Ruined: A New Adult and Billionaire Romance (His For A Week Book 5) Read online

  His For A Week

  RUINED

  Published by Wind Color Press

  Copyright © 2019 by Em Brown

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  RUINED

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  His For A Week: BOUGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  OTHER WORKS BY EM BROWN

  RUINED

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Clean it again,” was the general manager’s reply to my co-worker, Rosa, when she explains that the penthouse suite, which no one had used, had been cleaned two days ago.

  “The room is going to be so perfectly clean, so spotless and shiny, that anyone would be comfortable eating off the damn toilet seat,” Mr. Danforth continues.

  Rosa and I exchange glances. Whoever is checking into the penthouse of The Montclair, a boutique hotel nestled on San Francisco’s Nob Hill, has to be somebody important for Mr. Danforth to get his hair extensions in a knot.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” demands Mrs. Ruiz, the housekeeping manager. “Mr. Lee will be here in a few hours!”

  I raise my hand with some hesitation because Mrs. Ruiz is not likely to welcome my reminder.

  “You said I could leave early,” I say. “I was going to go over to Berkeley and talk to the financial aid officer.”

  Sure enough, she looks annoyed, and Mr. Danforth looks at her as if I just asked to triple my pay instead of taking off an hour early. She closes her eyes and sighs, but I can tell she remembers that she agreed yesterday to let me clock out early today.

  “Can you take care of that tomorrow?” she asks. “We’re already short-staffed. I need you to work the Grand Pacific Suite.”

  Tomorrow is difficult because I will either have to miss my class at the community college or make it into work late, but Mr. Danforth’s stare is boring holes into me, so I nod.

  As Rosa, Maria, Sierra and I take the elevator up to the twelfth floor, I ask, “Who is Mr. Lee? Quíen es Señor Lee?”

  “No sé,” Maria answers with a shrug.

  I actually picked up a little Spanish back in North Carolina, where I’m from, as there is a growing Hispanic population there, but having lived in California for ten months now, and worked alongside many Spanish-speaking women, I can actually string more than two words together.

  “I was afraid to ask,” Rosa says. “It’s like we’re supposed to know already, but I never heard the name before.”

  Sierra has earbuds on and probably didn’t hear my question. I’m not sure she would know anyway. I push the housekeeping trolley out of the elevator.

  “Do you think they want us to replace the clean linen, too?” I wonder.

  Maria shrugs again as Rosa opens the double doors of the suite. The penthouse at The Montclair is insane. It’s the only penthouse I’ve ever actually seen, and I bet all penthouses are amazing. But at nearly 4,000 square feet with floor-to-ceiling views of the city, I can’t imagine anything more luxurious. It’s bigger than the apartment I live in with two other women out in the Sunset District on the west side of the city. And there’s a frickin’ grand piano in the foyer. Do most rich people play the piano?

  And the price tag on this place would take me three months’ worth of income, pre-tax, to afford. And that’s assuming I don’t need my wages for anything else, like tuition for my classes at City College of San Francisco, MUNI fare, and food.

  “We should just say we cleaned the place,” Sierra remarks when we enter the suite. A beautiful blond, Sierra’s just buying her time at the hotel until she makes it big as a model. “I mean, why the hell are we cleaning the place twice?”

  She plops down on a sofa wide enough to seat eight people and grabs a magazine from the glass coffee table, but Maria takes the bedroom and Rosa heads into the kitchen.

  Sierra shakes her head. “Lame.”

  “They’re just hardworking,” I say.

  “They’re probably afraid ICE will ship their asses back to Mexico if they don’t jump at everything management says.”

  “I think Maria’s from Venezuela.”

  “Whatever. You going to be as lame as them, Veronica?”

  “Virginia,” I correct. “I’ll take the bathroom.”

  Sierra rolls her eyes and starts flipping through the magazine. Part of me wants to have words with her, but I agree that it’s silly to repeat a job that’s already been done. I decide to leave it alone.

  With its Jacuzzi bathtub tucked into a bay alcove, a separate waterfall shower, double artisan sinks, and marble flooring, the bathroom is bigger than my bedroom. I manage to finish scrubbing, wiping, and mopping the already clean bathroom before Mrs. Ruiz rushes in.

  “He’s here early!” she exclaims. “Finish up! Quick!”

  I grab the cleaning supplies and replace them onto the trolley. I manage to wheel it out of the suite as Mr. Danforth steps off the elevator and stands aside to let a man wearing perfectly pressed slacks and a button-down shirt pass. With his jet-black hair gelled back, perfect tan, and designer sunglasses, he looks like a movie star. But more than the way he looks, it’s the way he moves that has me rooted to my spot. I’m guessing he’s only six feet at most, but he carries himself as if he’s much taller. I’ve never seen anyone with such smooth, almost elegant confidence.

