Stolen by the Billionaire Boss

She's the best I've ever seen at reeling a man in, Callan said.

His friend waited for more. A joke, a story, a name. Something.

Callan turned his glass a slow quarter-turn on the table and didn't look up. You'll see when she gets here.

That was when I pushed the door open.

No designer label. No makeup to speak of. Just a plain white dress, my hair loose down my back. All I did was breathe.

Across the room, Callan let out a short breath through his nose. "See. Masterful."

His friend looked at him. Looked at me. Looked back at him.

He had no idea what he was watching.

Honestly? Neither did I.

Chapter 1

The watch on his wrist could have covered a year of my rent.

He wore the look of a man the whole room had personally let down.

I didn't know his name yet.

That was the first time I saw Callan. Three things about him stuck: the watch, a shirt logo that meant nothing to me, and that exact look.

He sat in one corner of the couch. Sharp nose, thin mouth, the stillness of a man used to things coming to him.

My best friend, Cleo, leaned in close to my ear.

"The new guy brought him. Says they're friends."

Cleo's new guy was rich. Which meant his friend was, too. The expensive, unbothered kind.

I nodded, careful, and did not look at him again.

I didn't expect to see him a second time so soon.

Cleo and her guy had a fight.

She dragged me down onto the couch and gave me a breathless, furious tour of everything wrong with him. He didn't love her. He was the most useless man she'd ever met. Truly historic levels of useless.

His phone sat on the table between us, on speaker, the whole time.

She was doing this to his face.

I said a small, silent prayer for the guy.

It took him five minutes to come crashing through the door, eyes red, swearing that if she gave him one more chance, this time, this time he'd get it right.

And a step behind him, unhurried, came Callan.

Cleo and her guy stayed mad for about two minutes before they were tangled together again. Reconciled, she kicked her boyfriend in the shin.

"Move. I'm taking Nora home."

Her boyfriend promptly shoved Callan in front of me.

"Here. Called her a private driver special. Gets her home safe, guaranteed. Relax, babe."

I glanced at Callan.

Nothing on his face.

He did not look like an easy man to talk to.

Also, he'd switched to an even shinier watch since last time.

"Actually," I said, pressing my lips together, raising a small, apologetic hand, "I can just grab my own ride home."

"Absolutely not!"

Cleo and her boyfriend said it in perfect unison.

So that was how I ended up in Callan's passenger seat.

Some kind of car. I didn't know what. It looked expensive.

He didn't even put on music. The whole way, not a word.

I inched a little further toward the door.

We managed exactly one exchange, right before I got out.

"Um. This door. I don't know how to open it."

It was a little embarrassing. He'd opened it for me when I got in.

I tried a smile, then decided the smile was a mistake and folded my lips back in, behaving.

Callan turned. A small pause. Then he leaned across, reached over.

"Like this."

He smelled good. Up close I still couldn't place the cologne. It also seemed expensive.

For a second he was close enough that I could feel the heat off his arm. I stopped breathing.

I fled.

And that was how Callan and I ended up seeing each other four, five, six, seven, eight more times. No reason to. We just did.

We were, I'm fairly sure, the two most punctual people alive. The lounge always had exactly two people who'd shown up too early: me, and him. And exactly two who left latest: still me, still him.

He and I maintained a strict driver-and-passenger relationship.

Then one night a text came in from my shop. New flowers in, come take a look.

I got a little nervous. "Um. Today. Could we go to this address instead?"

I held up my phone so he could see the pin. A small flower shop, wedged in between towers that dwarfed it.

My whole life, basically. Dropped into one location, handed to a man I couldn't read at all.

Callan looked at it a second too long.

Then he made a low sound I couldn't translate, and pulled into traffic.

I had no idea what I'd just started.

Chapter 2

He drove me to the shop. I was halfway out of the car, about to thank him, when he spoke.

"What time do you head back?"

"Sorry?"

"What time."

I hesitated. "Nine?"

Callan drove off the second he had his answer.

And at 9:01 sharp, that car was idling outside my shop again.

It looked faintly insulted to be parked somewhere this cramped.

"Sorry," Callan said, flat. "My meeting ran a minute long."

I scratched my head and got into his passenger seat.

I was Cleo's friend, sure. But this was a lot of trouble to go to for your buddy's girlfriend's friend.

His car didn't have that stuffy air-freshener smell that turns my stomach. It smelled like him. Which is to say: good.

