The Billionaire's BBW Secret Read online

  The Billionaire's BBW Secret

  Mallorie Griffin

  Amazon Edition

  Copyright 2013 Mallorie Griffin

  Check out other works by Mallorie Griffin

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  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  “Ugh, damned hair,” Denny scowled and dragged a shiny black comb through her rat's nest of mousy brown hair. Her scowl deepened at that thought. Rat's nest... mousy brown... why did she have to think of rodents right now?

  No matter. She whipped the comb through, again and again, hoping to achieve some semblance of order in her fine locks. She'd never really like her hair. It was middle length and straight, but not thick. It was fine as a baby's, and easy to break. She had to be careful, or else she could very well make her hair even thinner than it already was.

  Her hair was the only part of her body that could aptly be described as 'thin', of course. Every other part of her was thick, and not in a good way, she was certain. It must have been why her husband of seven years left her.

  It wasn't only that. It was that damned floozy he'd ran off with. Apparently they'd been sleeping together for over a year, and the bitch finally convinced him to pull up his roots and leave Denny.

  She didn't even know the woman's name. She only saw her once, standing smugly by Rob as he handed her the divorce papers, then packed everything out of their apartment and left. He took everything. The TV, the bed, the furniture.

  And her heart.

  Of course, that was a ridiculous romantic's way of looking at things. Denny knew their marriage had its issues. She knew it wasn't perfect. But she didn't think it was that bad.

  She didn't want to be reminded of Rob anymore, and that apartment was nothing but a dismal reminder of her failed marriage and her failed life. So she pulled up her own roots, took her meager savings, and moved on as well. At least she hoped to move on.

  She hadn't even found a job yet.

  Which brought her to the combed hair? What she was going after was a long shot of a job – a personal assistant for someone – but she thought she could do it. After all, she'd been personal assistant to Rob for nine long years, including the time they'd lived to together but not in holy matrimony, and she was quite good at babysitting an adult.

  But she wasn't stupid. She knew personal assistants were generally young. And pretty. She was neither. She was frumpy and fat, and middle age loomed on the horizon. She was only thirty, and she already felt that the best parts of her life lay behind her, not ahead.

  Ma'am. That was what the young boy at the grocery store called her yesterday. Ma'am. It wasn't the first time she'd been called that, she was certain, but it was the first time she remembered it so clearly. She wasn't a miss anymore; she was a dowdy old matron. Perhaps she should give up on this interview, and just go find a school to be a teacher at, or a hospital to be a nurse.

  She cursed and yanked her hair back into a severe bun. If she couldn't be young and sexy, at least she could look put-together and organized. Perhaps whoever was doing the hiring was actually looking for an assistant, not eye candy.

  Denny sighed, and then got to work on her makeup. She shouldn't be so pessimistic and she knew it, but it was difficult to be anything but after the last year she had to endure. She lost her husband, she lost her job in the process of moving as far away from him as she could, and she just lost everything. She needed something to pick her up and get her life back on track, and she could only hope that it was this job.

  There. Hair done, makeup done, interview outfit applied, and she was ready to go. At least, she looked ready. She certainly didn't feel ready.

  Turning the light off, she stepped out of the shabby bathroom and into the equally shabby apartment. It was all she could afford at the moment, but there no hiding the fading, peeling wallpaper from the seventies, or the carpets that had suffered through years of abuse at the hands of toddlers and the paws of unruly cats and dogs. The radiator in the corner rattled and spat just then, adding to the ambiance of the place.

  Denny needed to get out of this hell hole.

  And get out she would. She stood up straight, squared her shoulders, and picked up her leather satchel that contained everything she needed for the interview. She needed to stop having her pity party and get out there. First step, get this job. Second step, save enough money to get into a better place. Third step, put the rest of her life back together.

  One step at a time.

  She made her way out the apartment complex. The dim, narrow hallway smelled vaguely unpleasant, like vomit and piss and just enough chemicals to accentuate the former odors, not cover them up. She hated this place. She had to get out of here.

