Jessica Clare: Once Upon a Billionaire

The attendant’s eyes widened. “I only gave her two drinks, sir.”

“Sounds like two too many,” he muttered. He turned back to the wild-haired blonde, who was blinking those owl-like eyes at him. “ Are you drunk?”

“No sir,” she breathed. “I’m Maylee. That’s Maylee after my Nana May and Pepaw—”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “You already told me. And you are clearly drunk. Either that, or a fool. Why did Hunter send you?”

“Double time,” she said, and gave him a beaming smile. “You’re caught in a poke and I get to make lots of money and a fancy trip to all them nice parts of Europe.”

Dear God, her accent got worse the more she talked. There were all kinds of revolting twangs rumbling out of her mouth. “Caught in a poke?”

He was really going to kill Gretchen.

“Yesiree,” Maylee breathed. “You’re plumb outta assistants and so Ms. Gretchen called me and asked me if I could look after Mr. Gryffindor. And I said I surely could. How come you sound all English, Mr. Gryffindor? I thought you were from Bellissime.”

“Griffin,” he corrected again stiffly. “And we speak English there. And I lived in Britain during my formative years.”

“Ah,” she said, and then leaned close. “Hogwarts, right?”

Bloody fucking hell. It was like having a conversation with a two-year-old. A very country two-year-old. He pulled out his phone and began to furiously text.

“Whatcha doin?” Maylee asked, that drawl making him even angrier.

“I’m texting Hunter to let him know how much I hate his girlfriend,” Griffin snapped. “You absolutely cannot be my assistant for this trip. This is a job that requires delicacy and an ability to maintain a tight schedule—”

“I can do all that—”

“—and manners!” Griffin barked. “This is inexcusable and utterly ridiculous and you are not going to be my assistant.”

“I’m not?” The two words were soft and trembly.

He shot her another angry look. “Don’t you dare—”

But it was too late. The horrid creature burst into big, gulping, noisy sobs.

Griffin had grown up in a family that prized restraint and considered emotional displays to be bad form. Crying? Never happened, not even when his father died. It simply wasn’t done amongst the peerage, even now. And given that Griffin normally wasn’t his best with people, he really, really did not know what to do with a crying female.

This trip was going from bad to worse, and rapidly.

Griffin stared at the sobbing young woman seated behind him. She blubbered loudly, her youthful face turning splotchy red, her white-blonde curls bouncing as she wiped at her face with a cocktail napkin.

“Stop crying,” Griffin commanded.

She only cried harder.

This was ridiculous. He glanced at the flight attendant to see if she could help him, but she was averting her eyes, her mouth a reproachful line of disapproval. Lovely. It seemed that even his staff was not on his side.

With a sigh, Griffin looked back at the awful creature that was his assistant. “What will it take for you to stop crying?”

She sniffed loudly. “I need a hug.”

“You what ?”

She extended her arms out.

“I’m not hugging you.”

She began to cry harder.

Griffin’s jaw clenched so hard he heard his molars scrape. This was beyond ridiculous. “Stop crying,” he said again.

“You don’t like me,” she blubbered.

No, I don’t , he wanted to say, but he had no desire to see more waterworks. He decided to try manipulation instead. “I will if you stop crying.”

“O-okay,” she said, and sniffed loudly.

That worked? Really? That had been easier than he’d thought. Griffin gave her a firm nod and turned back around in his chair. He’d give the creature some time to compose herself, and then he’d see the best way to get rid of her as soon as they stopped in Heathrow for refueling. He’d have to borrow a few members of staff from his mother, or his older brother, and he’d simply have to endure their incessant advice about adding employees and then cheerfully discard any suggestions once he got back to the States. He barely glanced over as the creature got up from her seat, likely to go and clean herself up in the lavatory. He was still thinking about staffing issues and how his mother would point out smugly that she’d warned him of such a problem, and she couldn’t possibly spare one of her own staff, because—

A shadow fell over Griffin.

He looked up, just in time for the strange, bizarre woman to drop herself into his lap and wrap her arms around his neck.

He stiffened in shock.

Had this . . . horrible woman really just climbed into his lap and put her arms around his neck? It wasn’t to be endured. He was her employer, first of all, and this wasn’t proper in the slightest. He was also a royal, and no one touched royalty without their permission, even in this day and age. “Miss,” he said flatly. “What do you think you are doing?”

She burrowed her face against his neck. “Told you I needed a hug,” she mumbled. And she snuggled closer, oblivious to his rigid posture.

“Get off me.”

She ignored him.

He looked for the attendant to help him out, but she’d disappeared from her seat, no doubt hiding up in the cockpit with the pilots. Blast.

Griffin was trapped.

He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, trying to think. Strands of curly blonde hair tickled his nose as she nuzzled closer, and he began to feel inappropriately aroused. Her arms around his neck were soft, her hair fragrant, and her slight hip was pressing against his cock. Any red-blooded male would have that reaction, he told himself.

All the more reason to get her off his lap.

So he thought for a moment. What was her name? Nana? Millie? “Get up, girl.”

She gave a small sigh of pleasure and tucked her head even closer to his neck. “Don’t wanna.” Her lips moved against his throat, and Griffin shifted in his seat, willing his cock to quit responding to the touch of a drunk woman.

“What is your name again?”

“Maylee,” she breathed, and her soft breath tickled his skin. “Maylee Meriweather.”

“I need you to get off me, Maylee,” Griffin said, mentally applauding himself at his calm, even tone despite the odd situation. “It isn’t proper.”

Her head jerked up, narrowly missing his jaw, and she peered up at him. As she did, he noticed that her red-rimmed eyes were a brilliant green-brown that seemed to glow in her pale face. Damn it, those were rather nice eyes for a little country bumpkin who wore polyester.

That was another thought he shouldn’t have as her employer, he reminded himself.

“You still gonna get rid of me?” she asked, and her hand began to play with his hair, fingers toying with the base of his neck in a way that sent inappropriate shivers through his body.

Griffin gazed into those big green-brown eyes. He decided to level with her. “This is a very delicate job—”

“I’m good with handling delicate things.”

Great, now his mind was thinking of those small hands playing with his hair and touching all kinds of delicate things. Inappropriate. Inappropriate.

“But this is a job that will require a lot of skill—” Oh, hell, now that was a particularly bad choice of words.

“I have skills,” Maylee said in a husky voice, staring up at him. The side of her breast was pressing against his chest, and it felt a great deal rounder than what that godawful suit led on. “I can file, and take messages and type and I’m a burn talker.”

He was about to scoff at that paltry list of skills when he caught the last part of what she was saying. “A what? What in the devil is a burn talker?”