Start Me Up

  Start Me Up

  Maggie Riley

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Dating the Billionaire by Poppy Dunne

  Roommate Romance

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2017 by Maggie Riley

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To my Jack- thank you for inspiring me daily. I love you.

  Chapter 1

  LIBBY

  I stood in the lobby of the ultra-modern skyscraper, surrounded by glass and steel, super glad that I had decided to wear my lucky thong that morning. The stone-faced security guard didn’t take his eyes off me as I signed in, and took a little longer than necessary to check my ID. Not that I blamed him. Anyone could see that I didn’t belong there. Everything in the building – from the décor to the guard’s uniform – emanated a stark, almost space-age vibe. I did…not.

  Catching my reflection in the shiny, metallic walls, it was glaringly evident that I was completely out of place. My curly red hair – which I could barely get to behave on good days – appeared to be in the middle of a temper tantrum. It currently stuck out in all directions like an auburn thundercloud. I self-consciously gave it a pat, but it did nothing to counter my appearance as an overgrown Orphan Annie, complete with freckles and rosy cheeks. Not that anyone who looked below my chin would mistake me for a child.

  Yep, my giant boobs and curvaceous ass were just as attention-grabbing as my hair, but at least I could control them. For the most part. Right now, the majority of my cleavage was concealed by a gauzy blue scarf that I had wrapped around my shoulders. It almost – but not quite – matched the yellow and green floral dress I was wearing. It definitely did not match my bag or my shoes, but it was the only thing I could find in my purse when I arrived, looked down and saw that my top three buttons were hanging on for dear life. Apparently eating chocolate chunk ice cream right before bed was not one of my best life choices.

  I adjusted the scarf, wishing that my dress would have provided me with a more complimentary cover-up, but still grateful that I didn’t have to go into this interview with my more non-professional assets on display. Even though I didn’t even really what the interview was for.

  “It’s a ghostwriting job,” my best friend, Georgia, told me when she set up the meeting.

  “But ghostwriting what?” I had asked.

  “A book,” Georgia looked at me as if I had grown a second head. “That’s what you do, right?”

  “Yes. Sort of.” I had tried on numerous occasions to explain the ghostwriting process – especially since I mostly wrote project-based craft books for people who were creative but couldn’t put that creative process on the page.

  Not that I blamed Georgia for not understanding the nuances of ghostwriting. She had been working for American Express since we graduated college and I still had no idea what her job entailed. But we both knew that a friendship built on encouragement and wine was always stronger than one based on a deep knowledge of your best friend’s day job. So even though I didn’t really understand what Georgia did (and often vice versa), we still knew how to support each other. And sometimes that resulted in going to interviews for jobs you knew nothing about.

  “I thought you needed the money,” Georgia had said. She hadn’t been able to offer much information about the job except that she had gotten the tip from her boss who got it from a friend who got it through someone else. No one I had spoken to had been able to give me any more details except that it was more of a biography than a guide. Not exactly my strong suit.

  “I do need the money.” I had lost more sleep than I’d be willing to admit worrying about paying my rent, my students loans and paying for Mr. Mistoffelees’s vet bills. I loved my cat, but at fifteen years old and with developing health problems, I was starting to wonder why I hadn’t tried to make him internet-famous so he could support me.

  So I was grateful to Georgia for recommending me for this job, even though it was becoming more and more evident that I was probably the wrong person for the position. Still, I squared my shoulders and adjusted my scarf as the security guard pointed me in the direction of the elevators.

  “Thank you so much,” I told him, giving him a big, bright smile.

  “You get more flies with honey than with vinegar” my granny always said, and it was advice I tried my best to follow. Though it was sometimes difficult when my attempts at offering honey just got me vinegar in the eye. Or, in this case, a continued silent glare from the security guard.

  I shook it off – literally – when I got into the elevator, wiggling my shoulders and flapping my hands so the negative energy wouldn’t linger. My ears popped as the elevator sped upward towards the fortieth floor. That was all the information I had been given when I called to set up the interview – just check in and go to the fortieth floor. I still had no idea who I was meeting with, which made me feel a little out of sorts. Even when I was writing craft books, I was still able to look up information on the person I would be working with. That way I didn’t go into a project – or a meeting – blind and unprepared. Exactly the way I felt now.

  The elevator was like the lobby – all shiny steel – and I tried once more to make myself look a little more professional. But the truth was, that even if I had known more about the place I was going, I didn’t have anything in my closet that would have helped me to blend in.

  This was even more evident when I arrived on the fortieth floor, the doors opening to a stark, clean white room with black leather furniture and gleaming silver accents. My floral maxi dress and bright red hair stood out like a busted thumb. But still, I fixed a smile on my face and approached the receptionist – who was dressed in a trim black suit – and hoped for the best.

