Mid-Thirties Slightly Hot Mess Female Seeking Billionaire: Chapter 3

Sarah

Dear Diary,

Isabel thinks I should have a stripper name. She thinks that’s the way to reel men in on my now-defunct dating profile. I reminded her that I’m thirty-four and not twenty-one. I’m not going to start calling myself Flexible Barbie or Sexy Kitten. For one, I don’t look like Barbie and secondly, I’m not that flexible. Plus, no one would believe I’m a stripper.

Trust me, I once attempted to audition at a private club. I was laughed off the stage, but that’s a story for another time.

Sarah

‘So, there she was, on this yacht being fed grapes by this man, and she sits up, and she says, ‘Do you or don’t you have a billion dollars?’’ My coworker Ginger is eagerly recapping some reality TV show she watched the evening before, and even though I’ve never watched it before, I feel like I know all the stars of the show like family.

‘Wasn’t she just sucking his toes the night before?’ I ask, trying to remember what she’d said happened in the last episode. ‘Shouldn’t she have asked him about his bank account before that?’

‘Well, the problem was she thought he was related to some A-list actor, at first, but then he told her that he was actually—’ Ginger pauses and jumps up abruptly, giving me whiplash at her sudden change of attitude. ‘So, Sarah. I will need the copy for the Monsoon account by the end of the day.’ Her tone is high and nervous, and I blink in confusion. Monsoon, who? What on earth is she talking about?

‘Huh?’ I blink at her. ‘What about Bridget or Janelle or whatever her name was and the billion-dollar question?’

‘Now is not the time.’

‘That’s what she should have said to him before she decided she was going to suck on his cheesy—’ I pause as I realize I can smell a distinct male cologne and look up. I freeze as I see Ethan Rosser and Jackson Pruitt standing at the front of our department, looking around. My heart races as I watch the two handsome men who run the company. Both are super rich, super handsome, and out of my league. I look down at my desk, pull my keyboard toward me, and start typing. I now understand why Ginger is acting so weirdly. I only hope our voices didn’t carry across the small room. I hear footsteps approaching my desk, and I take a deep breath and look up. If Ethan Rosser heard Ginger and I talking about toe-sucking, I would die.

‘Good afternoon, Mr. Rosser.’ Dave, another coworker, jumps up. He is normally engaged in the shows that Ginger recaps every morning, as well, but he’d wanted to check his stats in some game he was playing online. ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Pruitt. How can we help you today?’ Dave is grinning like he’s an exemplary employee, not someone who sings show tunes all day while eating Cheetos and doughnuts.

‘Is Mr. Wayne around?’ Jackson speaks up, and I peer at him from behind my glasses. He’s so hot that he could be a Hollywood movie star. He looks around the room, and I feel his eyes on me briefly. He nods slightly but continues looking around. I can’t take my eyes off of him though. He’s wearing a navy suit with a white shirt and an emerald-green tie that matches the color of his eyes. You can tell that he did it on purpose. He knows he’s gorgeous.

‘He just popped out to grab a sandwich,’ Dave answers, and heads over to the two men. ‘Can I help you?’

‘We need to talk to him about creating a jingle for Lord Chambers’ new gold dome pendant light designs,’ Ethan Rosser says sharply. I can tell that he’s not happy that Todd Wayne is not in the office. Little does he know, but Todd is barely in the office. He started dating a nurse that works at night and likes to spend his days with her; even though she sleeps most of the time. He says it’s worth it because she loves to make love every time she wakes up. I’m sure Mr. Rosser doesn’t want that information though.

‘A jingle?’ Dave asks, a questioning expression on his overeager face. Dave is very much like a puppy dog, and anytime anyone brings up anything vaguely related to music, he gets excited. He initially moved to New York with the idea that he would make it big on Broadway or be discovered at a karaoke night and made into a pop star. Neither of which happened because the simple fact of the matter is that he can’t sing to save his life. Not that I or Ginger would ever tell him that. Sometimes, it’s nice for people to live in their own worlds. Plus, as someone who would love to be a songwriter, I don’t want to burst his bubble. It feels like karma would fire right back at me and tell me I won’t make it, either.

‘Yes.’ Ethan nods but doesn’t elaborate on what he means. Most probably because we’re mere peons, and he doesn’t even know who we are. Though, maybe I am being unfair to him. Maybe he does know us. Maybe he’s heard great things about what we’ve done on the Jerry Catnip campaign. Maybe I’m too self-analytical and down on myself. I need to have more confidence. That’s what Ella and Isabel always say. I push my chair back and stand up. I am going to be a part of this conversation. I am going to be assertive. Especially as I am the creator of most of the work in the department. Even if Todd pretends it is him.

