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  Surprise Billionaire

  Maggie Twain

  Surprise Billionaire

  A Billionaire Rogue Novella

  By Maggie Twain

  Copyright © 2020, Maggie Twain. All rights reserved worldwide.

  No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author/publisher. Consent may be obtained by emailing: [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance the characters may have to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Maggie Twain

  Warning: This book contains graphic language and sexual content.

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  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue One - Two Months Later

  Epilogue Two - One Year Later

  Also by Maggie Twain

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  Chapter One

  Angel

  I'd been warned about Mr. Carrington.

  Not that I needed warning because the whole town has always known about him, about what he’s like and how he likes things done.

  “We’re the most upmarket restaurant for miles, which is why I require all my staff to be a certain way,” he says the word with an odd emphasis, like there’s a high level of expectation placed upon the restaurant staff.

  Luckily, I’ve had a life of forewarning but decide to ask for clarification anyway, and because I know it’s what he’s expecting. “How do you mean?"

  He leans back in his seat and crosses one leg over the other whilst never taking his shrewd, bespectacled eyes from me. He's not creepy in the slightest, in fact, judging by his mannerisms, I question whether he likes women at all, but he still gives me an uneasy feeling, regardless, and I get the impression that this is a man who drives his employees like a plantation owner does his slaves. "You must look absolutely impeccable at all times. I need my staff to be beyond professional. There's a reason our online reviews are always so glowing. It's because our staff are the best.”

  I hum in a way that attempts to reassure him, even though I’m slowly beginning to lose hope he’ll want to employ a girl like me.

  Mr. Carrington already knows this would be my first job, naive and straight out of high school as I am, so again I can only wonder what he means by the best considering I have absolutely no experience. Truth is, right about now I ought to have been going to college, culinary school to be precise, but I had to abandon those plans when dad died and left my mom with twelve-year-old triplet girls and a mountain of debt. Oh, and me as well, which is why I now have to take on the responsibility of breadwinner at the tender age of eighteen. So I won’t get to study to become a chef but what I do get is the next best thing, kind of, I get to carry food to and from the kitchen - I don’t know whether to laugh or cry - and that’s if I even get this waitressing job, which is unlikely.

  He surveys my hair, which today is tied back neatly into a bun, about as professional as I’ve ever seen myself look. He motions with a hand and for a nervous moment I wonder what he's gesturing at, but then he coughs and I give him a funny look.

  "Yes?"

  He quietly sighs because clearly, there’s something I’m not quite getting. "Please stand, Angel, and give me a spin, please."

  Ah, now I'm getting the idea, by “impeccable,” he means the way we look.

  Although I've never considered myself impeccable in the looks department, or barely even average for that matter, Mr. Carrington had obviously seen the photograph I sent with my application so I can safely assume that in his opinion, I already meet the standard for working at his restaurant. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  But I really, really need this job so there’s nothing else for it, I brace myself to be scrutinized like a piece of meat and stand before making a nervous half turn and then go back the other way. Yep, definitely gay, I decide, as his observation seems all business, more like how a fashion buyer might eye a set of fabrics than a new girl in the prime of her life. Or maybe I’m just not to his taste, which suits me fine. At least the man’s good enough not to overtly leer at my ass, or even give an appreciative hum, and again I fear I’ll be turned down for the job.

  I’m really nervous.

  Finally, he nods. "The job pays minimum wage but your tips will bring you out above that, so it is what you make of it. Be an impeccable waitress and you’ll not go hungry. I'll email you our guidelines and rules, along with your contract."

  I crush my lips together to suppress the screams of delight that are trying to escape me, because it looks like I'm hired. “Yes, um, thank you so…”

  “Collect your uniform on the way downstairs. You can start tomorrow. Alma will show you the ropes.” He waves me out the room so I leave before he can change his mind.

  And with that, I have my first ever job, and although it’s not what I might have dreamed about, it's a start and I'm on my way. Chef school will have to wait until my sisters are grown up. Until then, maybe I can pry on the chefs here.

  That night, I’m almost too excited to sleep, but I manage a few hours and rise early so I have plenty of time to get ready and to ensure I look perfect. “Impeccable, damn it.” I pay particular attention to my hair and makeup before spending considerable effort pressing all the creases out of my uniform. By the time I'm ready to leave, I think I scrub up pretty well. My mom wishes me luck, I hug and kiss Kelly, Holly and Tilly, and then I’m out the door to catch the bus.

  I arrive in the staffroom early to meet my new colleagues but am dismayed to find there's barely a happy face in the building, and that includes my friend Clare.

  "Hey babe, I’m so glad to have a friendly face with me at this dump,” she sighs and gestures about to the ten or twelve other employees wearing a range of uniforms and all sitting with glum expressions. “As you can see, we’re in need of some life around this dive.”