  Ten minutes later I was still sitting there in the lobby with the water offered by the receptionist, who thankfully had been far friendlier than Mr. Frowns-a-lot downstairs. Still, everything about the office screamed “you do not belong, Libby!” Even the water – which wasn’t even in a bottle, but instead in a more eco-friendly box – seemed way too fancy for someone like me.

  I squirmed in my seat, my lucky thong feeling less and less lucky with each passing moment. If I was interviewing for one of my usual jobs – a crafting guide or how-to book – I would have felt perfectly fine taking out the knitting I always carried in my purse and getting a few rows in. But here, it didn’t seem appropriate at all.

  “Libby Hanson?” An older woman called my name.

  I shot to my feet, somehow feeling as if I was getting called to the principal’s office for yarn bombing the goalposts on the football field – which I only did ONCE.

  “I’m Mrs. Reynolds.”

  She looked like an older version of the young woman behind the
receptionist’s desk. Both were wearing sleek black suits, impeccably tailored and wore their hair pulled back in a neat bun. Only Mrs. Reynold’s hair was a beautiful silver, while the receptionist was a brunette.

  “Libby,” I shook her hand, wondering belatedly if I should have gone by Ms. Hanson in an environment like this. Not that I would have been able to pull it off. If someone called for a Ms. Hanson, I probably would have sat there until closing, not realizing they were referring to me.

  “He’s just finishing up on a call,” Mrs. Reynolds told me as I was led back through a maze of cubicles.

  Not that they were like any cubicles I’d ever seen before. It might have been an office building, and it might have been decorated in a formal style, but the set-up didn’t feel nearly as stiff. Employees had plants on their desks, pictures and decorations set up everywhere. The cubicle walls were much lower than I’d seen in other offices – like in Georgia’s – and it gave the appearance of a community work environment instead of distant, isolating spaces.

  There was a hum of conversation everywhere, but not so much that it appeared to be distracting to the people who were focused on their computers. And even those who were glued to their monitors looked like they were enjoying themselves. Everyone looked happy. Excited. Energized.

  For the first time since I had arrived for this interview, I started to think that maybe there was something I’d be able to offer to this mysterious Mr. Willis. If these were the kind of people he employed – if this was the environment he worked in – well, maybe I wouldn’t be so terribly out of place.

  “If you’ll wait here, I’ll let Mr. Willis know you’ve arrived.” Mrs. Reynolds led me into a small room just outside what seemed to be a larger office.

  Mr. Willis? As soon as Mrs. Reynolds left me to go into the office, I whipped out my phone and tried googling the name. Unfortunately, Willis is a pretty common last name, even among people who worked in skyscrapers in Manhattan. I looked over at the door hoping there would be a nameplate, but there was nothing.

  The door was made of frosted glass so I could still see Mrs. Reynolds, but just as a skinny black blob. She walked over to another blob, larger and wider – I assumed it was the mysterious Mr. Willis sitting at a desk – speaking to him for a few moments. I heard her voice and then the low rumble of a man’s response. It sent a little unexpected jolt up my spine.

  “It will just be a few more minutes,” Mrs. Reynolds told me as she came back out into the anteroom. “Can I get you anything else to drink?” she asked, gesturing at my empty box of water.

  “No thanks,” I told her, thinking that if I drank any more boxed water I’d float away.

  She left me there, and I watched the door, trying to identify more details on the larger blob still in the room. I tried googling Willis once again, but I still had no idea what the hell this guy did. It didn’t make for a successful search attempt, so after a few minutes of endless, useless scrolling I gave up.

  I crossed and uncrossed my ankles, wishing again that I hadn’t worn such a flowy, flowery, hippie-dippy dress. It wasn’t that I didn’t like what I was wearing, it was that it didn’t fit with the environment, and as a ghostwriter, it was important to give the impression that I could mimic the voice and personality of the person I was going to be representing in print. I hated feeling unprepared, though I was pretty sure that I could have had a month to prepare for this meeting and still would have stood out as much as I did now.

  And there wasn’t anything I could do about it at the moment. So instead, I sat there, and after a while, I found myself fidgeting again, my fingers automatically reaching towards my bag where I had half of a sock knitted. I wasn’t used to sitting idly like this. Even at home, while watching TV, I was knitting or crafting or doing something. I liked to keep busy. Putting my hands in my lap, I straightened my shoulders.

  “You will not knit,” I told myself. “You will not knit.”

  “I’m sorry?” A low, deep voice interrupted my self-chiding.

  “Oh, just something I–,” the explanation dying in my throat as I looked up to find the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen standing in front of me.

