The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl: An enemies-to-lovers romantic comedy Read online

  I freeze and pull the phone away from my ear. I see that it’s a live call. I see that it’s been one minute and three seconds of me insulting Mr. Drummond nonstop.

  I turn around. Mia’s eyes are wide, her hand clapped over her mouth.

  “Hello?” Mr. Drummond repeats.

  My thumb hits the hang-up button with lightning speed. I throw the thing onto the couch like it’s on fire.

  “Omigod, I’m so sorry!” Mia says, frantic. “I’m so sorry. Omigod, I thought…”

  She thought I knew it was real.

  “I know,” I say numbly. “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I should’ve checked it. You were just trying to help. It was my mistake, my—”

  Riiiing. We both jump as the phone rings and vibrates, shifting slightly on the couch like a live thing.

  He’s calling back.

  I hold up a hand. “Don’t answer.”

  “Furthest from my mind,” Mia says.

  It rings again.

  “Please tell me you have generic voicemail on there,” she says.

  “Yes,” I whisper as it vibrates again. “It’s a burner. No name. It just says to leave a message.” Thanks to Mason, I can’t get a real cell phone.

  “Good. And when you call me with that one, it comes up NY Cell. It doesn’t have your name.”

  The ringing stops.

  Mia looks at me hopefully. “You haven’t taken your allergy medicine yet today. Your voice sounds husky. He probably never heard your voice sound like that. He won’t know!”

  “Of course he’ll know,” I say. “Once he complains to Sasha.”

  “Tell her you didn’t know they’d be like that.”

  “What wake-up-call service says things like that? They’re going to figure out it was me, and Sasha is going to fire me.” I put my head in my hands.

  Mia sets a hand on my shoulder. “I’m so so so sorry.”

  “It was an accident,” I say through near tears.

  “We’ll figure it out. If you lose that bonus—”

  “When I lose the bonus.”

  “I’ll help you raise what you need.”

  “I need fourteen thousand dollars,” I say.

  “I’ll prostitute myself down on Thirty-eighth,” she says.

  “Stop it,” I say. “You’re not going down to Thirty-eighth.” There’s a foot and back rub place there that we always think rubs more than feet and backs.

  “I’ll wear my green feather boa.”

  I snort and shrug her off. “I guess if I had to go…saying all those things did feel kind of amazing.”

  She beams at me. “There’s the spirit.”

  “Though possibly not worth my kneecaps.”

  She strikes a pose. “Blow jobs for a buck,” she says. “See? I got this.”

  “Don’t even.” I go to the window and watch a squirrel sneak into the dumpster six stories below. We call it our conundrum window because the dumpster really stinks in the summer. But if you keep it closed, it gets really hot in the place. “Nobody’s prostituting themselves.”

  “Let me at least take you out for breakfast,” she says. “We’ll get hash browns with hollandaise sauce and eggs on top. And mimosas.”

  Our favorite naughty breakfast. I wrap my arms around myself, picturing the gun in that guy’s hand. “Why? Because I’ll be sleeping with the fishes soon?”

  “Seriously. Come on.”

  “No, I’m going in to work,” I say. “I’m not fired yet. Maybe if I explained.”

  She winces. She’s heard the Sasha stories.

  “What if I explained to Mr. Drummond?”

  “Are you joking?”

  “I could make it into a funny story maybe.”

  “It doesn’t sound like Mr. Drummond has much of a sense of humor,” she says.

  “Trust me, he doesn’t.”

  “Tell him it was your roomie,” Mia says. “Blame it on me. It’s not like he can fire me.”

  “It wouldn’t work. He wouldn’t care. No, I’ll just tell the truth. I’ll say we were messing around. Surely there have been times in his life when he’s messed around.”

  “We were demonstrating to each other what not to say,” she adds.

  “Dude, he’s a millionaire chemist. I doubt he’ll go for an explanation like that.”

  “Well, bottom line, we’re in this together.” Mia holds out her pinky. I pinky-shake her.

