Rescued By the Billionaire by Lisa Kaatz

4

We were silent as I drove her back to her apartment. Beside me, Abby kept shifting in her seat, as though she couldn’t get comfortable.

A thought kept running through my head.

You’re rescuing again. Stop rescuing.

It was just until she got back on her feet, though. It’s not like I wanted to be her...her sugar daddy or something. I was the reason that she got fired. So I’d help her get a new job. That was just fairness.

I parked by the curb and walked her up to the front door.

“Wait,” I said, pulling my wallet from my back pocket. “As promised.”

I held out the wad of hundred dollar bills to her. She looked down at them, but didn’t move to take them from me.

“This doesn’t feel right,” she said quietly. “You paid for my dinner and cheered me up. I’d say we’re even.”

“This was part of the deal,” I said, nudging the bills closer to her. “Come on. This will buy you, like, a few dozen sketchbooks, right?”

She laughed.

“I think it’ll buy a few more than a few dozen,” she said. “Are all programmers this out of touch with reality?”

I ignored the feeling in my gut when she said programmer. It wasn’t a complete lie, though. Although I’d moved onto upper management by now in my role as CEO of Taylor Innovations, I still went downstairs and observed our engineers from time to time. And I had a bi-weekly standing meeting with our chief software architect.

It was bullshit. I knew it. And I didn’t know what made me lie when she asked me what I did. It wasn’t like she wouldn’t find out eventually. How she didn’t know who I was already was beyond my comprehension.

“Please just take it,” I pleaded with her. “You need it, and I need to alleviate some guilt. I’ll feel even better after I score you the job.”

She snorted.

“I know,” I said. “You think it’s not possible.”

“I know it’s not possible,” she rolled her eyes.

Her doubt just made me even more determined, though.

Stop rescuing.

“Please,” I said again.

She folded her arms across her chest.

This was new. A woman refusing to take my money.

“I’ll take it if you...hire me for something,” she said. “Paying me for letting me help you with something is bullshit, and you know it. It’s charity. I don’t need charity. I can handle things on my own.”

I could see she wasn’t going to budge on this point, and I desperately needed her to take the money. At least until I could get her this job. If she didn’t, she’d be moving from NYC. And then…

Well, to be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure why I cared so much. But I did. And I didn’t want to know what I’d find out if I examined this fact too closely.

“Can you clean?” I asked, inspiration striking.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve done it professionally before, too, for a janitorial company here in the city. We did office buildings mostly.”

“How about cooking?” I asked.

“I’m alright,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “Why? Know someone who needs a housekeeper?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me.”

She bit her lip - something she’d done several times throughout dinner. A tiny, innocent move that drove me insane. That made me want to reach out, take her face in my hands, and -

“I’ll do it,” she said. “Where’s your place?”

“Upper East Side,” I said.

“Of course it is,” she laughed. “They pay programmers pretty well, I guess.”

Another stab of guilt. It didn’t matter. I’d help her get a job, and probably never see her again after that.

But if it didn’t matter, why didn’t I just tell her the truth?

“Well,” I said. “Come by tomorrow, then. It’ll have to be after I get off work, though. Is that okay?”

“I’ll have to check my busy schedule,” she said with a grim smile. “But I’m sure I could pencil you in between my board meeting and my pilates class.”

“Right,” I said. “I’ll text you the address. Be there around six?”

“You got it, boss,” she said.

“Now, please take the cash,” I said, holding it out again.

This time she obliged.

“Harrison.What do you have going on this afternoon?”

“Fuck all,” he said. He was laying back in one of my office loungers, tossing a ball at the wall. It bounced, over and over again, an annoying habit that would ordinarily drive me to kick him out of my office. But today I was trying to be nice.

“I’ve got a meeting at four, that’s it,” Harrison continued. “Why?”

“I need a favor from you.”

“Interesting,” he said, catching the ball and putting it down. He turned to face me at my desk. “Big brother needs something from me for once? What do you need? A list of the best clubs in the city? The number of a beautiful woman? I have both.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I need a professional favor, actually,” I said.

“Ah,” he said knowingly, pulling out his phone. “Hookers.”