Ethan turns to Jackson and lowers his voice. ‘What do you think? Do we wait a few moments to see if—’

‘We can help,’ I say, though my voice is little more than a pip from a squeaky toy. I need to take an assertiveness class or something because this is ridiculous. My brothers wouldn’t believe how shy and quiet I am at this moment, since they considered me loud and annoying for all of our childhood. Though, that’s because they’re my brothers, not two very handsome billionaires that every woman in the world wanted to date.

I mean, aside from me. I couldn’t care less about dating either one of them.

Neither man looks at me as I approach, but that doesn’t surprise me. They most probably didn’t even hear me talking. I make my way over to them, hoping they will both turn to me with huge smiles of awe, but they’re too engaged in their conversation. I play my this or that game, something I’ve been doing since childhood. Basically, I have to choose in my mind which option I would take. Often, the game is about items or possibilities that would never actually exist to me, but I don’t care. I once spent a good hour debating with myself whether I would go with a black sports Range Rover or a white Tesla Model 3. After going through all the options, I went with the Range Rover; it just looked like a cooler car. I didn’t care that I could barely pay my bills that month and that the Range Rover dealership would laugh me out of town if I went in to purchase one.

Now I’m debating which one between Ethan and Jackson I would choose if I had to give them a rose on Bachelor in Paradise. Both men are more attractive than is fair. Both are rich. Both have bodies that look muscular. Jackson seems friendlier and more open to flirting, but Ethan has that dark, brooding look in his eyes that drives women like me crazy. And when I say women like me, I mean women who fall for emotionally unavailable men. I am the bane of my existence. Constantly lusting over and dating the wrong men.

‘We can…’ I am louder this time, though I pause as Ethan looks at me, his blue eyes keen as he glances at me. I can feel myself flush as I am finally acknowledged by the big boss. I swallow hard and plaster on my best, most winning smile. For some reason, I push my shoulders back and my breasts forward and start to play with my hair. ‘I was just saying that we can—’

‘Jackson, I have to take this.’ Ethan pulls his phone out of his pocket, glances at the screen, and heads out of the office without a single word to me, Dave, or Ginger. I’m mortified, embarrassed, and annoyed. Suddenly, I remember why I do not like him. He is a jerk. I stand there and look at Dave for a few moments before looking over at Jackson.

‘I was just going to say that we can help you. We do most of the work in the office, anyway,’ I say to Jackson, who smiles at me in a way that tells me he’s being nice but not trying to get into my pants. I know it’s the glasses, the bun, and the fact that I have no makeup on, but still, it burns a bit. I’ve heard he’s a huge flirt, normally.

‘Oh, don’t mind Ethan.’ Jackson chuckles. ‘His mind is all over the place. He’s in a bad mood because an article has come out about him and now, he’ll be the focal point of every woman’s eyes for the next two months.’

‘Oh, the most eligible bachelor in New York article?’ I ask, silently chiding myself for admitting I know of its existence.

‘Yes.’ Jackson’s eyes are alight with glee. ‘He hates when newspapers and magazines feature him in this way, but I sure notice that he hasn’t given them my name and address so they can feature me instead.’ He cocks his head to the side and smirks slightly. ‘I don’t think I’d mind so much being bachelor of the year.’

‘I’m surprised they haven’t asked you,’ I say honestly. Jackson Pruitt is just as eligible of a bachelor as Ethan is, as he’s the heir to the Pruitt fortune. He’s old money, and sometimes there’s talk in the tabloids that he’s going to leave Rosser International and take over his family business, The Pruitt Company; however, the rumor at the office says that that’s unlikely to happen as there’s a reason that he doesn’t work there in the first place. Though, no one knows what that reason is.

‘Do you think I’m eligible?’ He winks at me and then tilts his head down and spins around. ‘Before you answer that and offend me, I must go…’ He looks back at me. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Sarah,’ I say breathlessly.

‘Nice to meet you, Sarah, in copywriting.’ He heads out of the office, and Dave, Ginger, and I stare at each other for a few moments before Dave starts singing ‘Moon River’ in a very off-key voice.

‘What was that all about then?’ Ginger asks, ignoring him and looking at me with narrow eyes. ‘You trying to reel yourself in a big fish?’

‘No.’ I roll my eyes at her and then take my glasses off to clean them on the hem of my shirt, which I know is a bad idea, but I always forget to bring my lens-cleaning cloth with me to work. ‘Why would you say that?’