  “Hey, shush, these people have ears, you know.” I give a small, nervous wave to at least try to appear friendly and one or two people murmur something back out of politeness. But whoa, the place truly is miserable, and I’m about to ask why when she prods me in the ribs with an elbow.

  “Oh, relax,” with the flap of a dainty hand, she dismisses her earlier words, “if I wasn’t around to banter, there’d be nobody else and then we might as well be working at a funeral parlor.” She shakes her head at a young waiter who’s staring at the clock with a look of what can only be described as pain. “Sometimes, it’s easy to get the two mixed up.”

  “Clare…” I almost grab ahold of her shoulders to give her a shake but then remember where I am.

  “Hey, it’s cool,” she nudges me, “as long as you're at least pretending to be happy around the customers then nobody cares what we say or do back here during the seven minutes a day we get to ourselves.”

  I tut and want to tell her to stop denigrating my new place of employment. I know she’s joking, I hope, but she’s killing the buzz I’ve felt since yesterday and besides, I have absolutely no reason to be anything but perfectly happy. I’m a happy person. Nobody’s forcing anyone to work here, other than the fact it's a small town and Carrington’s happens to be one of the largest employe
rs around which, I suppose, might be good enough reason we’re all stuck. Oh, shucks, maybe Clare does have a point. I’m keen to change the subject. “Which one’s Alma?” I glance around at the glum faces. “She’s supposed to be showing me the ropes.”

  Clare bristles at the mention of the name but before she can answer, the door opens and an older woman clips inside.

  She looks to be in her early fifties with a pinched face and brown hair tied up into the tightest bun I’ve ever seen, so tight, in fact, that it almost appears to be pulling back the skin on her face. It’s her eyes though that tell the story, like she’s seen it all and nothing can get passed her. Most ominously of all, however, is that the room fell into complete silence the moment she stepped inside. At least one girl turns away.

  I find myself frozen and unable to look away from the woman, who I have a suspicion must be Alma, and then she finds me, standing in the center of the room and feeling suddenly very exposed.

  “Hi,” I manage to utter whilst making another tiny wave that doubtless I’m soon gonna be known for around here.

  Her mouth tightens as she gives me the full-on appraisal, up and down, repeat, already far more severe than Mr. Carrington. She fixes on my blouse, freshly pressed, I might add, and her nose scrunches.

  Clare leans close to my ear. “That would be Alma, my dear.” As if I didn’t already know. “She a bitch.”

  “You must be the new girl,” she states matter of fact. I guess it’s kind of obvious. I give another pathetic little wave and tilt my hip but her eyes are fixed on my blouse again. “Your uniform’s not pressed.” I want to object because my uniform’s immaculate, but being the sudden center of attention, I find myself unable to say anything. Her eyes never leave me and I can feel myself wilting under her gaze. “If you bothered to read your contract then you’d know that’s a disciplinary offense.”

  I take a sudden sharp intake of air, she’s being so mean to chastise me on my first day, and in front of everyone too. It’s just not the decent way of doing things. But what can I do? Nothing, is what. And I did read the contract. Twice, in fact.

  She gives me a final look as the skin between her eyes bunches, which threatens to unsettle her hair, and then she taps her watch and cries out to everyone, “right, it’s time. Get to your posts.”

  Coffees are quickly drained and Clare tugs me closer. “And that, Angel, is why we’re all so fucking miserable.”

  I get the impression I really need to remain on Alma’s good side.

  How hard can it be?

  I spend the first hour simply tailing Clare, watching and observing as she takes orders for coffee, pancakes, croissants, fresh orange juice, eggs Benedict and even the occasional bowl of oatmeal. Yuck. Whenever I get the chance, I hover in the kitchen and watch with fascination the attention to detail as the chefs work magic with ingredients, turning them into dishes that resemble works of art. It’s what I should be doing, damnit. I then have to carry them out to the customers and in less than an hour, my belly’s rumbling terribly. I grab two breakfasts from the counter whilst muttering “table twelve,” so I don’t forget where they’re going, turn around and just narrowly miss clobbering into Alma as she’s coming up from behind.

  "Hey, watch it, you nearly caused an accident.” She’s flashing her teeth and I feel my eyes widen of their own accord.

  “Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry, I'll be more careful in future."

  "Yes, you'd better." Her lips fall back down as she takes the moment to again survey my appearance, and I question whether I detect a sniff. "Your uniform’s not pressed.”

  For a moment, I can only wonder if she’s mad, but I’m too cowed to mention she already told me that. “Yes, I’m, um, sorry, I’ll do better tomorrow,” I say instead and can feel the perspiration dripping down my back. Kitchens are hot, which is something I’ll have to get used to.

  Her arms fold and I find my eyes darting to the plates I’m holding, two eggs royale, which will soon go cold in contravention of Carrington’s standards. She continues to bar my exit. "In future, always make sure you press your uniform. Every morning. At Carrington’s, we’re impeccable.” There’s that word again.

