Page 11 of Pucking My Off-Limits Billionaire Boss
Lucy
Standingattheentranceto Andrew's apartment, I take a moment to steel myself. His place is a sleek condo, the epitome of modern luxury with clean lines and a minimalist aesthetic that screams 'I have money.' I can't count how many times over the last nine months Andrew has suggested I move in with him. But each time, I've turned him down. The idea of living in this sterilized version of a home just doesn't sit right with me. It's too soon, too much.
The intercom buzzes, jolting me from my thoughts, and I'm soon stepping through the lobby, up the elevator, and into Andrew's big, gorgeous penthouse. The view over Seattle is breathtaking, skyscrapers twinkling like stars in a concrete sky, but even that can't lift the heaviness in my chest.
Andrew is waiting for me, his posture as rigid and immaculate as his surroundings. He's the quintessential financial industry type: sharply dressed, with a slicked-back hairstyle that matches his personality. Cocky, but not in the charming way that can be endearing. More like the 'I know I'm better than you' kind of way.
"What's up, Lucy? You look stressed," he says, his tone lacking genuine warmth. It's more a statement than a question, the kind of greeting you'd expect from someone who sees emotions as inconvenient.
As I take in his polished appearance and detached demeanor, a thought flits through my mind, "how the hell did I end up with a guy like him?" It wasn't like I fell for his charm—he's got the warmth of a spreadsheet. Maybe it was during that hectic phase when I was juggling Mocha Memoirs and feeling overwhelmed.
He was persistent, always there, making his intentions clear. In a moment of weakness, amidst the chaos of my life, I said yes, perhaps out of a desire for some stability, or maybe just to have someone who seemed so sure of himself and his world. But now, looking at him, I realize that stability can sometimes feel a lot like a gilded cage.
I force a smile, trying to push down the knot of anxiety in my stomach. "It's been a rough day, Andrew. There's… something I need to talk to you about."
“Sure.”
He leads me to the living room, a space as immaculately arranged as a showroom. As I sit on the edge of the sofa, the plush leather cold and unwelcoming, I start to explain about Mocha Memoirs, about the money issues that have blindsided me.
"It's bizarre," I say, my voice tight as I try to piece it all together. "My books aren't adding up, and I didn't get any tax information. It's like everything's just fallen apart all at once."
I can feel the tears threatening, but I blink them back fiercely. I refuse to break down, not here, not in front of Andrew.
He listens, but his face is hard to read, a mask of polite interest. "That's tough, Lucy. But you're smart. You'll figure it out," he says, his words more dismissive than supportive.
I nod, feeling a pang of disappointment. I wasn't expecting a grand gesture or a solution, but maybe a bit more empathy. Andrew's world revolves around numbers and profits, and sometimes I wonder if he's capable of understanding anything that doesn't fit into a spreadsheet.
"I just... I don't know what to do," I admit, feeling vulnerable and exposed in this pristine, emotionless space.
Andrew stands, pacing the room with a frown. "Maybe it's time to consider other options. Selling, perhaps?"
The suggestion hits me like a blow. Selling Mocha Memoirs isn't just a business decision; it's giving up a part of myself. But deep down, I know he might be right.
The silence between us stretches, heavy and expectant. I watch Andrew as he mulls over my predicament, his expression thoughtful, almost calculating. Finally, I break the tension. "What's on your mind, Andrew? You've got that look."
He takes a deep breath, turning to face me. "Lucy, maybe this is the sign we've been waiting for."
I stand up abruptly, a sense of dread washing over me. "No, no, no," I say, cutting him off. I know where this is going, a conversation we've had many times before, and one I'm not eager to revisit.
He holds up a hand, trying to calm me down. "Lucy, hear me out. Think about it. You've been trying to make your coffee shop work for years, but it's over. It's time to let it go."
His words hit me like a tidal wave, but I stand my ground. "I can't just give up on it, Andrew. It's my dream, my passion. I can't just walk away."
"But Lucy," he insists, his voice firm, "this is the only way you're going to make it in Seattle. The city's expensive, the market's competitive. You need a fresh start, and I can help you with that."
I pause, considering his words. "How exactly can you help me? Are we talking about a loan? Financial advice? Maybe you could help me negotiate my debt with the city or the landlord?"
He smirks slightly, as if amused by my suggestions. "That's not the kind of help I was thinking."
My curiosity piqued, I ask cautiously, "Then what help are you offering?"
Andrew leans back, his expression turning serious. "The kind of help I'm thinking of would require a significant change on your part. It would mean you'd have to let go of Mocha Memoirs."
I shake my head, frustration boiling inside me. "I don't want your help, not if it means giving up on everything I've worked for. My shop isn't just a business, Andrew. It's a part of who I am."
Andrew sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I'm just trying to be practical, Lucy. You're drowning in debt, your shop's on the brink of collapse. Sometimes you have to make tough choices for the greater good."
I cross my arms, feeling a chasm growing between us. "And what about what I want, Andrew? What about my dreams? Do they just not matter?"