“Not hookers!” I shouted, so loud that Elise turned around at the reception desk outside and peered curiously through the glass wall at us. I gave her a weak wave.

“So what do you want, then?” Harrison asked.

“You have a lot of connections in the design industry, right?” I asked.

“A few,” he said.

“I have a friend. She’s looking for an illustration job.”

“Don’t know a lot of illustrators,” Harrison shook his head. “You know that, Linc. I don’t do that kind of thing.”

“Surely you know someone,” I said, exasperated.

Harrison frowned, looking down.

“No,” he said slowly. “Can’t say I do.”

“Great.” I sank back into my chair and put my forearm over my eyes.

I’d been so sure that finding Abby a job would be easy. I knew everyone in this industry from one coast to another. And people knew me. People were dying to work with me, in whatever way possible.

Between me and Harrison, one of the best designers in the nation and now Director of Design and Marketing for Taylor Innovations, you’d think we could find someplace to put her.

You’d think.

“Who’s your friend?” Harrison asked. “Anyone I know?”

“No, you don’t know her,” I groaned. “We...we sort of just met.”

Harrison leapt across the office and sat down in the chair across from my desk.

“It’s a woman,” he said triumphantly.

“Yes, Harrison, I said ‘she’ didn’t I? Yes, she’s a woman,” I said.

“That’s not what I mean,” he continued. “I mean...it’s a woman. You’re into her. So what’s up? You’re trying to help her in her career so she’ll help you with something else?”

He wiggled his eyebrows at me and I kicked him under the desk.

“You know that I don’t do that,” I glared at him.

“What’s so special about this chick that you’re calling everyone you know in the city trying to find her a job, then?”

“I sort of got her fired from her last job,” I admitted. “You know, that coffee place I liked to go to? Her boss caught her yelling at me and cursing me out.”

“Sounds like she got herself fired,” Harrison said.

“No, it was my fault,” I said. “Plus, I messed up her drawing of the Avery building. She was working on the flying buttresses.”

“Right,” Harrison said, nodding. “Flying buttresses.”

“Anyways, I think she’d make a pretty good illustrator,” I finished. “And I promised her that I’d help her find a job to replace the one she lost. A better job, preferably. Oh, and one with a signing bonus.”

“So why don’t you just create a job for her?” Harrison asked. “I don’t know you’re aware of this, but you kind of own your own company.”

I looked up at Harrison.

“She doesn’t know that,” I said quietly. “She doesn’t know who I am.”

He took that in for a moment.

“You found a woman in New York who doesn’t know who you, Lincoln Taylor, are,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You found a woman in New York City who doesn’t know who you, Lincoln Taylor, single straight billionaire and CEO of one of the top companies in the world, is,” he said again.

“Yes, that’s what I said,” I rolled my eyes. “She just moved here. She’s from Maine.”

“And she missed the billboards with your face on them on her way in?” Harrison laughed.

“That was one billboard,” I said stiffly. “And and it was only up for a week - three years ago.”

“Right,” Harrison said. “Even if she’s not local, how the hell does a person in America not know who you are? That’s like not knowing who the president is, or...or who Santa is.”

“Santa?” I raised a brow.

“You know what I mean,” Harrison said. “You’re everywhere, man. Are you sure she’s not just messing with you? Like Lydia?”

He had to bring up Lydia.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But if she is, she’s a damn good actress.”

“So was Lydia,” Harrison pointed out.

I sighed and rubbed my hand over my face.

“I don’t know why I asked you for help in the first place,” I muttered. “This is hopeless, apparently. I didn’t realize it was so hard to find work for an artist in this city.”

“The key word is artist,” Harrison said. “Us creative types don’t make the big bucks like you code-writing nerds do with your ones and zeroes. They don’t hand out design jobs like promotional frisbees on every corner of Silicon Valley and 5th and 14th.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, I promised her. So I’m going to have to figure something out.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Harrison said slowly. “What if...what if she came to work for my firm?”

