Page 9 of Her Billion Dollar Groom

We start heading up the stairs again. “Let’s go this way instead,” she says, tapping me on the shoulder so that I freeze to the spot, just as we were about to enter the main hallway. “I know a back way out.”

Without question, I let her take the lead.

Quickly, quietly, we make our way through more corridors and emerge into a back alley. We scurry around to the front, where dozens of cabs and limousines will be swarming later in the evening. But right now, there’s just one black car. It’s Oskar.

“Come on,” I say, guiding Eliza over to the car. I hold open the door for her, and as soon as we’re both inside, Oskar hits the gas and whisks us off into the night.

“So where are we going?” asks Eliza, eyeing me up. I wouldn’t exactly call her expression nervous, but it does make me painfully aware that she just got into a car with a strange man and doesn’t even know where she’s going. That’s the sort of thing that would give anyone pause for concern.

“It’s called the Kenmore Club. It’s not the flashiest place, but it is usually quiet. We’ll be able to escape there, at least for a while.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She smiles, and my breath catches in my throat. I’ve given her my absolute assurance that this isn’t going to lead anywhere weird, and I’m absolutely committed to keeping to that plan, but I would have to be a blind fool not to recognize how wonderful, how beautiful she is.

She could not be further out of my league, anyway, so I don’t suppose either of us will have to worry about anything untoward. Eliza Holt is a beauty, but she’s also a mega superstar, and I am what I’ve always been: weird, awkward and nerdy.

We’re not exactly compatible life partners.

I breathe in deeply, wishing I could crack the window open for some cool air. I’m feeling way too hot in here, and I don’t think that’s just because Oskar is blasting the heat.

When we arrive outside the club, the night air offers a refreshing slap in the face. Eliza and I shuffle to the door of the club and from the corner of my eye, I notice her looking up at the skyscraper in awe.

Inside, I greet the host and ask to be shown to the private bar. The host smiles graciously, and we’re escorted into an elevator to get whisked off to the top floor.

“We’ll be able to get a great view over the city up here,” I say, breaking the awkward silence that’s fallen between us. “I like to sit by the window and watch all the planes hanging in the sky like stars.”

“What a poet,” says Eliza with a teasing smile, and I feel myself blushing again.

As I anticipated, the bar is almost empty. There are a handful of other people - businessmen and couples - but we manage to find a seat by one of the huge glass windows where we can soak in the atmosphere without a word. “Let me get you a drink,” I say, catching the eye of one of the bartenders.

“You don’t need to do that,” she says.

“I don’t have to, but I want a cocktail.” I give her my best attempt at an easygoing smile. I’m not sure that’s how anyone else would describe the expression, but that’s what I’m aiming for anyway.

“All right, then, twist my arm. I’ll have something fruity.”

I ask the bartender to make us two strawberry daiquiris, and he leaves us alone with the twinkling lights of the city.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I say, more to myself than expecting an answer.

“I guess,” she agrees. “I’ve never really thought about it. I’ve always been too busy to appreciate those little things.”

“Too busy making a name for yourself,” I say, trying to sound casual and friendly. Fortunately, that’s the way she takes my comment.

“I don’t know about you, but I’ve been working since I was a teenager. I know a lot of people think that my life is just glitz and glamor, but really, I got very lucky. I shared a few of my songs online, and someone took a chance on me. I wrote one song that made me famous, and now, to my ongoing surprise, everyone loves me. Some days I barely know how to handle that.”

“I wouldn’t be able to,” I say. “I made Handshake when I was a teenager too. I always hoped it would be popular, but I neverexpected it to explode the way it has lately. Are you a user?” I wince as I realize how stupid that sounds.

She giggles, hiding her mouth behind her hand, almost like she’s trying to show off her perfect manicure. “I am,” she says. “It’s a great site. I don’t have too many followers there, but I also don’t know many other people who use it. I’m on literally every single social that you can imagine. It’s hard work sometimes being this popular.”

I let myself chuckle at that. “Well, it all looks pretty effortless from where I’m sitting.”

She flaps her hand at me as if to dismiss my compliment. “Stop it, you.” She grins, and yet again, my heart races to see that smile. I think her boyfriend recently broke up with her. I hope she at least has someone in her life who can make her smile.

“Well, I’m glad you like it. The site, I mean. I’ve worked really hard on it. I feel like I need some lessons on how to make total strangers like me, though. Then more people would benefit from it.”

“Step one,” she says, pouting at me and reaching over to push my shoulders back, “is posture. You slouch too much. You wear good clothes, and you look like you’ve washed recently, which is always an advantage, but you give the impression you don’t want to be seen.”

“I don’t want to be seen.”

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