  Walking quickly, she hurried down the stairs and out into the relatively fresh air. It really wasn't terribly fresh. It smelled of exhaust fumes and burnt cat food. There was some sort of processing plant upwind of the complex, and apparently they processed burnt cat food. That Denny's only guess at least.

  “Ey, Miss Denny!” She turned and looked at the man who was approaching her, and cracked a half-smile. Everyone called the guy crazy Ray, and he was crazy, not to mention homeless. But he was a nice enough sort, and he made sure to learn everyone's name. It was a sneaky, underhanded way to worm himself into other peoples' hearts, but Denny couldn't blame him.

  “Hey Ray,” she said back, digging into the pocket of her black wool skirt for a quarter. She always made sure to carry loose change for Ray. It's not that she didn't want to give him more than fifty cents at a time; it was just that she couldn't afford it.

  “How's it going?” he asked as Denny slipped the shiny silver coin into his palm. It was almost an unspoken rule that one slipped Ray money as they talked to him. Everyone did it, so he came to expect it.

  “I'm on my way to an interview,” Denny smiled, trying to look attractive. She may as well start practicing on someone, and Ray was as good as anyone else out there.

  “That's fantastic,” he said in his familiar Southern drawl. “You go and let me know if you get that job.”

  Denny nodded. “I will, I certainly will.” He grasped her hand in his, and the skin felt warm, cracked, and leathery, how she imagined a rhino's skin might felt. He was so old. “But I have to get going now.”

  “Of course, of course.” He nodded and pocketed the quarter in one fluid motion, and Denny hoped that one day she'd be able to give him more than that pittance.

  For now, she had to get going.

  She hurried along the busy sidewalk of the bustling city. This was New York after all, and it was never slow in New York. The day was a rather dismal one, dirty and gray with a late fall rain threatening. Denny pulled the collar of her well-worn coat higher. At least it wasn't threatening snow. It wasn't cold enough for that yet.

  The wind blew, tousling her hair as she made for the subway. This particular station was the closest one to her but it smelled like urine. She didn't much care for it but going to another station meant walking another several blocks, and that took time she just didn't have today.

  She wrinkled her nose as she descended the dingy tiled steps. A blast of warm air blew up into her face, filling her nose with the familiar, unwelcome scent. No help for it. She descended the steps, her eyes adjusting to the dim light.

  Subway stations al
ways felt more than a little cave-like to Denny. If she closed her eyes on a quiet night in one, if all she could hear was water dripping, she could almost believe that she was in one.

  Right now, that little fantasy was impossible. It was just after rush hour and there were still many, many people scurrying to and fro. And she was about to become one of those people.

  Approaching a kiosk, she slid her subway card through, and made her way to a train. She slipped a hand into her pocket and pulled out the piece of paper holding the address. She'd double-checked the location on Google maps before she left so she knew the way. But holding the paper gave her the tiny confidence boost she needed. She was going to do this. Even if she didn't get this job, she would get a different one.

  Denny didn't much like riding the subway, as the seats on the trains were far too small, but she didn't have much of an option. Keeping a car in New York City was prohibitively expensive after all. So she made due, as she always did. The situation wasn't ideal but it was a livable one.

  When the train arrived with a loud squeal and a stench of acrid smoke, the doors opened. People poured out of them, and then Denny wedged herself in with the other passengers. She was certain some were shooting glares at her. How dare she take up more space than what was allotted, she was sure they were thinking. How dare she be fat?

  She didn't care. She just wanted to sit down. She was a bundle of nerves at the moment and her legs felt like they were going to kick themselves straight out from under her.

  Luckily, she found a seat in the back of the train, and squeezed into it before anyone else could.

  Then the train set off.

  Denny tried not to look at anyone. It was best not to make eye contact on the sub. Instead, she pulled out her phone and loaded up a simple game to pass the time.

  Before long, the operator called out the station she needed on the tinny speaker, barely audible through the static and fuzz.

  One switched train and a ten minute walk later, and Denny found herself in front of the imposing building where her interview was. She swallowed, and another cool breeze knocked some more of her hair askew.

  Then she made for the building.