“You closed your firm down when you came to work for TI,” I reminded him.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “But does she need to know that? Anyway, I could probably rustle up some simple illustration work for those home health instructional booklets we pass out at vendor fairs and conferences. It’s not exactly groundbreaking work. But it could be something to put in her portfolio…”

“You know,” I said. “That’s not a bad idea, actually.”

“And then you could maintain living your weird double identity, if that’s what you want,” he continued. “Because my firm isn’t affiliated with the company, I mean.”

I scratched my chin.

“She’ll know we’re brothers,” I said.

“Yeah,” Harrison said. “Doesn’t she already know your last name, though?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“So if the chick is going to Google you, she’s going to find out the truth sooner or later anyway,” Harrison shrugged. “Hiring her into my firm might be a temporary solution. But if she seriously doesn’t know who you are and isn’t just full of shit, I doubt you’re going to be able to hide it from her for much longer anyway.”

“I’ll worry about that later,” I shrugged.

Harrison paused.

“Look, I think I know what you’re doing,” he said in a low voice. “You’re trying to protect yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, rising from my chair and pulling on my jacket.

“Really,” Harrison said. “So you’re just lying to this woman about your identity and creating a job for her for...fun? Out of kindness?”

“I’m not lying,” I said, my cheeks heating. “She knows exactly who I am. Lincoln Taylor.”

“So she knows you’re the CEO of one of the top tech companies in the country?” Harrison asked.

“She knows I’m in software,” I replied.

“In software,” Harrison snorted. “I guess that’s...technically factual.”

“Besides, I’m not creating a brand new job for her. You’d need to hire an illustrator for those pamphlets sooner or later anyway, right?”

“Well yeah,” Harrison said. “But I don’t need that done until next year at the soonest. And not through my old design firm. We’d normally just hire a contractor and - ”

“It’s the same thing,” I said. “Now are you going to do me a favor or not?”

“I will, I will,” Harrison held up his hands. “You’re just acting so fucking weird lately, Linc. You’ve hardly paid attention to anything I’ve said all week, you cancelled on me for dinner, and now suddenly you call me into your office for a so-called emergency meeting about giving some chick a job. Come on.”

“She’s good,” I said. “You’ll like her.”

“Is she really?” Harrison asked.

Now that I thought of it, I didn’t know. I’d seen her drawing something at the coffeeshop in her sketchbook right before I’d smudged it all with coffee. What had it been again? The sun had been in my eyes, and I’d been looking at it upside down.

For all I knew, Abby was a terrible artist.

“She’s good,” I said again. “You’ll be thanking me later. And my guilty conscience will be eased. That’s all I fucking care about.”

“Ah, that’s the cold, removed Lincoln that I know,” Harrison said. “That ‘Fuck you’ tone that’s been absent for the last week and a half. I missed it dearly!”

I ignored him.

“Do you know how to draw up the papers or should I send that through HR?” I asked.

He scowled.

“I think I know how to hire a contractor by now, Linc,” he said. “I’ll write out the job description and project scope tonight. Can you get me a portfolio or something? Or are we hiring based on personal favors to the CEO alone?”

“I’ll get you some work samples,” I promised. “But we’re hiring her either way. She’s good. Trust me.”

She was waitingon the porch when I arrived.

“Your doorman won’t even let me wait in the lobby,” she scowled, huddling next to the doorway and pulling her coat - which hung down to her knees and looked like it belonged to a ninety year-old man - around her tightly. “He made me wait out here, and said that if you weren’t here to get me in ten minutes, he’d call the police.”

I frowned.

“Mr. Taylor,” Gus opened the door and greeted me as though on cue.

“Gus, is it true that you wouldn’t let Abby wait inside?” I asked with a frown. “I told you she’d be coming.”

“Yes, but…” he looked from me to Abby with confusion. “She’s your guest?”

“Maid,” Abby clarified. “I told you that already.”

“Ah, but - ”

“Abby is my guest for the week,” I said quickly, giving him a look. “She’ll be here every evening until Saturday.”

Gus looked back down at Abby dubiously, then nodded.

“My mistake, ma’am,” he said, giving a slight bow and a stiff smile. “It won’t happen again.”

“He thought I was homeless,” Abby said to me as we took the elevator up to the penthouse.