‘You were all over Ethan.’ Dave stops singing, and there’s a slight sulk to his tone as he realizes that neither of us is paying attention to him. ‘I’ve never seen you smiling like a vulture before.’

‘What?’ I glare at him, annoyed. ‘I was not smiling at him like a vulture, plus, vultures don’t smile.’

‘Sure they do. And when Ethan wasn’t interested, you went for Jackson, who obviously wants to bed you,’ he says, and heads back to his desk before I can argue with him. I shake my head and try not to fume because the fact of the matter is, I had been smiling with all my might, but the great and mighty Ethan had not cared in the least.

I look down at the half-eaten ice cream tub on my lap and feel guilty for all of ten seconds. The chocolate fudge brownie ice cream certainly isn’t going to help me look like a cover model for Sports Illustrated, but at least it’s saving me therapy money. I lean back on my comfortable leather couch, pull my cream cashmere throw over my body, and reach for the remote control. Johnson, my mini golden doodle, jumps up and settles on my lap, his little nose twitching as he inches closer to the ice cream tub.

‘Nope.’ I tap him on the nose, moving the ice cream out of his reach. ‘You can’t eat this, Johnson.’ Johnson was named after Lyndon B. Johnson because he came into my life after reading his biography. I’m a bit of a history nerd. But I don’t tell many people that. Not when I already look like Harry Potter’s older sister. Being a nerd is only cute when you could also be a supermodel. No one cares if you’re just a regular nerd.

Johnson gives me a dissatisfied look, jumps off the couch, and heads toward his bed to do who knows what. I pick up my phone and call Isabel, who doesn’t prefer to go by Izzy, even though I’m trying to make it happen after being a latecomer to Grey’s Anatomy. She answers after one ring.

‘What are you up to, Sarah?’ she asks as if there is a possibility that I could be up to something amazing. Sadly, we both know that’s highly unlikely.

‘Oh, you know, just getting ready to head into a sex club with my dominatrix, Arnold.’ Johnson stares at me with judgmental eyes, and I avert my gaze. I will not let my dog make me feel like an idiot or a hoe. He, better than anyone, knows I’m not. I haven’t had a man back in the apartment in years.

‘Oh, you’ve gone back to the Austrian?’ she asks with a giggle, then pauses. ‘What happened to Ricky?’

‘Ricky, who?’ I wonder if there’s a Ricky I’ve forgotten about flirting with? It’s unlikely, but not impossible.

‘The hot Puerto Rican guy that was a world-famous singer—’

‘If you’re talking about Ricky Martin, it turns out he doesn’t want me. He’s gay.’

‘But she bangs…’ she interrupts her own sentence by bursting into laughter. I listen and shake my head. Isabel is much younger than me, but we get on like a house on fire. I think that’s because I am still young at heart. And when I say much younger, I mean more than five years, though it’s not anything either of us thinks about.

‘Have you heard from Ella?’ I ask, bringing up our other best friend. ‘Is she still in Paris?’

‘Nope, the lucky bitch is in London now,’ she says, and we both sigh in happy jealousy for her good luck. Ella is now dating her brother’s best friend, Colton, who is also her boss, and he has decided to take her to Paris for their first date. A place I have never been to but want to go to so badly. I can picture myself eating croissants while flirting with a hot French man or two.

‘Wow, when is she back?’ I ask, not because I envy her dating a billionaire but because I miss her and our weekly girls’ nights.

‘I think she said she’s back next week unless Colton surprises her with another destination.’ Isabel half laughs, and I know she’s on the same page as I am. We’re happy for our friend, but we want love, as well. Frankly, I would settle for good sex. But I’m not going to advertise that fact. I know if I create a dating profile saying I’m looking for good sex, I’d have ten thousand applicants. And not because they were good in bed, no, but because men have super huge egos, and they all think they’ve made you have the best orgasm of your life, even if you barely even felt them inside of you.

‘Awesome. She’s living her best life,’ I say and then let out a deep sigh. I am not living my best life whatsoever. ‘You wanna go for a drink tonight?’

‘Don’t you have work tomorrow?’

‘Yeah, and what is your point?’ I retort without even an iota of guilt. My job sucks. My work as a junior copywriter in the marketing department of Rosser International means nothing. I am a peon in a conglomerate, and I hate my job. I don’t get to write cool copy for ads or anything. No, I write copy to send in press releases to market and sell the thousands of crappy products we sell. Not that I would say that out loud to anyone out of my small friend group.