  As the men pass by with the bellhop bringing the luggage behind them, Maria and Rosa lower their eyes, as if they’re not worthy of meeting the eyes of roya
lty.

  “Hi, Mr. Danforth, Mr. Lee,” Sierra greets.

  Mr. Danforth frowns at her. She hasn’t gotten the memo that housekeeping isn’t to be seen or heard.

  Mr. Lee doesn’t acknowledge Sierra, though he seems to see her. Me, too. Though it’s hard to tell through his sunglasses, our gazes meet briefly and his feels intense. It seems as if he stares at me several beats longer than what I would consider normal. I lower my eyes and oddly feel like I need to bob a curtsy. When I look back up, the men have entered the suite and closed the doors behind them.

  “Omigod, he’s so much hotter in person,” Sierra exhales, fanning herself.

  “Was that Mr. Lee?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Is he some famous businessman?”

  She stares at me, “That’s Tony Lee. The Lees own The Montclair, dipshit.”

  BETWEEN STUDYING AND working, I haven’t had a chance to replace my broken umbrella, so of course it rains. And it’s not just a drizzle but the steady kind that comes in at an angle and gets your feet wet even if you’re under an umbrella.

  As I stand under the canopy of the entrance to The Montclair, I do my best to consolidate my backpack, a copy of Fifty Shades Darker that I checked out from the library to read on the MUNI ride back to my apartment, and a water bottle underneath my jacket. It’s too dark to tell if there’s any break in the rainclouds, so I step out from beneath the canopy, ready to rush as fast as I can to the MUNI station, and promptly slip on the wet pavement.

  The ground is even harder than I expected, and I lay there, stunned.

  Within seconds, firm arms lift me up, and I’m cradled in security before being set back on my feet beneath the canopy. Embarrassed, I turn around to thank whoever assisted me.

  Only it’s him. And the words get stuck in my throat. I’m not sure why I find the guy a touch intimidating. So his family owns the hotel. That doesn’t necessarily affect me. Mrs. Ruiz knows I’m a good employee. And it’s not like I haven’t come across rich or famous people working at the hotel before. People dressed every bit as nice as Tony Lee, though this man rocks a suit and trench coat like no one else.

  “They’re regular people who piss in a toilet just like everybody else,” I recall Lila, my adoptive mother, once saying, “and their shit stinks just as bad.”

  Finding my nerves, I say, “Thanks. Guess I shouldn’t be in such a hurry.”

  He picks up the water bottle and Fifty Shades from where they fell. Noting the barcode and ripped plastic wrap on the book, he says, “Didn’t know people still used libraries.”

  He’s got an accent I can’t place, though he speaks English in a relaxed manner.

  “You like the book?”

  “I haven’t gotten very far,” I reply as I brush the dampness from my back, hoping there’s not a big wet spot on my behind, before receiving the items from him.

  “But you’ve read the first one.”

  I blush, realizing he knows about Fifty Shades. It’s not exactly the kind of book I would trumpet in front of my boss’ boss’ boss—or whatever he is in relation to a maid. I mean, the book’s not Brontë or Dickens.

  “I did,” I admit and get ready to take my leave. “Thanks again.”

  “Wait.”

  He spoke in a low easy tone, but it was a command he expected would be followed.

  “You don’t have an umbrella.”

  “Mine broke yesterday.”

  Last time I buy a three-dollar umbrella from the drugstore.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Just to the MUNI station,” I answer.

  He nods to the limo waiting at the curb. “I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to. It’s not that far.”

  For some reason, I’d rather not take a ride from the man. But he’s already taken me by the elbow and turned me towards the vehicle while the chauffer opens the door. Mr. Lee either didn’t hear me or he’s choosing to ignore me. I give him the benefit of the doubt that it’s the former and find myself climbing into the car. I’ve never been in a limo before. My friends had rented one for senior prom, but I never got to go with them because my date didn’t want to chip in the money to pay for one, so we arrived at prom in his used pickup.

  Mr. Lee takes a seat beside me, then changes his mind and sits diagonally across from me, the farthest he can be from me.

  Do I smell bad? Maybe I reek of cleaning products. But despite the embarrassment, I’m glad for the extra distance between us.

  Virginia Mayhew Porter, what has gotten into you?

  “MUNI station,” he tells the driver before pulling out his cellphone. He dials, then starts talking in a foreign language. Chinese, I’m guessing.

  He’s staring at me with that same intensity he had in the hotel hallway. Except he’s talking away, so maybe he’s not looking at me, just in my direction.

  The limo turns off Eddy Street onto Powell Street where stairs on the sidewalk lead down to the train station. Mr. Lee pauses his call.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I say as the chauffer opens my door.

