Mr. Hotshot CEO Read online

  “I’ll save you the speculation,” Julian says. “I’ve never cooked a fancy meal for anyone but Courtney.”

  “He even baked last week,” Vince says. “He made lemon squares and cookies, and Po Po loved them.”

  Cedric laughs. “If I bat my eyelashes real pretty, will you make me lemon squares?”

  “I can make you lemon squares,” Julian says, “but, please, for the love of God, don’t bat your eyelashes.”

  Cedric does it anyway, in an exaggerated fashion, and we all laugh.

  “Make me a batch of lemon squares, too,” Vince says. “Preferably some special lemon squares with weed.”

  “Are you going to eat them off your latest fling’s stomach?” Julian asks, then shakes his head. “Why did I put that image in my head?”

  The waitress comes over. Julian orders a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, which I think is a red wine, but I’m not sure. She soon returns with the wine, which is indeed red.

  After she pours us each a small glass, Julian raises his glass in a toast. He glances at Cedric, and I think he wants to say something about how it’s nice to have his brother back in Toronto, but in the end, he keeps it simple. “Cheers.”

  We all try our wine, then Cedric turns to me. “What do you do for work?”

  “Biomedical research.”

  He whistles. “Your girlfriends are always impressive, Julian.”

  “I’m not that impressive,” I protest. “It’s not like I run my own lab.”

  “You’re impressive,” Julian murmurs, quietly enough so that only I can hear, and it sets me aflutter.

  We talked about my research the other day at breakfast, and he asked some surprisingly intelligent questions.

  Well, I suppose it wasn’t actually surprising. This is Julian, after all, and he’s good at everything.

  I look at his brothers. “Tell me about the women he’s dated.” This is probably a bad idea, but I can’t help being curious.

  “Hmm,” Cedric says. “There were a couple of lawyers—yeah, Julian definitely had a thing for lawyers for a while. Then there was a doctor, an engineer...”

  “This sounds like the beginning of a bad joke,” I say.

  “Challenge accepted,” Vince says, resting his hands on the back of his head. “A lawyer, a doctor, and an engineer—”

  Julian holds up a hand. “I don’t need to hear this.”

  “Thank God. I can’t remember the rest of that joke. The drugs and alcohol must have fried my brain.” Vince is being sarcastic. I think.

  “You know,” Cedric says, “two years ago, we never could have gone out for dinner like this. Vince would have been working fourteen-hour days, Julian would have been working fourteen-hour days, and I would have been on my book tour.” He raises his wine glass, and we all clink glasses. “To being lazy!”

  “Amen,” Vince says before downing half his glass.

  “Do you ever miss it?” Cedric asks.

  “Why would I? I have money and no demands on my time. It’s the perfect life.”

  Julian looks skeptical but says nothing. Soon, conversation switches to the design of the cardiology wing at East Markham Hospital.

  The waitress brings us bread and takes our orders. The bread is as good as the stuff Julian served me yesterday, and I eagerly take a second slice.

  I feel fine now. It’s nice to hang out with people after work, and I like Julian’s family.

  But then I remind myself that I’ll probably never see them again. Julian’s two weeks of freedom are almost over; my two weeks in his life are almost over. We probably won’t have time to take those scrapbooking lessons or make a terrarium.

  I pull out my phone. “Let me take a picture of the three of you for the scrapbook.”

  We take a few pictures and sip our wine. Our appetizers arrive, and they’re delicious.

  “You doing okay?” Julian whispers.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m just fine.”

  Except I’ve realized how hard it’ll be to walk away from Julian Fong. Earlier I assumed it wouldn’t be a big problem, but now I know otherwise.

  I met his family, and he met mine. I let him see me at my worst; I told him my secrets.

  It won’t be easy, but all good things must come to an end. I know that all too well.

  Somehow, I’ll just have to deal.

