My Boss Made Me Sext Her Billionaire Fiancé Chapter 02
The Bunny He Bought
I Uber over to Nina’s building.
Nina lives in a glass penthouse that screams daddy’s money.
When I let myself in, she’s sprawled on her white couch in silk pajamas, scrolling through Instagram.
Three or four unopened gift boxes are scattered around her. Roses. Diamonds. A Cartier bag. All from other guys.
Because of course.
I hand her Xander’s gift. “From Xander. He dropped it off this morning.”
She rips the ribbon like it personally offended her. Pops the box.
Inside is a small white bunny plushie. Handmade-looking. Soft ears. Big black button eyes. Limited edition tag still hanging off it. It’s honestly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
Nina holds it up by one ear like it’s a dead rat.
“Are you kidding me? A stuffed animal?”
I look at the floor. “You told him — I mean, I told him — bunnies were cute. Once. Back in June.”
She tosses it at my chest.
“Ugh. Deal with it. Throw it out or whatever.”
I catch the bunny. My fingers wrap around it before I can stop them.
“And next time,” Nina snaps, “tell him I like diamonds. Big ones. Got it?”
“Got it.”
I hold the bunny tight, then clear my throat.
“He’s flying back this week. You two are gonna meet in person soon.”
I swallow.
“So — maybe you should take over the texting? You know, before it gets weird?”
Nina looks up like I just suggested she scrub her own toilet.
She lifts her phone and flashes me her chat list. Ten, fifteen guy names, all lit up with unread messages.
“See these? I’m swamped, Lindy. You keep handling Xander. It’s fine.”
“But—”
“It’s fine.”
I shut up.
I pull out my phone and forward her the file I made this morning. Twelve pages. Every single thing I know about Xander Shaw. Every joke he laughed at. Every food he hates. His seafood allergy — bolded, red, size 14 font.
“At least read this before you meet him. Please.”
Nina flicks her eyes at it for half a second.
“Yeah, yeah. God, you’re such a nag.”
I don’t say anything else.
Three days later, Xander lands in New York.
Nina spends four hours on hair, makeup, and a red dress that costs more than my rent.
She drags me along to his welcome dinner as her “assistant” — meaning bag-holder, coat-carrier, and emergency wingwoman.
We ride the private elevator up to the restaurant’s top floor. VIP room only. My heels are killing me. My stomach’s in knots.
We reach the private booth’s double doors. Nina’s phone buzzes. She checks it, and this dumb little smile spreads across her face.
“It’s Marco. Hold on.”
Marco. One of her side pieces. A bassist, I think. Or a DJ. I lose track.
She waves me off. “Go in first. Tell them I’ll be right there.”
I nod. My hand is shaking on the doorknob.
I push the door open.
Warm light. Low music. I don’t even get a chance to look around before someone reaches for my purse — well, Nina’s purse — and slides it off my shoulder.
Then a hand takes mine. Long fingers. Warm. Confident.
The smell of cedar cologne wraps around me.
And a low, lazy, smiling voice says right next to my ear:
“Good girl. You wore the bag I got you.”
My entire body freezes.
That voice. I know that voice. I’ve heard it a hundred times through my phone speaker at 2 a.m., reading me his voice notes when he couldn’t sleep.
Xander Shaw.
I look up.
And he looks down.
And in that half-second, his whole face changes. The soft smile drops. His eyes go wide, then flat. He drops my hand as it burns him.
“Shit. Sorry. Wrong girl.”
—