  Seven

  Lizzie

  I think up different speeches I could give Mr. Drummond as I walk down Ninth Avenue in my shapeless prairie dress. I run through different angles as I wait for the train with the other morning commuters. I rehearse in my head while I ride the crowded car.

  By the time I’m emerging on Lexington Ave., I have a funny and perfectly polished anecdote. A comedy of errors, if you will, where I’m being silly with my friend. I play up my utter shock that the call was live. I then go into my determination to make up for it, to work harder than ever on my projects, suggesting my mistake is a win for Vossameer.

  If nothing else, Mr. Drummond seems obsessed with efficiency. Silly to fire me now in the midst of important projects.

  It’s for sure Mr. Drummond that I’ll approach. Sasha would fire me in an instant, no matter how compelling I made it.

  Walking in the entrance of the bunker-like Vossameer tower, I’m feeling hopeful about my chance to save my job. Save my bonus. Save my kneecaps.

  I just have to get to Mr. Drummond first—before he tells Sasha what happened. It will be our little secret. Me and Mr. Drummond.

  A weird little thrill goes through me at the thought.

  I say hi to Marley, the security guard, and get into the elevator with a group of overworked, underappreciated Vossameer employees with their gray lanyards around their necks and their grim, driven dispositions. The elevator door closes and we ride silently, reflected as indistinct gray blobs in the elevator door, like a giant mood ring for employee morale.

  I get out on the third floor twenty minutes early, heart nearly banging out of my chest. This is the moment of truth; if Sasha wants to talk to me right away, it means Mr. Drummond got to her.

  I hold my breath as I pass by Sasha’s desk. Her nose is in her computer screen.

  “Good morning,” I chirp.

  She looks up and nods. “Morning.” She returns to what she was doing.

  She doesn’t know! There’s still time!

  I deposit my coat and briefcase and fire up my computer. I log in to the company intranet and see a green dot by Mr. Drummond’s name. He’s up there. All systems go.

  My plan is to head back out into the hall as if I’m going to use the restroom and hop the elevator right up to the fifteenth floor. I’ll burst right into Mr. Drummond’s office and beg for two minutes of his time. I’ll tell him it’s urgent. It’s not like I have anything to lose.

  I steel myself and set off down the row of cubicles.

  Sasha is not at her desk when I pass by. Not a good sign, but she could be anywhere, right?

  I turn the corner, and I see her at the front, talking to Betsy, the receptionist. She raises an arched brow as I pass. “Leaving so soon?”

  Translation: You should’ve peed on your own time! Even though I’m early.

  I smile. It could be worse. A lot worse! “BRB,” I say.

  “Wait,” she says. “We need to go over the site map with IT.” She pulls out her phone. “Does eleven work for you?”

  I fire up my phone. “Yeah. I don’t have anything set in stone right then.”

  The door opens behind me. I don’t think anything of it until Sasha straightens up, shoulders back, face bright.

  I turn.

  Mr. Drummond.

  “Hi…uh…” My voice is barely a whisper.

  He doesn’t seem to hear or really notice me at all. “Sasha, do you have a moment?”

  Nooooo!

  My fingers close around
my phone so hard, the thing nearly bends in half. He’s here about the wake-up call. He’s going to yell at Sasha. And then she’ll fire me.

  “Mr. Drummond!” she says. “Of course.”

  I feel a sob well up in my chest. I’m so fired.

  If only Sasha hadn’t waylaid me! I could’ve caught Mr. Drummond in the hall. Done the funny-story thing. Appealed to his practicality. Begged. Groveled.

  “The wake-up-call service you arranged,” he says.

  “Yes?” she says.

  I wince. He thinks she arranged it. This is just getting worse.

  Betsy types away, oblivious to the carnage about to take place in her midst. I gather my courage. “So, you guys, a funny story—”

  Sasha gives me a shocked look. “Excuse me? Mr. Drummond’s in the middle of speaking.”

  “I just think I should tell you—” I look over to find Mr. Drummond looking equally annoyed. My words die under the heat of his gaze.

  He turns back to Sasha. “Was there anything unusual about the way they advertised? The way they described their service?”

  I stare at the floor, pulse racing.

