to fawn over some rich guy. “I mean, Nico Donato is mega rich. I’m talking obscenely rich. Like golden toilets, I-wipe-my-ass-with-hundred-dollar-bills Dubai rich.”
I smirked. “That rich, huh? Sounds like a delight.” Although, why would anyone want to be that rich? Seemed like a lot of headaches. I’d rather be comfortable, not obscenely wealthy. Apparently, I was in the minority, considering present company. “Personally, I prefer actual toilet paper, but the good stuff, not the tissue paper that shreds the minute you slide it across your ass.”
“Are you seriously talking about toilet paper?” Daphne stepped in front of me just as I headed for the break room to grab my yogurt. “Take me with you,” she pleaded. “Please? He’s the man of my dreams. I’d kill to meet him. What if he’s my soul mate?”
“And that’s exactly why I won’t let you tag along,” I said, maneuvering around her. “Trust me, I’m doing you a favor. Men like Donato are narcissists and they spread heartbreak like disease. I’ll bet if I did a little digging I’d find scores of women who were used and tossed aside by this rich prick. Just because he’s got a nice face—”
Daphne injected, “And body.”
I exhaled in irritation as I continued. “Yes, and body, doesn’t mean he’s not the devil.” I retrieved my yogurt, adding for Daphne’s sake, “You’re young. When you get a little more seasoning, you’ll figure out that Dubai-rich guys are usually the ones you want to steer clear from.”
“You’re not that much older than me,” Daphne pointed out with a frown. “Why do you act like you’re an old lady?”
Are we close to the same age? Impossible. Most days I felt a hundred.
“Because I don’t think I was ever your age,” I answered, popping the spoon in my mouth. “But if you must know, I’ve been burned before by a sweet talker, and experience breeds wisdom, you know?”
“So, because you got your heart broken you’re never going to let anyone else in?”
Ick. When did this conversation turn into a Dr. Phil session? “As much as I adore this little tête-à-tête, I have work to do so...”
Daphne pouted but didn’t continue to dog me to my desk (thank God), and I was able to eat my yogurt in relative peace while I did some poking around on the net about Donato.
My Google-fu was pretty decent, and with a few clicks I had pictures and background information on the youngest Donato.
Okay, so he was handsome, I’d give him that.
Yeah, those blue eyes were panty-droppers, and that body looked fairly chiseled from clay.
And Nico was Dubai rich, as Daphne liked to call it.
But I couldn’t find any information on anything useful or worthwhile that he might’ve been associated with.
No philanthropy.
No peace work.
No good deeds on record.
However, I did find some paparazzi photos of Nico doing body shots off the belly of a hot-bodied coed during spring break at Lake Havasu.
Yep. I took another bite. Total douchebag. Life was so unfair. How did guys like Nico always get ahead when hardworking people, like myself, had to struggle and scrape for every dime?
I wallowed in a moment of self-pity before sighing and printing out the relevant information I would need for my fluff article.
“I love my job,” I murmured to myself. “I love my job.” To ground my motivation more firmly, I glanced at the picture of my son on my desk. Grady’s gap-toothed smile was all the motivation I needed to shut my mouth, put my head down and get the job done.
Houston Beaumont was a useless human being, but our son was the light of my life and I couldn’t regret deciding to cancel the adoption paperwork.
Grady wasn’t planned—hell, my relationship, if you can call it that, with Houston hadn’t been planned either—but I’d do anything for that cute little dirty-blond imp who called me Mama.
And I thanked my lucky stars every day that Houston hadn’t tried to sue for custody. He’d been more than happy to forget all about me and his son.
I didn’t mind being a single mom if it meant knowing that Grady didn’t have to be shuttled between two different worlds—mine and his father’s.
Drawing a deep breath, I nodded to myself, girding my loins, so to speak, so I could swallow my dignity without choking.
I could do this. No sweat.
At least one thing was for certain—there was no way Donato was going to charm the pants off me—a fact he would discover right away if he was dumb enough to try.
Nico
“NICE TO MEET YOU, Mr. Donato. Lauren Hughes, Luxe magazine.”
The tall brunette thrust her hand toward me as if she were a man—strong, no-nonsense, obligatory—her deep brown eyes the only feature worth noting if I were to go off first impressions.
The handshake lasted all of two seconds, no lingering, and then she was sitting primly at the farthest point on the sofa in my living room, recorder in hand, expression blandly expectant, as if preparing to mentally vacate as soon as I started talking.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hughes,” I said, my gaze quickly taking in the shape-swallowing shift dress that completely obscured her figure and the functional flats that finished off the wretched ensemble. I think my maid dressed better than this woman. “I hope the traffic wasn’t too heavy.”
“Dealing with traffic is just one of those things you get used to when you live in New York,” she said with a brief smile. The look in her eyes told me she wasn’t one for small talk, which suited me fine because I hated it, too—but I was definitely not quite sure what to make of this stiff-as-a-board reporter.
Definitely not what I was expecting, and I was fucking disappointed. Where was the hot chick in the curve-hugging pencil skirt, glasses sitting demurely on the bridge of her nose, hair upswept in a delicate yet artfully messy bun? Not sitting on my sofa, that’s for sure.
“Have you always been a New Yorker?” she asked with a direct stare. No makeup that I could tell. Not even a hint of mascara to brighten up her eyes. A pity. Those dark eyes with a little assistance might even be pretty. “My editor tells me that your family is from Italy, originally.”
“Yes, so the legend says,” I answered, trying for a little wry humor. When she didn’t so much as offer a polite chuckle, I cleared my throat and followed with, “Tuscany, actually, but we’ve been in New York for two generations now. Our Italian roots are fairly weak at this point. All I inherited from my Italian ancestors is a love of fine women, wine and pasta.”
“Ah.”
“Your