  Chapter 22

  Julian

  When we land in Montreal on Friday night, a limo is waiting for us. I ask the driver to take us to the restaurant where I’ve made reservations, then bring the suitcases to our hotel. Admittedly, it’s a little tempting to go straight to the hotel so I can untie the bow on Courtney’s blouse and slide off the rest of her clothes, but that can wait just a little longer.

  I get to spend all weekend with her. I am a lucky, lucky man.

  “I haven’t been in a limo since prom!” she says. “Should we help ourselves to a drink? Or maybe we could have sex. That’s a thing people do in limos, isn’t it?”

  Oh, dear God. It’s impossible not to think about getting her naked. Right here.

  I press the button to push up the divider.

  She puts her hands to her mouth. “Oops. I forgot about that.”

  “It’s okay,” I murmur, and then I kiss her. I slip my hand under her shirt, and she moans as I tweak her nipple. Encouraged, I push down her shirt and bra and take her nipple into my mouth. When she rolls her hips against me, I can’t help unbuttoning her pants and sliding my hand inside her panties, running my finger along her folds.

  I’ve been in a limo many, many times before. I’ve made out with a woman in a limo before. But I’ve always been careful to stop it from going any further than that.

  However, I don’t have much self-control where Courtney is concerned, and honestly, why not have some fun in the back of a limo? The last two weeks have been all about doing things I wouldn’t normally do. Like baking lemon squares and binge-watching TV shows.

  “Please tell me you have a condom,” Courtney says, the last word coming out on a gasp as I slide a finger inside her.

  “Mm. I’m saving it for later. But that doesn’t mean you won’t get an orgasm.”

  I know her body, and I know I can get her off with just my fingers.

  I slide a second finger inside her and thrust in and out as I look at the pleasure written all over her face. “You’re so pretty when you’re being touched.”

  She makes some incoherent noises.

  God, she feels good, and it’s tempting to take the condom out of my pocket, but I don’t want to show up at the restaurant looking like we just had sex in the back of a limo. My cock can’t help hardening as I touch her, but it’ll just have to wait.

  I raise my hand to my mouth and lick her moisture off my index finger, then my middle finger, before licking my thumb. I love her taste. I can’t wait to bury my face between her legs later.

  “Please.” She bucks her hips.

  I slide my hand back into her pants, my fingers thrusting inside her, my thumb gently circling her clit. Our lips tremble as we look at each other, our faces nearly touching, and then I close the space between us and kiss her mouth. I work my lips over hers, flick my tongue against hers, and I swallow her cries as she comes apart in my arms.

  By the time we show up at the restaurant, we’ve put ourselves back together.

  More or less.

  * * *

  “I’m going to have the confit du canard,” Courtney says after studying the menu for a minute. “What about you?”

  “The lamb shank. Escargots to start, if you’d like to share?”

  “Sure. I haven’t had them in ages.”

  I spent hours trying to find the best places to eat in Montreal. Tonight, we’re at a French bistro, sitting by the window on the second floor. I couldn’t help but be pleased when we were shown to our table and Courtney proclaimed it “lovely.”

  The waiter comes over, and I order our food and a glass of wine each.

  “Your French
is really good,” Courtney says after he leaves. “Mine is crap. I stopped taking French in grade ten, and I’ve forgotten almost everything I learned.”

  I lean forward and place my hand on her knee under the table. “Would you like if I spoke French in the bedroom? Would that turn you on?”

  She grabs her water glass, seeming a little flustered. “I think, um...to be honest, it would probably make me laugh.”

  Our wine arrives, and Courtney takes a sip and smiles. “It’s good.”

  I love seeing her drink wine. She claims she knows nothing about it, but she always seems to appreciate it.

  And her sigh when she closes her eyes and pops the first bite of confit du canard in her mouth... Oh, God.

  “This is amazing.” She cuts off a piece and puts it on my plate.

  “It is,” I say after I try it.

  Although I’ve had confit du canard a number of times before, it’s like I’m having it for the first time. That’s a common occurrence with Courtney. I feel like I’m doing lots of things for the first time, realizing I never fully appreciated them before.