  Sasha tilts her head. “Why do you ask?” What else can she say? She has no idea what service I arranged.

  “It was…” He pauses, seems to search for the word. “…unorthodox. I was curious…”

  Unorthodox?!

  Sasha looks over at me. I shrug minutely and curl my lips. No idea!

  She turns back to Mr. Drummond. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” she says. “One wake-up service doesn’t tend to differ from another.”

  He scowls into the middle distance as my mind scrambles to make sense of all of this. Unorthodox?!

  “Is there a problem with it?” Sasha asks. “Should we get rid of it and find another?”

  “No!” he says quickly. “Leave it. This service will do for now.”

  Sasha has a totally pleased look on her face. She seems to be interpreting this as praise. Which…maybe it is?

  “Carry on.” He turns and leaves.

  I watch the door close after him. Stunned.

  Sasha turns to me. “Finally you did something right.”

  I nod. “I’m glad it worked out.” More glad than she’ll ever know.

  “What’s the deal? Did you get it off Craigslist or what?”

  “That’s what you requested,” I say.

  “Does it have a name?”

  “Um…I’d have to check. Something really generic. They seemed…competent enough.”

  “In an unorthodox way? Do you know what’s unorthodox about them?”

  I shake my head.

  She frowns. “You don’t know much, do you?”

  “You want me to research it?”

  She snorts hotly, like that is such a stupid question. “No, we need to keep the site on track. Get me the deets on the wake-up service after you complete your other duties.”

  I go back to my desk and sit. I’m not fired. Mr. Drummond was okay with the call. I get the Vossameer website on the screen, then slip my phone into my lap and text Mia.

  Me: OMFG he was into it.

  Mia: Wut?

  Me: You will not have to hock BJs for a buck!

  Mia: he liked it? Serious?

  Me: he said it was unorthodox.

  Mia: Nooooo!!!!! WTF

  Me: LOLOL

  Mia: OMFG ROFL

  We exchange every relevant emoji, which turns out to be most of them, including smiling imps, baby chicks, and gears. When hard heel clicks tell me Sasha and her eyebrows are heading my way, I hide the phone and act like I’m working.

  Now that I’m not fired, I’m not sure what I’ll do for tomorrow’s call, but it seems far too risky to do it myself again. I’m thinking about hiring our unemployed actress friend, Karin.

  I spend the day doing user stuff with IT when I’m not working on my Instagram strategy, but I keep thinking about Mr. Drummond’s strange reaction.

  Unorthodox? It was totally mean. Does he like that sort of thing? Is the man some sort of masochist?

  When I really think about it, there’s a lot about him that doesn’t add up. For example, why is a man who seems to hate people so hell-bent on saving them? Why is he so resistant to fun lifestyle images on the website? Why does he never smile? Why does he run the place like such a prison?

  Mia is cross-stitching when I get home. Cross-stitching funny sayings is one of her major new passions. On the coffee table in front of her is a brown paper bag; from the aroma, I can tell that it’s pad Thai from the place down the block.

  “What’s the occasion?” I ask, stripping off my coat.

  “I was planning it this morning as a consolation feast. But now it’s a what-the-fuck celebration. Because, what the fuck!”

  I grin. “Can you even?”

  “Not even!”

  I rush into my room to change out of my sad sack and into yoga pants and a long T-shirt. I’m excited about pad Thai.

  When I get back out there, she hands me the cross-stitch she’s working on, stretched across the round holder. “For you.” It has a beautifully stitched image of a unicorn, and it says, Because I’m a sparkly unicorn, motherfuckers!

  “Oh, Mia. I love it!”

  She takes it back. “It’s almost done. And then I’m going to frame it. And then you can have it. To always look at.”

  For when you move back to Fargo.

  But she doesn’t say that part.

  We pull out bowls and wine. I open my container and a puff of fragrant steam comes out. I dump it into my bowl and tell her about the scene at the reception desk.

  “Did you nearly faint?”

  “Rrmm-hmm,” I say, mouth stuffed with delicious noodles.

  “Unorthodox,” she says.

