Sweet for You: A BBW Billionaire Romance (4 page)

Abby was suddenly grateful for her years of administrative work. Her vast experience creating countless reports, proposals, and expense reports for various executives would come in handy as she organized her notes. Spinning away from the window and toward her computer, she decided now was as good a time as any to organize her ideas. But first, she wanted to check her email.

There was a company-wide message from HR announcing Abby’s addition to the product team, followed by several “Welcome to Blake Foods” type of messages that she answered with short and sweet “Thank You” replies. There was an email from Tom Parker with some additional information she had requested during their meeting. There was also a message from Martha.

Subject: Dinner Meeting

Hi Abby,

I hope you’re having a wondering first day on the job! I wanted to let you know that something’s come up and I won’t be able to join you and Stephen for dinner. Parking is terrible near Gordon’s, so feel free to catch a cab and put the cost on your expense report. Have a good time!

Warm Regards,

Martha

Abby’s heart skipped a beat and a cool sweat broke out on her forehead. She wasn’t sure if she was excited, terrified, or a little of both. A few weeks ago, a private dinner with Mr. Blake at one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city would have been a dream come true. But now, things were different. Stephen Blake was no longer a fantasy image on a magazine cover; he was her boss.

Even though their dinner wasn’t a date, Abby wished she had time to go home and change into one of the sexy dresses that Lois Carlyle had picked out for her. But if she wanted to present her ideas to Mr. Blake that night, she’d have to make do with the well-fitting, yet somewhat conservative, pantsuit she had worn for her first day on the job.

A knock on her open office door interrupted her thoughts. Jenna popped her head in. “Sorry to interrupt. I wanted to ask if there was anything I could do for you before I head home in an hour or so.”

Abby motioned for her to come in. “Actually, I could use some help preparing for my dinner with Mr. Blake. How are you with spreadsheets and graphs?”

Jenna smiled. “Better than average.”

“I was hoping you’d say that! Pull up a chair and I’ll show you what I was thinking.”

A
bby was running late. Even with Jenna’s help, it had taken longer than expected to turn her ideas into a rough yet coherent proposal. She was pleased with the folder filled with notes and sketches and was hoping that, once he saw it, Stephen would overlook her tardiness.

Pulling the stretchy band from her hair, she released her makeshift bun and let her blond curls fall around her shoulders. After finger-combing her locks, she powdered her face, applied a fresh coat of strawberry lip gloss, and rushed from the building. Catching a cab proved to be easier than Abby expected, but she still didn’t make it to the restaurant until almost 6:30pm.

“I’m so sorry I’m late!” she exclaimed when the hostess led her to Stephen’s table. He stood as she approached and, for a moment, Abby thought he was mad and getting ready to leave. Then it dawned on her that he was just being a gentleman. Once she sat down, he did, too. The small, unexpected gesture made her belly flutter.

“Jennifer notified me of your delay,” he said.

“Oh, that’s a relief.” Abby put her purse and proposal folder on the chair next to her and made a mental note to ask HR if it was too soon to give Jenna a raise.

A waiter in a black suit and starched white shirt approached the table and Stephen acknowledged him with a nod. “I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine,” he said, gesturing to the bottle on the table and the rich, red liquid in the glass in front of him. “But if you would prefer a cocktail, the restaurant has a full bar.”

Abby was impressed by Stephen’s manners, even if they were a bit stiff. He was more polished than any other person she knew. So smooth, so handsome, so in control. She pinched herself under the table to make sure she wasn’t dreaming – and to remind herself that this was a business meeting rather than a date.

“Wine would be great,” she said. The waiter poured the red liquid in her glass and she smiled at him. “Thank you.”

“I’ll give you two a few moments to look over the menu,” the waiter said before slipping away.

“So, I guess you heard that Martha couldn’t make it,” Abby said, stating the obvious.

“Yes, she informed me that something had come up,” Stephen replied, picking up his menu and studying it intently. Abby followed his lead but was so nervous that she could barely concentrate on the words, although the menu prices seemed to jump off the page. She swallowed a gasp. Dinner for two was going to cost as much as her rent!