  Watching her eat crème brûlée is even more erotic than watching her eat duck. The noises she makes are positively sinful.

  “That’s it,” I say. “We’re getting out of here.”

  We make out in the limo on the way to the hotel, but it’s only a five-minute ride, so we don’t get any further than that. I wait impatiently as we check in. The receptionist insists on telling us where to find all sorts of things I don’t care about right now.

  “Breakfast is included in your stay. The breakfast room is just through those doors. We have a buffet with—”

  “Got it,” I say.

  Can’t everyone tell that I just want to be alone with the beautiful woman on my arm?

  “If you turn left and walk past the elevators, you’ll find the pool. The hours are—”

  “Thank you, but we won’t be swimming.”

  “The rooftop patio is available for all our guests. To get to the rooftop patio—”

  “We’ll figure it out when we need to.”

  “The fitness center...”

  Finally, we enter our suite on the top floor.

  “It’s so big!” Courtney exclaims.

  Okay, that’s enough.

  “I hope you say that about something else in a few minutes,” I growl, wrapping my arms around her from behind and carrying her to bed.

  “I want to check out the washroom and see if we have a fancy shower. Ooh, and the little shampoo bottles. Do you think they have gold lids?”

  I glare at her. She laughs, and then I cover her mouth with mine and start working on her clothes as I kiss her. I slip off her shoes and pants before I start on the buttons on her pink blouse. Soon, she’s wearing nothing but a black bra and panties, both edged with lace.

  “Beautiful,” I murmur, and before I can continue disrobing her, she’s unbuttoning my shirt and pushing down my pants.

  Now I’m naked, and she’s still wearing her underwear...and she has her hand circled around my cock.

  She kneels beside me and licks the tip as her hand slides up and down. Then she wraps her lips around the head and slowly, ever so slowly, takes me all the way into her mouth.

  I grip the sheets and groan.

  Nobody can affect me like she does. Absolutely no one.

  I can’t let this finish too quickly. I sit up and remove the rest of her clothing. I recall how she shyly stepped into my room last week, wearing one of my shirts, and told me it had been years since she’d had sex but she wanted to do it with me.

  She’s not shy around me anymore.

  I settle her back on the multitude of pillows and kiss my way down her body, being sure to pay attention to the underside of her jaw—she particularly likes that spot—and her breasts. And then my mouth is between her legs, and I give her a long lick.

  She jerks underneath me.

  I lift my head. “Good?”

  “Julian...” She pushes my head back down.

  I smile as I lick her and thrust my fingers inside her at the same time. She feels so good and, God, I need to be inside her heat; I need to have everything I can with her. I pull the condom out of my discarded pants and roll it on. I watch her face as I push inside, her pleasure as I fill her up.

  Slowly, I begin to thrust, and I kiss every part of her I can reach. Her shoulders, her collarbone, her wrists. Everything about her is wonderful, and I can’t get enough. She wraps her legs around my hips, taking me even deeper, and I groan. Then she rolls us over so I’m beneath her and, fuck, she looks hot on top of me, her hands going to her breasts so she can touch herself as she moves. My hands drift to her plump ass and give it a squeeze.

  We take our time, slow and sensual movements of hips, skin against skin.

  “You feel so amazing,” she says, and I don’t think any compliment has ever meant more to me. I want to always make her feel amazing.

  I flip her over and increase my pace, leading us to the inevitable ending, our orgasms overtaking us at the same time.

  * * *

  After sex, we have a long shower together and Courtney finds great amusement in us wearing the fluffy white robes provided by the hotel.

  “We match!” she says, and she insists we wear them until bedtime.

  By midnight, she’s asleep and I’ve got my head propped up on my elbow, looking at her lovely face in the shadows of the hotel room.

  Old Julian would have considered this a terrible waste of time. If he couldn’t fall asleep in thirty minutes, he would get up and do some work.