  Chapter 2

  JACK

  I had been regretting the book ever since my publicist brought it up. The last thing I wanted to do was have some random person following me around, writing down whatever I said and spinning it into some sort of a narrative – one that either made me look like a dick or a saint. Neither of which I was interested in being seen as.

  And after three days of interviews with ghostwriters who showed up acting as if they already knew me, I was more than ready to have Mrs. Reynolds cancel the remaining meetings. Until I found Ms. Libby Hanson sitting outside my office.

  The curvaceous redhead looked nothing like the twenty or so other ghostwriters I’d seen that week. She looked nothing like anyone else I’d ever met. It was hard to tell if it was the riotous curls or the charming freckles or the lush lips or her mouthwatering curves, but suddenly I was very, very interested in this woman following me around. Or vice versa.

  But the last thing I had time for in my life was women. Or even just a single woman. So I set my jaw in a hard line and made my expression neutral. If I had learned anything in the years running a multi-million dollar company, it was how to maintain a poker face.

  “Ms. Hanson, I presume.” I held out a hand.

  She blinked and then surged to her feet, taking my hand in a strong, firm handshake.

  “Please, call me Libby,” she told me, her expression open and unpretentious.

  “I’d prefer we keep things more formal,” I told her. “Ms. Hanson.”

  I could see the surprise cross her face.

  “Of course,” she quickly recovered. “It’s nice to meet you Mr. Willis.”

  I was used to seeing that expression. Some people found it obnoxious that I was a stickler for formalities like that, something that I had learned from my mentor. I had learned a lot of things from Rob, but the one I had taken the most to heart was creating a distance between one’s personal and professional lives. Everyone I worked with called me Mr. Willis, even if I was only a few years older than them – the case with most people in an office with employees in their late twenties, early thirties – or if I was over forty years younger than them – as was the case with my incredibly efficient and gifted secretary, Mrs. Reynolds.

  Rob taught me that it was vital that I set the tone of the office. I learned a lot from him, and mirrored his work ethic in a lot of ways, or tried to. I knew that without his guidance, I wouldn’t have gotten half as far as I did. That I might have had the brains for technology, but he had given me the tools to ensure I did something with the technology I created.

  “A team is worth shit without someone to lead it” was one of his more colorful sayings and one I took to heart.

  Which is why it was important that I always made it clear that I was the boss. Sometimes that meant people didn’t like me. I knew that I had a reputation for being cold and distant, for having high standards and offering blunt assessments when I felt it was necessary. But my employees were some of the most talented people in the country, and I made sure to reward good work. It just so happened that those rewards came in the form of bonuses and vacations instead of hugs and handshakes. I offered promotions, not praise. And I had never wavered from that philosophy.

  Which is why I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand why for a brief moment I had considered responding to her with “you can call me Jack.” Or why I had felt a jolt of lust when my hand had touched Libby’s. There was no doubt that she was an attractive woman – extremely attractive, in fact – but I didn’t let things like attraction or lust distract me for anything. There was a time and place for everything, and I never, ever, mixed business with pleasure. But something about Libby made me want to throw out all my rules. At least for an hour or two.

  I gestured for her to head into my office.

  She bent to grab her
purse and I couldn’t help taking a peek at her…assets. And they were considerable. Even in her draped, flouncy dress, it was obvious that she had curves in all the right places. In those bright colors and flowy clothes, she would have stood out anywhere, but she definitely stood out in this office, where most people dressed the way I did – in black or blue suits.

  There had been plenty of ink spilled about my unoriginal clothing choices. Plenty of ink spilled about my completely unimportant and uninteresting personal preferences. And I knew people assumed that it was because I wanted to give the air of professionalism, which I did, but it was also because the last thing I wanted to waste my brainpower on was picking out clothes in the morning. So I had two dozen identical suits in different muted shades and knew that no matter what suit or tie I pulled from my closet, it would match. It was just easier that way. And when nothing else in my life was easy, it was nice that my clothes weren’t something I had to worry about.

  Clearly Ms. Hanson – Libby – didn’t feel the same way about the way she dressed. And I was grateful for that because she was like a breath of fresh air. Like a flower blooming out of a crack in concrete. Something I hadn’t even been aware I was missing.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” she said as we walked into my office, pulling me out of my unusually self-reflective thoughts.

  “Embarrassed?” I gestured for her to sit. I knew I made people uncomfortable or nervous – and, according to the tabloids, turned on – but embarrassed?

  “I was hoping to make a good impression,” she said with a smile.

  Oh, you did, I wanted to say, unable to stop my gaze from sweeping over her. But if she noticed, she made no indication, gesturing towards her bag.

  “Instead you came out to find me talking to myself. About knitting.” She gave a little shrug, which did amazing things to her ample chest which was barely covered by a nearly sheer scarf. “I wish I could say that I don’t usually talk to myself about knitting, but that would be a lie.”