He closed his menu and set it aside. “How was your first day at Blake Foods?”

“Good. Informative. I put together some notes to go over with you.”

“Excellent.” Stephen paused before leaning across the table with an intense look on his face. “As you are undoubtedly aware, this diet desserts line is critical to the future of Blake Foods. I’m confident that your ideas for improving the taste and quality of our desserts will be invaluable.”

Abby’s lips parted slightly as she stared into his eyes. “I promise I won’t let you down, sir. Being a part of your team is more than just a job for me. It’s hard to explain, but I almost feel like being a part of Blake Foods is my calling.”

Stephen smiled. “I’m so glad to hear you say that, Miss Branson, because I have something very important to ask you.”

Abby swallowed a large drink of wine for liquid courage and leaned forward as well, temporarily lost in his dark, smoldering eyes and warm, inviting smile.

Please let it be, ‘What are you doing for the next 50 years?’!

“Ask me anything,” she said, breathless with anticipation.

“I’m anxious to hear your ideas for improving our diet desserts because you seem to understand our customer demographic so well. And that brings me to my question.”

“Yes?”

He paused. “What motivates women like you?”

In a flash, Abby’s heart sank and her eyes narrowed. She gulped down the rest of her wine before asking, “What do you mean by
women like me
?”

~~~

F
rom the tone of her voice, Stephen realized he had said something wrong and he silently cursed Martha for being right about his inability to carry on a simple conversation in the presence of Abby Branson. But before he could apologize and salvage the situation, the waiter returned to take their order.

“May I suggest the six-ounce petite filet with steamed vegetables?” Stephen said, recommending the meal that his typical female companions ordered.

“You may, but
women like me
prefer bigger pieces of meat.” Abby turned toward the waiter. “I’ll have the 24-ounce porterhouse, medium, with double mashed potatoes, no veggies.”

“Excellent choice, miss,” the waiter replied. “Would you like to add a salad to your meal?”

“Absolutely. I’ll have the Caesar salad with
extra
dressing.”

Suppressing a grin, the waiter turned toward Stephen. “And for you, sir?”

“I’ll have the house salad, the 12-ounce New York, medium rare, baked potato, and a side of steamed broccoli.”

“Very well, sir.” The waiter refilled their wine glasses before leaving the two alone. 

Mr. Blake was perplexed. He had never met anyone quite like Abby Branson and couldn’t get a read on her personality. In the boardroom, he could size someone up in 30 seconds. But Abby was proving to be somewhat of an enigma. A beautiful, feisty, and extremely desirable enigma.

“I know I’ve said something to offend you, Miss Branson. I can assure you that that was not my intention.”

“Why would a
woman like me
be offended by your comments?” There was no mistaking the sarcasm in her voice.

“I honestly don’t know, Miss Branson. Please, enlighten me.”

“Enlighten you? Okay, here goes. I know you’re rich and powerful, but that doesn’t give you the right to invite someone to dinner just to insult them. I won’t pretend that you hired me to be anything more than a glorified dessert taste tester, but I’m taking that role very seriously. My ideas are good, Mr. Blake. Amazing, even. I just hope you’re not too arrogant and condescending to look beyond the surface to see the awesomeness inside.”

Miss Branson wasn’t making sense. She thought he was insulting her? Clearly, they were having a communication disconnect, but he wasn’t good with nuances. “I’m not sure what your outburst is about, Miss Branson, but if you calm down I’m sure we can get to the bottom of it.”

“Calm down. That’s all you have to say?” Mr. Blake watched as Abby rolled her eyes, slurped down the rest of her wine, grabbed her personal effects, and abruptly stood up. “For years, I worshipped you from afar and dreamed about meeting you in the flesh. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that you were nothing more than a schoolyard bully.”

The discussion was getting out of hand. Stephen stood, partly because it was polite to do so in the presence of a lady and partly because it was in his nature to gain a tactical advantage by towering over his opponent. “I’m not sure how you came to that conclusion, Miss Branson, but I wholeheartedly disagree with your assessment.”

“Of course you do,” Abby scoffed. “I should have known that having dinner with
the