  Mr. Lee says something in Chinese to the driver, who hands me the umbrella he is holding.

  “Thanks, but I don’t—” I begin.

  “Keep it,” Mr. Lee tells me.

  It’s not an offer. It’s an order.

  I take the umbrella, say my thanks again, and watch him return to his call before the driver closes the door. No goodbye or “have a good night.” I’m not sure if it’s a cultural thing or it’s just that I’m not important enough to merit a final word. But he did give me a ride and an umbrella. And for that I am grateful, or I would have been soaking wet. Still, it would have been polite if he had asked me my name.

  On the MUNI ride home, I don’t end up reading Fifty Shades. Instead, I relive what it felt like to have his arms around me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “You gonna join us tonight?” my roommate, Talia, asks me before she heads out to her job as a barista at a local coffee shop. She tells me as soon as there is an opening, she’ll put in a good word for me. Serving coffee is a lot nicer than cleaning hotel rooms. Her worst day involves dealing with obnoxious customers who chew her out because she accidentally used 2% reduced-fat milk instead of skim. Mine involves emptying wastebaskets that someone has vomited in, pulling bloody or cum-soaked sheets off the bed, and having to fish out tampons that didn’t flush down the toilet.

  “I’ve got to study for my economics class,” I reply as I rush around the room to get dressed. I want to make it to the financial aid office at Berkeley as soon as they open so I’ll only miss half my morning class. It’s better I miss class than miss work. I need the money, and everything in the San Francisco Bay Area is pricier than it is back in North Carolina.

  Talia, who also takes classes at City College, leans her curves against the doorframe. She has the sort of body I wish I had: long, lean legs, full B-cup breasts, and a nice swell to the hips. A woman’s body. Even though I turned twenty-one a few months ago, I feel like I have the body of a teenager, and I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my breasts will forever be locked in A-cups.

  “Don’t you ever want to get laid?” she asks. “Like, finally lose your virginity?”

  I blush. I’m not going out of my way to preserve my virginity or anything. I’m not saving it for the love of my life. But in between moving across country to find my birth mother, applying for college, and trying to save money to send to Lila, losing my virginity hasn’t been a priority.

  “Maybe I’ll join you tomorrow night if y’all go out,” I say.

  “You know, losing your virginity is something you’ve got to get out of the way. Then you get to really enjoy sex. It doesn’t matter who that first guy is ’cause nine times out of ten, it’s never Mr. Right.”

  “I know. I just don’t want the first guy to be a total loser.”

  “I can set you up with my cousin Tyler. According to Alexia, he’s really good in bed.”

&
nbsp; Alexia has the other bedroom in our place, and given that she has a different boyfriend every month, she’s probably qualified to judge.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  Talia perks up and takes herself off the doorframe. “You let me know when. I’ll hook you up.”

  I remember meeting Tyler once. He seemed nice. And he was good-looking. If I had to lose my virginity, I suppose he would be a good one. Although I’m not terribly romantic, I would like my first time to be memorable, in a positive way. But maybe Talia’s right. Maybe you just have to get it out of the way, like a vaccination, so you can get on with the better parts of your life. I heard the first time is not that enjoyable for most women anyway.

  After leaving the house and catching the BART train to Berkeley, I make it to the financial aid office fifteen minutes after they open.

  “I’m going to be honest with you, the chances of receiving grants or scholarships are low,” the financial aid officer tells me, “but you can definitely qualify for some student loans. The federal loans will have the best rates, and maybe you can supplement that with some work-study. The pay is usually fairly competitive.”

  I stifle my sigh of disappointment and ask him, “How many hours of that can I get?”

  “It varies but most students I know work four to eight hours a week.”

  “That’s it?” There’s no way I can cover rent and send money back to Lila working just eight hours a week. “Can I get two work-study jobs?”

  “You don’t want to overdo it, or you won’t have enough time to study. The academics here at Berkeley are quite rigorous. Plus, college is about having some fun, too, young lady. You have to have balance.”

  I return his encouraging smile, but in truth, what he calls balance seems like a luxury to me. Even though Lila insists I shouldn’t worry about her and that I have to go live my life, I can’t help but feel guilty that I’m not back in Durham with her and my adoptive younger brother, Andre, a sophomore in high school. The best way to assuage my guilt is to send them money so that Andre can play AAU basketball. His coach wants him to attend this special basketball camp attended by a lot of college recruits. Apparently, unless you’re the next LeBron James or Kobe Bryant, it’s not enough to just play ball for one’s high school; one has to play in the special tournaments off season to get noticed. The camp costs several thousand dollars, and there’s no way I can help out enough if I attend UC Berkeley.