The Billionaire's Bun In Her Oven: A Romantic Comedy by Ellie Rowe

Author:Ellie Rowe [Rowe, Ellie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ellie Rowe Writes
Published: 2020-12-06T16:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Eight

Stephen

I tell myself that the reason I opted for the Porsche is to impress Cynthia’s folks and not Cynthia herself. Still, the appreciative appraisal she gives the car when I pull up definitely gives my ego a boost. I hop out to grab her bag, throw it in the trunk, and then open the passenger door for her.

“Careful. Seat’s a little low.”

She slips in. Her long, loose skirt has a slit down the side. As she sits, it opens wide, exposing her lovely, smooth thighs. For a quick moment, I wonder what the sleeping arrangements in Connecticut will be. Then she pulls her skirt up, ending the show and I shut the door.

Moments later, we’re cruising down FDR Drive. I let the Porsche do her thing, weaving in and out of lanes, passing slowpokes and lazy cabbies trying to pad their fares.

When I finally hit some open road on the approach to I-95, I shift into fifth gear and steal a glance at Cynthia. She’s rubbing her hands together nervously. Her eyes are dead-ahead, but it’s clear she’s not taking in the road. Her mind is elsewhere.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Don’t be nervous.”

“All I’ve been for the past three weeks is nervous,” she mutters.

“That’s because of the show. We’re on a break.”

She looks at me meaningfully. “Not entirely.”

“Stephen Longvale, host of Hard Opening and Into the Fire, is back in New York.”

“So, I’m just in the car with Stephen Longvale, Celebrity Chef?”

“It’s gonna be great. You’ll see.” I give her thigh a reassuring pat. I leave my hand there a moment, testing the waters. She doesn’t move her leg away, but I feel it tense, just a little. Quickly, I remove my hand and grab the wheel. “Parents love me.”

“My parents barely love me,” she says, looking out her window as Long Island recedes to our right.

“Hey, Cynthia,” I say, dropping my voice, “I’m here for you, OK? I mean that.”

She finally turns herself toward me; letting out a big exhale, then comes clean, saying, “Please just don’t make an ass out of yourself.”

My jaw drops. My eyes flit back and forth from the road to her as I try to figure out if she’s serious. “I’m not going to make an —”

“No snide comments. No quips. No showing off.”

“Wow, I’m flattered you think so highly of me.”

“And be nice to Zsa Zsa even though she’s going to hate you.”

“Be nice to – I’m sorry – Zsa Zsa? Is that a sister of yours or something?”

“Zsa Zsa is my mother’s poodle.”

I suddenly have a very clear image of Cynthia’s mother, which is when it occurs to me that I’m possibly in a lot of trouble.

“She loves the dog more than she loves me or my father,” Cynthia adds.

“Maybe we should pick up some bacon on the way,” I smile, “and I can keep it in my pants.”

“Zsa Zsa doesn’t eat bacon.”

“She kosher?”

“She only eats lean, organic grinds that my mother specially ships from a farm in Maine.”

I try to deliver a quippy comeback for that one, but I’m genuinely flummoxed.

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