Stephen Blake would be a disaster. I’m sorry, but I need to go.”

Mr. Blake reached into his pocket and pulled out his smartphone. “If you insist on going, the least I can do is call my driver to take you home.”

“Fine,” Abby responded. “Tell your driver that I’ll meet him outside.”

Stephen took his seat and called his driver before topping off his wine. By the time his glass was empty, he had regained his composure, although he was still extremely confused by the turn of events. He was simply doing what Martha suggested: trying to understand Miss Branson’s world.

When the waiter brought their salads, Mr. Blake motioned for him to remove Abby’s plate. “Something’s come up and the lady had to leave.”

“Shall I wrap her meal to go, sir? I can arrange to have it delivered if you’d like.”

“Yes, wrap it up, but I’ll deliver it myself after I’ve eaten.”

“Very well,” the waiter responded. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Scotch. Top shelf. Tell the bartender it’s for Stephen Blake. He knows what I like.”

“Two fingers?” the waiter inquired.

“The bottle,” Mr. Blake responded with a scowl. The waiter’s look was questioning, but he didn’t say anything as he left to do the billionaire’s bidding.

F
or the first time in what seemed like
forever
, Abby Branson had no appetite. Thankfully, after giving Mr. Blake’s driver her address, he had enough sense not to push her into making small talk. Instead, he turned up the music and let her privately lick her wounds to the sounds of smooth jazz.

Once inside her apartment, she kicked off her shoes and dropped her dress on the bedroom floor. While digging through her closet to find a stretchy tank top and baggy sweatpants, an outfit that Lois Carlyle would definitely
not
approve of, her mind replayed the humiliating exchange with Stephen in the restaurant.

The handsome man on the cover of
Food Fest
magazine was nothing like her fantasy. Oh, he was handsome alright. But he wasn’t dashing, debonair, or even remotely charming. No, Stephen Blake was pompous, arrogant, and
rude
. And with a few offhand remarks, he had cut Abby to the core. Even w
omen like her
didn’t deserve to be treated with such cold and callous disrespect.

She had probably overreacted to his comment, but after years of being ridiculed for her weight, something inside her had snapped. She had worked so hard to shed her fat girl persona and embrace her finer qualities
and
her curves. Clearly, she still had a way to go before she could be a truly confident BBW.

Curling up on the couch, she turned on the TV and scrolled through the guide, looking for something mindless to watch. Part of her wanted to resign from her new job immediately so she would never have to see Stephen Blake again. But she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had gotten the best of her. Besides, she needed the money; her rent wouldn’t pay itself. So Abby would do what she always did: paste a smile on her face and pretend that she wasn’t hurt by his insults.

Settling on a rerun of the Food Network’s
Cupcake Wars
, Abby eventually drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened sometime later by a pounding on her door. Disoriented by the abrupt intrusion, she rubbed her eyes before peering through the security peephole to find a disheveled Mr. Blake standing outside her door.

His coat and tie were gone and the top of his starched white shirt was open, revealing a hint of dark, sexy chest hair. Abby’s pulse quickened. With his hair slightly mussed and his attire casual, he looked more handsome than ever.

“Miss Branson, are you in there?” she heard him say through the door. “I’ve come to apologize. Please let me in.”

Abby noticed that his words were slurred ever so slightly and his voice
did
sound apologetic.
Was he drunk?

She unlocked the door and opened it just a crack. Stephen must have been leaning against it because he tumbled inside, grabbing hold of Abby’s thick middle as he steadied himself.

Even after he regained his footing, his strong arms lingered around her waist and it occurred to Abby that his grip felt pretty solid for someone who was clearly inebriated. She was close enough to inhale his scent, an intoxicating mix of expensive cologne and pricey liquor that made her feel almost as drunk as her boss.

Without thinking, she flattened her hands on his broad chest, exploring the muscles beneath the smooth white cotton. When she slid her palms across his nipples, they contracted under her touch and her own breasts responded in kind, poking out from the thin material of her tank top.