I'd grabbed two bunches of tulips on my way out, and somewhere around the second red light they started to feel like a problem in my hands. So before I climbed out, I handed them to him.

I told myself it was because I was holding them anyway. That was the story I was going with.

He raised an eyebrow.

"For you," I said.

"Thank you."

He had nice hands, too.

Different watch again.

Unbelievable. Filthy capitalist.

When Cleo found out, she was thrown.

"Callan?"

She hesitated. "Hold on. Let me ask Sawyer."

Sawyer was the boyfriend.

Her reply came fast.

"Nora, relax and take the ride. Callan's office is right on your way."

The little knot in my chest loosened. Good. Not a special trip. Otherwise I'd have died of it.

Right on cue, a horn tapped outside.

I gave my employee the handoff and said goodbye while I was at it.

He grinned at me. "Boss, I've seen that car a bunch of times now. That your man? Mr. Boss?"

I shook my head so hard it nearly came off, eyes begging him to choose his next words very carefully.

Callan was already in the shop.

My employee gave me a warm, knowing little look that said he got it, and tactfully drifted to the back.

Meanwhile, Callan was making himself very at home among the flowers.

"One of these."

He pointed at a bucket of something gorgeous, a pricey new stock of mine.

My employee popped right back out to wrap them.

The two of them closed the deal in five minutes.

I stood there with my mouth open. That was demolition-crew speed.

Callan set the flowers on the back seat. As I was getting out, he said, "Wait."

"Hm?"

"Your flowers."

"Those are your flowers."

"They're yours now."

It landed a beat late. He was giving me flowers.

I took a step back before I could think about it.

"Returning your tulips from last time," Callan said, like it was nothing.

Was that the kind of thing he kept even scores on?

Last time's tulips had been an afterthought, the sad rejects my employee had pulled, too wilted to sell, and I hadn't had the heart to toss them.

Callan put the flowers in my arms anyway.

"I've got a meeting tomorrow. I might run late."

"Oh. Okay. Okay."

I curled my toes into the floor, holding the flowers, thoroughly at a loss. I snuck a look up at him and walked straight into eye contact.

I blinked. "So. See you?"

"Mm." The corner of his mouth tipped up. "See you."

The next day, Callan didn't get to pick me up.

I went out to eat.

Me: [So sorry! Someone asked me to dinner last minute. No need to drive me tonight!]

On his end: typing.

Then it stopped. Then typing again.

Callan: [Fine.]

A world-class specialist in Not Caring. Everything he did, he did with a shrug.

My friend watched me across the table, curious. "Who's that? You look so serious."

"A friend's boyfriend's friend."

She tapped her forehead. "That's a complicated relationship."

Funny. Ten seconds ago I'd have sworn it was the simplest thing in the world.

Chapter 3

Actually, it was the simplest thing in the world.

My entire thread with Callan was two lines long.

After dinner, my friend and I wandered the mall. We stuck our heads into a luxury boutique, took one look at the price tags, and executed a clean about-face into the little accessories shop next door to guess prices instead.

When I glanced back, I caught a familiar figure walking into that boutique.

Kind of looked like Callan.

My friend and I split up, and I was standing at the corner trying to flag a ride when someone appeared beside me.

I turned.

Callan's face was, as always, unfairly good.

"Small world."

He looked down at me.

"Get in?"

Me: "..."

It was, admittedly, a little bit of a small world.

I sat in the passenger seat hugging my fuzzy little bag, thinking the timing of Callan's appearances was getting suspiciously precise.

Then Cleo texted.

A dropped pin.

She was at this same mall. Sawyer was with her.

The tension went out of me all at once. Okay. That explained Callan being here.

Suddenly the seat felt very comfortable.

My phone chimed again.

It was the college kid who'd come by the shop a few times and added me on his way out.

Him: [Nora! How come you're not at the shop today?]

Me: [Stepped out.]

Sunny kid. All exclamation points.

Him: [You there tomorrow?]

Me: [I am.]

Him: [Coming to see you tomorrow then!]

I typed back, conscientious as ever.

I didn't notice Callan glance over during a red light.

"Friend?"

I shook my head.

"Just some kid."

Callan said nothing.

Two minutes later:

"A kid who likes you?"

Nosy, this one.

"Nah," I said, thinking it over. "He buys flowers. Been in a bunch of times, actually. Buys a lot."

Callan, evenly: "Buying flowers for some girl, then."

"Right?" I said. "Kids these days are so romantic."