  But this has to be a power trip. She must be able to see my uniform’s pressed but I have no doubt she’d find fault with something no matter what. No, better just take the abuse, let her see she has me cowed and with a bit of luck, when she knows I’m a hard worker, then I’ll be able to win her over. Hopefully. Let’s face it, I have no other plan. There’s certainly no point arguing with her, especially when she’s my direct supervisor. Finally, she steps aside and I continue on my way whilst I can feel her stare burning into my back.

  I catch Clare’s eye just as she’s untying her apron strings. “Hey, it’s my break so it looks like for the next twenty minutes, you’ve got the place to yourself,” she gives me a reassuring rub of the arm to let me know I can do this and then she disappears into the staffroom as she taps at her cell screen.

  “Oh, gosh, so this is really it.” Sink or swim, sink or swim. Stay cool, Angel, now’s your chance to prove yourself to Alma.

  A party of four enter the establishment and gaze about at the high ceilings and chandeliers. I'm nervous as I approach but I show them to a table and present them all with menus. Another group is already waiting to be seated and I do the same for them before returning to the first party and taking their orders. My arms are shaking but I’m slowly beginning to get the idea I can really do this.

  I will always remember the first order I took as a waitress, which was for five pancakes stacked on top of each other, all drizzled with syrup and sprinkled with cinnamon. The coffee is a rare Ethiopian blend and I can’t resist breathing in the delectable aroma as I'm taking it over. I mention how they’re my first customers as a waitress and they’re thrilled for me and when it comes time to settle the bill, they give me a huge tip, as does the second group.

  By the time morning is over, I’m thrilled to have made considerably more money in tips than I have from my actual wage. I thrust all the money into the tip jar and Janice and Karl both beam wide smiles and suddenly people don’t seem so miserable as they did before. Clare had already told me the tips are shared amongst everyone at the end of the day so if one waitress is having a particularly good shift, we all benefit.

  “Goodbye student loans,” Ben, the guy who’d earlier been staring at the clock, dreading the start of his shift, gives me a high five. What a turnaround.

  I dismiss all the praise with a flap of a hand, even though I’m struggling to hide my grin. It’s so nice to receive such praise after only having been here a few hours.

  By the time my shift is over, I've made considerably more tips, and Clare mumbles something about it being a restaurant record, at least for the time she's been working at Carrington’s, and I'm so happy because there are things I really need to do with that money, like pay my mom's rent, because that’s one thing she always struggles with, despite the fact she works so hard. There’s also the small matter of the triplets, who’re all growing so fast out of their clothes. Maybe soon I’ll be able to buy them some books for school.

  When it comes time to divvying up the money, Alma takes control, which is hardly a surprise, I guess she is the boss.

  “Here you are, Janice, Karl, Ben, Clare,” she hands an envelope to each in turn and I’m next in line. “Not you, Angel,” she says, showing me her palm, "you contravened the restaurant rules with a crumpled uniform, so as per regulations there will be no tips for you today, but take it as a learning curve and endeavor to do better tomorrow."

  Clare’s mouth plunges open and I think I hear her muttering something about Alma being a bitch. Ben stares at the wad of notes he’s just plucked from his envelope.

  “What?” I can feel myself shaking and turning red. “The regulations say no such thing and I … I was reading my contract only last night.”

  She folds her arms and looks at me from down the length of her nose. “Well, you obvi
ously didn't read the new regulations, did you?”

  I hiss, “what new regulations?”

  She points to the noticeboard and grins in triumph. “The ones I added this morning.”

  “Oh,” I nod and have to dig deep to hold back the tears. So this is why everybody hates Alma.

  I think I understand things now.

  Chapter Two

  Thor

  I wait until I’m certain that at least two employees are watching from inside the showroom before making my move. Truth is, you’d have to be blind to miss me, considering I arrived in a piece of shit Hillman Imp still in its original rust from the seventies, which I took the liberty of parking beside an Aston Martin Vanquish, a car that costs almost three hundred grand. I should know, I own one.

  A suave guy in a suit stirs from behind the large pane of shatterproof glass and continues to watch me, hands on hips. Shortly after, he’s joined by a woman, who looks equally all business.

  “Now, now, now,” I hide the smirk but cannot suppress the surging adrenaline as I open the door and have to stoop considerably to exit the hunk of tin that’s blighting the yard. I close the door but because the hinge is broken it merely clatters against the shitty steel and won’t set into its frame. In full view of my two onlookers, I spend the next minute tying the door closed with string. There’s no rear driver’s side window, so looping the cord around the frame is easy enough.

  The door holds, not that anyone would want to steal such a piece of crap anyway, but I think I’ve made my point to the watching staff. For sure, it looks out of place surrounded by forty Ferraris, Porsches, Lamborghinis and even a McLaren. I particularly like the look of the 570S Spider and make a mental note to buy one at some point.