“Nah,” I said. “He didn’t.”

“He did,” she said.

I didn’t argue back. While it was true that lately the homeless had taken to sleeping on our doorsteps and underneath the overhangs of the building, Abby didn’t look homeless, exactly. She was clean and well-groomed. Just...sort of shabby.

It was that coat. Oversized and threadbare. And her jeans, which were black and ripped at the knees and hems, not stylistically in the way that clothes designers sold ripped jeans, but through obvious wear and tear. Her shoes were worn out Converse with mud stains on the bottoms.

“It’s okay. Like, it doesn’t offend me or anything,” she said as we landed on my floor. “People thinking I’m homeless. I mean, I get it. I used to be homeless after all. This is your place?”

“Yep,” I said, eyeing her carefully. I was waiting for the moment of realization to change her face. For an undercurrent of excitement and speculation to start buzzing in the air.

It never came.

“Cool,” she said, looking around. “High ceilings. I hope you don’t expect me to dust those shelves.”

She pointed to the built-ins that lined the southern wall, floor to ceiling and overflowing with books.

“No,” I said. “I need help with the kitchen and the linens, mainly. I send all of my laundry out, but it needs to be put up. I like to change my sheets every three days. Oh - and dinner.”

She let out a low whistle.

“That’s a lot of housework,” she said. “You normally do all of that? Every week?”

Here was a perfectly good opening to mention that no, I didn’t do all of that housework every week. That Mrs. Norman was on a vacation and wouldn’t be back until the end of the month, which means I was on my own until then.

But having a full time maid and cook wasn’t something I imagined a lot of programmers in the city had. Even ones that were - put vaguely - “high up” in their department.

“Mostly,” I said evasively. “It ebbs and flows. I’m not great at the cooking. I don’t usually do a lot of deep cleaning, either.”

“It must be nice being able to send your laundry out instead of doing it yourself,” she murmured. “I hate going to the laundromat. There’s always creeps at the one down the street from me, so I can never go there at night. I have to spend half of my day off every week down there, just so I can go during the morning when there’s daylight.”

I felt a twinge of sadness at hearing this. Abby didn’t live in the best area. I knew that when I pulled up to her apartment and saw the men loitering out front, hats down low over their eyes, pacing back and forth, never making eye contact with passerby. They seemed to be waiting on something. They eyed my car with suspicion and distrust when I pulled up.

And from the brief glimpses that I got to see inside of her apartment when she’d opened the door to me, it was pretty clear that it wasn’t the best maintained building in New York.

I turned back to Abby. She had taken off her coat now and folded over her arm, and was doing a slow spin, eyes upward, looking at the bookshelves and paintings. She wore a pale blue sweater. It was the most fitted thing I’d ever seen her wear yet it still slouched off of one shoulder because of its size, revealing pale, freckled skin underneath it. And a thin, red bra strap.

“Are you okay?” she turned and looked at me over that bare shoulder, raising a brow.

I jumped. Caught.

I imagined Harrison snickering at me right now. I was right, he would say to me between laughs. Go get ‘em, Romeo.

“Yeah,” I cleared my throat. “Fine. I just remembered, I have a lot of work to do. Why don’t you just concentrate on the kitchen for tonight?”

The best possible room for her right now. It was on the opposite side of my study, far from me.

“Um, sure,” she said with a frown. “Just like...dishes and stuff?”

“Dishes, floors, windows, whatever you think needs it,” I waved an arm. I didn’t care. “And dinner would be nice, too. If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” she said. “It’s why you’re paying me.”

Was that why?

All sense had left my brain and I knew I had to get away from Abby Walker and her red bra strap before I made a complete ass of myself. Abby Walker, who didn’t know who the hell I was. Abby Walker, who dressed like a bum but whose almond shaped eyes could light up a room.

Something had stirred in me again. The same thing that I’d felt when she’d looked at me from across the counter at the coffee shop two weeks ago and said my name with such innocence, such naivety.

I turned on my heel and fled the main room, up the stairs to my study, and left her standing there, her shabby coat still folded up in her arms, looking small and out of place in my oversized home.