"You're young too."

I checked my reflection, touched my face, and said, politely, "Thanks. So are you."

We made no sense the rest of the way home.

I waved. "Bye."

Callan rolled the window down. In the dark his eyes went very deep.

"See you tomorrow."

The kid came bouncing into the shop.

"Nora!"

I marveled at the energy of college students. Back when I was one, I bounced around like that too, before two years out of school and the slow grind of adult pressure talked me out of a high-paying, sleep-when-you're-dead job and into selling flowers instead.

The kid had good taste. The blooms he picked layered up beautifully in the wrap.

"That's your wrapping, Nora. You've got the hands for it."

He went a little red, sneaking a glance at me.

The door swung open.

"Nora."

A familiar voice.

Not the usual Callan. Today, rare for him, he'd gone casual. The slicked-back hair was down, dark strands over his forehead, and it softened his whole face.

He looked, weirdly, kind of like the college kid too.

A Pro Max upgrade of the college kid. With the one thing the young ones didn't have yet: the real, settled weight of a man used to being at the top.

"Hey, man." The kid's silver earrings winked, his little fang of a tooth charming as anything. He tipped his head at Callan with an easy smile and planted himself next to me.

Callan made a sound of acknowledgment.

"You here to buy flowers from Nora too?"

The kid sighed. "Then you picked a bad day, man. No discounts today."

Callan cut him off, something not quite a smile on his face.

"Aren't your flowers already wrapped?"

Chapter 4

The kid faltered, then took the flowers from my hands.

"Better run along? Your girlfriend at school's probably getting impatient."

The kid: "You"

That reminded me. I teased, "Just make sure they only go to one girl. I've seen you in here plenty."

And always the soft, pink, pretty ones.

The kid frowned. "No, Nora, I"

Callan said, mild, "Nora's wrapping really is lovely. Your girlfriend will like them."

The kid pressed his lips together, met my warm, encouraging look, found nothing he could say to it, and left with the flowers.

I shook my head, still marveling.

So nice. Like being back in school again.

It was just Callan and me in the shop now.

Callan said, "Going to walk me through the flowers?"

"Oh. You're here to buy flowers?"

He paused. "What did you think I came here to do?"

I glanced at his wrist. I'd assumed he came to flaunt his money.

"A project just wrapped. We need flowers to celebrate." He looked at me, slow. "So I made time to come by today."

"Ah, got it. What are you after?"

"Expensive ones."

Me: "?"

"The most expensive. However many."

Beautifully blunt.

Callan became my biggest client.

Callan: [Flowers arrived. They look great.]

Attached: a freshly taken photo.

I let out a breath. Doing business with Callan was not something I'd ever have predicted. Thank you, dearest Cleo.

Callan pushed the shop door open.

I was wrapping flowers. He looked around. No one else in.

"Nora."

"Hm?"

He set a bag down beside my worktable. Unremarkable-looking.

I leaned over to look. His expression was perfectly casual. "A thank-you gift. Your flowers are beautiful."

I looked at him.

"For just a thank-you, that's way too much."

"Something I grabbed off a pile of gift stuff. Couple hundred bucks. Cheap."

Callan wasn't built for lying. He caught sight of the flowers in my hands and changed the subject.

"Order for a customer?"

He came around beside me, easy about it, and helped me straighten the stems.

"No," I said, not looking up. "They're for someone."

His hands stalled for half a second. Then, without a flicker: "For someone. The wrap's a soft color. A girl?"

I bit my lip, wanting to laugh, deciding it wasn't the moment.

"No. A guy."

Callan went quiet.

I snuck a look at him, not bothering to hide the smile.

"So how come you dropped by? Wasn't today the project celebration?"

Callan was silent a beat, then leaned on the first two words.

"Was passing by. Thought I'd take you to dinner."

I was surprised.

"That's pretty on-the-way of you. But I'm good, I've got to head out in a bit. Oh, hand me those two pitcher plants?"

Callan passed them over.

His fingers brushed mine and snapped back like he'd touched a live wire.

I finished the last few steps, quick and clean, and pushed the bouquet into his arms.

Callan looked down at it, something in his eyes I couldn't read.

"What's the address. I'll drop them off."

Me: "..."

Was this right?

He looked down at me, nothing readable in his face, still perfectly calm.

"No address? He won't even give you one? Then honestly, this guy doesn't sound like much of a"

"They're for you."

"much of a what."

Chapter 5