  But now I’m simply staring at the sleeping woman who has turned my life upside down in the past two weeks. We only have two more days together. Earlier, I tried to push that thought to the back of my mind and focus on having a good time with Courtney, but now, in the dark stillness of the night, I can’t help but think of the end.

  When we get back from Montreal, we’ll go to my condo, and she’ll pack up her stuff while I write her a check for five thousand dollars. Then she’ll walk out of my life, having fulfilled her job of teaching me how to have fun. She’s certainly made my break from work more fun than I thought it would be, that’s for sure.

  I can’t lie to myself. I don’t want this to end.

  It doesn’t have to, does it? I could ask her to stay.

  But after Olivia, I swore off relationships because I was so terrible at them. I don’t want to be like Vince, always with a different girl. Frankly, that sounds exhausting. I’d prefer to be committed to one woman, to go home to someone I care about after a day’s work. A string of flings cannot compare to that. This isn’t something I’ve just discovered about myself; I’ve always felt this way.

  Except that when I get home from the office, it’s usually eight or nine o’clock at night, and I still need to send a few emails. We’d hardly have any time together.

  Part of me is itching to do some work again and feel productive. I can’t bake lemon squares and sun tan on the patio forever, though I definitely needed that break. As much as I hate to admit it, my family was right about something. But when I return to work, I won’t have Courtney anymore. I can’t put it off any longer—it’s my company, and I need to run it—and like it or not, she’s just not compatible with my regular life.

  I sigh and turn onto my other side so I can’t see her anymore, but I can still hear her breathe and feel her warm presence beside me.

  I’ll remember this as long as I live.

  * * *

  “I’ve always wanted to order room service,” Courtney says when we wake up on Saturday, “but it was too expensive to justify. Maybe we can do it this morning?” She gets on her knees and presses her hands together. “Please? I’ll give you sexual favors.”

  “You’d give me sexual favors anyway,” I say.

  “True.”

  Unfortunately, room service arrives faster than expected. There’s enough time for her to get me off, but not enough time for me
to make her scream. When I hear a knock on the door, I have my mouth between her legs.

  “Shit,” I mutter, scrambling up and pulling on a robe. She giggles as she pulls on hers.

  Once we’re decent, I open the door and a little cart is rolled into our room. There’s a pot of coffee, orange juice, and two domes to keep our plates warm. We eat breakfast together, as we’ve done many times before. I remember the first breakfast I made for her. Eggs and bacon, like we’re having now.

  After today, there will be only one more breakfast.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  Shit. I didn’t realize my displeasure was showing on my face.

  “Just fine,” I say. “I can’t wait to spend the day with you.”

  “Me, too.”

  We smile at each other, but my smile is a little forced.

  After a leisurely breakfast—and me finishing what I’d started before our food arrived—we head out and walk around Old Montreal. I take Courtney’s hand in mine, and she doesn’t let go, except to point at things that interest her.

  For today, I can pretend I have a girlfriend. I will do my best to forget reality.

  Courtney is admiring some art in the window of a gallery when I look at my watch.

  “Crap,” I say. “We’ve only got five minutes.”

  “Five minutes until what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  We hurry down the narrow sidewalks until we reach a tiny pâtisserie. There’s a line-up outside, but I made reservations, so we bypass the line. Courtney and I are seated at a table in the back and given pastry menus. Everything sounds tasty.

  “Let’s get a chocolate éclair,” she says. “Wait...no. The strawberry éclair.”

  “I thought you’d want the chocolate-raspberry tart.”

  After all the meals we’ve eaten together in the past couple of weeks, I’ve gotten a pretty good idea of what Courtney likes. She’s particularly fond of raspberry-flavored things.

  “Yes!” she exclaims. “How did I miss that before?”

  “I think we should get the chocolate cake with salted caramel, too.”

  “Hmm...”

  The waitress comes around and asks if we’re ready to order.

  Ha. Not even close.