake husband and marry your favorite concubine guy?”

“There wouldn’t be a need to divorce anyone. In ancient Korea, the king was technically married to all his concubines.” She shrugs. “But these days, you’re supposed to pick one.”

“One out of a hundred.”

“Right. My parents compiled a list that I’m supposed to choose from. I guess they think getting married is like a buffet.”

Okay, so I misunderstood. One. Good. “What if the guy doesn’t pick you back?” Who’s on this damned man list? And why am I not on it? She would’ve chosen me if I were.

She snorts. “Not pick me back? Come on.”

I raise my eyebrows, impressed. “A woman who’s confident. I like that.” Not that I disagree. I would totally pick her back.

“I know what I bring to the table, and more important, they know. Every eligible bachelor will have a dossier on me. They’re happy as long as they get a proper merger wife who’ll increase the market cap of the combined conglomerates. And bring enough of a control stake in their companies to help in a war for succession.”

Shit. This reads like a pitch for a movie: Game of Thrones meets Crazy Rich Asians.

Anyway, she doesn’t want to settle for being somebody’s merger wife, although I don’t see anything wrong with wanting to win. What’s the point in living if you don’t plan on winning? But maybe she only wants to marry a guy who’s already won.

But now I understand why I’m not on the list. It would be unfair. After all, I don’t need to wage a succession war. I’m already the king of my own fortune.

“So what’s wrong with the men?” I ask. Other than that none of them are named Declan Winters.

“Nothing…except that they were all born rich, over educated, multilingual workaholics. That and the fact that I didn’t choose them.”

That makes me feel superior. I wasn’t born rich, and nobody can accuse me of being over educated. I speak some Spanish, but everyone in L.A. does. I do work a lot, but only because I’m trying to make sure I’m going to be okay, not to win some succession war. That makes me a complete non-workaholic.

Then another solution to her problem strikes me. “Why don’t you just marry someone on your own? I mean, just as a preventive measure. Then your family won’t be able to marry you off to one of the Hundred.”

A lot of men would be interested in that position. Hell, I would. It’d be awesome to pretend to be her significant other and keep her away from those other guys she hates so much. Performing a selfless act of good, while wrapping my arms around her and kissing her in public because you gotta make it look authentic.

It isn’t like me to be interested in a fake relationship, but so what? What was I doing in the romantic comedy I filmed for Netflix? Acting like I was in a relationship with my counterpart, who’s married in real life. Doing it with Yuna would be just like filming that show, except there wouldn’t be any cameras.

Yuna shivers. “Ew, no. The goal is to marry somebody who will put me first, not marry someone who won’t put me first to avoid some other guy who also won’t put me first. It’s like saying I’m going to drink my own arsenic so I don’t have to drink someone else’s. I’ll still be dead.”

Touché. “But with a guy you choose, you could have a prenup, so you can divorce amicably after your family’s no longer trying to marry you off. Then you can pick the right guy. And who knows? Maybe you’d fall in love with your fake husband.”

“Too complicated, and falling in love with a fake husband only happens in fiction.”

“It does?”

“Well, romance fiction. Like The Very Bossy Engagement. I read that one not too long ago.”

Jesus, the title sounds faker than a fake husband.

Yuna adds, “Besides, there’s no guarantee he won’t become greedy and want more than what was promised. Or that he won’t take my family’s payoff money and divorce me before the specified deadline. It’d be simpler to research and pick out a guy who wanted me for something very specific—like enough shares to control his family’s company—with the understanding that we’d divorce in a year or two. That way, my family wouldn’t try to make him go away by throwing money at him.”

“Never mind, then,” I say, although I can’t imagine the kind of money her family would need to make a guy leave this woman. “Obviously you’ve given the matter a lot of thought.”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “Anyway, to get back to the original point, I need to prove to my family that I’m capable of being gainfully employed and taking care of myself.”

“What would’ve happened if you hadn’t found a job?”

“I would’ve sent out more résumés until I did.”

“I mean, what if you never found a job? Anywhere?”

“Oh.” She sips her drink and takes a moment. “I don’t know. I didn’t think that far. Stayed with friends? Become homeless?”

Or married one of the Hundred. An untenable option.

“But I don’t have to worry about finding a spot under a bridge because you gave me a job. So thank you.” She beams.

She’s looking at me like I just saved the world from a super villain from outer space. Which makes me sit straighter and taller, although…

“It’s only for eight weeks.” I feel obliged to point that out. I wonder if I should replace Benedict with Yuna permanently. He’s going to be a famous writer anyway. I’ll introduce him to a few producers before I let him go. That’ll make him happy.

Her smile only deepens. “Don’t worry. My family doesn’t want me working forever. I’m pretty sure that they’ll wave the white flag within the next two months. Then I won’t have to work anymore, so actually, this position works out perfect for me.”