No one else at the company feels the same way though. Everyone else drinks the Kool-Aid that Ethan Rosser, the CEO, is distributing. Not that he’s ever distributed any to me. I’m not important enough at the company for him to know I exist. Even though I have been in the same room as him twice, he hasn’t acknowledged me properly once. Today didn’t really count.

I cringe and die inside a little bit when I think back to earlier in the day when I tried to give him my best flirtatious smile. I do not want to remember that moment though. Even if Dave and Ginger won’t let me forget it.

It’s slightly embarrassing how hard I was staring the man down without even one flirtatious smile or admiring glance in response. And when I say slightly embarrassing, I mean a momentous amount of embarrassment. He most probably thought I was after him because of the article. The joke’s on him, though, because I also think the article is trash.

‘You want to get drunk on a work night? I mean, I’m down, but I’m just checking. I know you work in corporate.’

‘Not like I’m high up and it will matter if I’m slightly hungover tomorrow morning. No one around me cares.’ I laugh as I think about my little cubicle at work. I interact with my two workmates, Ginger, an early-sixties woman who loves to gossip, and Dave, a mid-forties man from Kentucky who originally moved to the city to be on Broadway. But it was obvious today that we’re just lowly peons to those at the top. ‘I’m a nobody at Rosser International. It’s not like you see me on the list of the most eligible New York City singles.’

‘Maybe not officially, but you are definitely one of the most eligible women in the city,’ Isabel says, and all I can do is laugh because I’m not sure that’s quite true. There’s nothing to make me an eligible woman other than being single. And certainly, nobody at work would look at me twice, seeing as I look like a dowdy librarian every day. But the reason why is a story for another day. ‘Don’t laugh,’ she continues. ‘You are wanted by so many men.’

‘In what dreamworld? Must be yours because it’s certainly not mine.’ It would be nice to be highly sought after though. I could get on board with hundreds of hot men chasing me down to date me. Actually, that’s not true. Hundreds of men sound fairly tiring. In reality, I could most probably handle three men wooing me at the same time. A couple of dinner dates a week and maybe one date dancing. I’m already exhausted just thinking about it.

‘Well, maybe tonight I can show you just how wrong you are.’

‘So, you’re up for going out?’ I ask hopefully, though I have no doubt what she will say.

‘Was that ever in question?’ Isabel says, and reminds me why she is one of my best friends. ‘So, where are we going?’

‘I have no idea.’ I think for a moment and put her on speakerphone. ‘Hold on, let me pull up my Insta account. I think Dave posted about some cool new bar he hit up last weekend. He was raving about it at work.’

‘Do we trust Dave’s taste?’ she asks skeptically, and I know she’s thinking about the time Dave took me dress shopping for a night out, and I ended up looking like a nurse from the 1940s. And not a cute one, either. Dowdy is the word that comes to mind.

‘He might not know women’s clothing styles well, but he does know bars,’ I respond, and scroll through my feed until I remember I can just go to his page and scroll through his posts. ‘He told me there were lots of hot guys there that night.’

‘Straight or gay?’ she hits back quickly. ‘I don’t care, but I want to know if there’s a possibility I am going to get my flirt on tonight or not?’

‘I don’t know that Sam is going to be there,’ I quip, and she groans.

‘Like I told you before, I do not have a crush on Sam Wynter.’ She is way too emphatic in her denial, but I decide to let it go. If she’s not ready to acknowledge that she’s in love with Ella’s brother, then who am I to force her?

‘The Owl and The Pussycat is the name of the bar,’ I exclaim, changing the subject. ‘It looks pretty cool, very trendy. I see a lot of Wall Street types in the background.’

‘We don’t do Wall Street types though.’

‘Right now, we’re not doing anyone, so I’m not too picky. Are you?’

‘Guess not.’ She giggles. ‘Meet you there in an hour?’

‘Perfect,’ I say, jumping off the couch and watching my forgotten ice cream tub fall to the ground, spilling melted ice cream everywhere. ‘That is why I should have just eaten the entire thing,’ I mumble as I hang up the phone and get some paper towels. I’m looking forward to going out and perhaps meeting and flirting with some guys.

I even imagine going home with one. I’m not normally the girl to go for a one-night stand, but Ella had attempted to have one and ended up with the love of her life. Perhaps something similar would happen to me. Though, I know that’s doubtful. I’m more likely to have a one-night stand with a homeless man, and then he’d never want to leave, and I’d have to feed another mouth until he finally stole all my money and left me and Johnson, heartbroken and hungry.