  “Four more days,” I say. “I can do this.”

  “Are you ready to do a repeat performance tonight?” she asks.

  “What? Of the call? Are you kidding?”

  “You have to,” she says.

  “No way,” I say, twirling up another steaming forkful of rice noodles. “I was thinking about saying they quit on me and I’ll get Karin to just do it for the next four days, just do a normal wake-up call. Just get me through to the bonus. Though she can stay on if she wants. She might like it as a side gig. She needs the money.”

  “Wait, what? You can’t quit the calls!”

  “Why? Karin needs the money. If she won’t do it, somebody else will. I should’ve thought of it in the first place.” Mia and I know tons of needy actors and musicians, being that we both worked in Manhattan restaurants. It’s how we met.

  “You can’t just say the mean wake-up service quit after one day,” Mia says.

  “Why not? I can’t help it if they’re flakey.”

  “Don’t rock the boat. He liked the mean wake-up call. You have to do it again.”

  “I can’t,” I say. “I just couldn’t.”

  “You said it felt amazing.”

  “But I didn’t know I was actually talking to him.”

  “Set your alarm for four and think about what a jerk he is. How controlling he is.”

  “He is that.” I squirt in a bunch of soy sauce. “His employees work so hard, and he doesn’t care. He won’t even let us have microwave popcorn.”

  She gives me an outraged look. Mia’s amazing at fiercely outraged looks; it’s something that seems to run in her large Italian family along with a passion for Italian cinema and things decorated with sloths. “Microwave popcorn is one of the main sources of office-worker pleasure,” she says.

  “I know, right? He wants us to be machines like him. He leads by fear. Dude, have you heard of twentieth-century leadership techniques? Seriously.”

  “See? That’s the spirit.” Mia digs into her pad Thai. “You just have to replay this whole conversation at four in the morning.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. But then I think about his stern face and rumbly voice, and something stirs in me.

  “Y
ou get to vent to your asshole boss. Do you know how many people would kill for that opportunity?”

  “It’s risky. What if he figures out I’m somebody from the office?”

  “Don’t talk about the office. You’re a husky-voiced stranger who’s tired of the patriarchy.”

  “It did feel good.” I take a swig of wine.

  “And he liked it.”

  “He found it unorthodox,” I say. “I can’t imagine that he likes it.”

  “Men are weird,” she says.

  “He does seem to like unpleasant things. I think his favorite color might be gray.”

  “Gray isn’t even a color,” Mia says. “It’s a shade of black.”

  “Yeah! It’s a shade of black, motherfucker!”

  She snorts. “That’s the spirit!”

  I smile. I’m starting to feel better about the whole thing.

  “The secret to improv like this is that you just commit,” Mia says. “Whatever comes out of your mouth, go with it.”

  “So weird. I can’t even look at him at work, or Sasha might think I’m flirting with him, but I can call him up in the middle of the night and tell him exactly how I feel about him.”

  Mia grabs her wine glass. “Best job ever.”

  Eight

  Lizzie

  I’m less enthusiastic about telling Mr. Drummond exactly how I feel about him when my alarm goes off at four in the morning.

  I snuggle under the covers, thinking about how handsome and stern he looked when he came out from around his desk in that white lab jacket that first day. The gorgeous chocolatey tone of his hair. His intense and piercing gray gaze, just a little bit angry. And how the air crackled.

  And I think about when I first saw him standing at Sasha’s cubicle that day. How keenly I felt him, like I could close my eyes and feel his stormy energy.

  And then the drowsy pleasure clears from my mind and I remind myself I have to call him and be mean.

  I sit up in bed. “Because you can’t or won’t learn how to work an alarm clock,” I whisper into the darkness.

  At twenty minutes to go-time, I review scenes of men being jerks to me over the years. There are surprisingly a lot of them. I review how Mason always acted as if my bakery was only successful because of the location. I review how jerky Mr. Drummond was about the tagline. I pull up my PDF copy of the Vossameer handbook and reread the stupidly restrictive rules, and then I put in my earbuds and listen to Queen Latifah’s “Wrath of My Madness.”