  Inside, it was spacious, and on the high end of luxurious. The floor was a sea of highly polished, slick white marble, and there were matching marble columns to boot. Corinthian columns, she noted idly as her sensible flats plodded along on the floor. There were ferns everywhere; it was as if whoever did the interior decorating for this building wanted to give the impression of a jungle. It didn't exactly work. Denny was still fully aware that she was in the middle of New York.

  She glanced about, feeling woefully out of place. More people of all ages ran about in business suits, including the women. She felt extremely under-dressed in comparison, but there was no help for it. She certainly couldn't go home and change even if she had something more appropriate to change into.

  Instead she took a deep breath, steeled herself, and made for what looked like the receptionist desk.

  A very bored, very pretty woman was sitting there, staring at a computer monitor. She ignored Denny, even after she coughed, forcing the other woman to speak.

  “Excuse me?” Denny said just loud enough for the receptionist to hear. The woman rolled her eyes and tossed her perfectly coiffed brunette curls, then not-quite-glared at Denny. She flushed. She couldn't help it. She knew what the woman was thinking.

  What was this fat slob doing here?

  “Can you direct me to-” she pulled out the paper, fumbling with it. “Office 14014?”

  “Yes, just-” the woman was cut off as the phone by her rang. She immediately picked it up. It was as if she wanted to avoid conversation with Denny, and the phone conveniently rang just then. “Hello, Larson tower,” she said, staring intently at the computer screen. “Mmhm. No, no, not busy at all, sir. Yes, in fact she just arrived. All right. Yes.” As she spoke, she waved Denny toward an elevator. It seemed more like she was shooing her away than directing her. Denny shook her head in disbelief at the way she was being treated, but rather than make a scene she ignored it and headed for the elevator.

  Or elevators, rather. There was a bank of eight impressive looking lifts for this massive building, all shiny gold metallic extravagances. One pinged opened as she made her way over, but she didn't rush. She didn't want to possibly trip or make more of a scene than she already had.

  Thankfully, someone was courteous enough to hold the door for her. Denny picked up her pace slightly, shuffling along the smooth floor.

  “Thanks,” she said when she reached the open door, sliding her way past the proffered arm and into the cramped capsule of an elevator. Denny never liked elevators. She was always afraid they would break, and that it would somehow be her fault.

  “No problem,” the man said. He was attractive, or at least the glimpse Denny got of him was attractive, with short, unruly blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. “What floor are you headed for?”

  “Fourteen,” she said.

  “Same as mine,” he commented. Denny continued to stare at the floor. She couldn't stare at the walls – they were shiny mirror-like silver, and she didn't want to be confronted with her dumpy figure and round face. Her self-confidence was teetering at the brink as it was. She was one look in a mirror away from running right back to her apartment at the moment.

  The elevator whirred and dinged with each passing floor before opening to a less grand surrounding than the lobby. The floors here were still marble, but these were hallways, not the wide open space that the first floor had been.

  Denny stepped out of the elevator and stared at the office directory. She still had no idea where to go.

  “Do you need any help?”

  Denny jumped when she heard the man's voice again. She'd assumed that he'd gone his own way behind her, but he was lurking just a few paces away at her elbow.

  “S-sorry,” she said, stammering and flushing slightly. She cursed herself; why did she have to be thrown off so easily? “I was looking for office 14014.”

  “Oh?” The strange man raised a thick brown eyebrow. “It's right over here.” He touched her arm, and led her down the hall. Fluorescent lights flickered as they walked together, and Denny felt her flush deepen. She couldn't even find an office on her own. How useless could she get?

  It wasn't too far down, only a few twisting hallways away. The man opened the door for Denny, and followed her in. She blinked. He didn't have to go quite as far as this.

  “Um, thank you,” she said, turning around. “I can find my way from here, I'm sure. I'm already in the office I'm looking for, after all.” She laughed awkwardly.

  The man joined her in her laugh, his sounding far more natural. “What a coincidence, so am I.”

  Denny's eyes grew round. “Are you...?” she asked, her voice growing thin and then trailing off.

  “Brandon Larson, at your service,” the man said. Denny's eyes grew even rounder. Larson was a playboy billionaire, one of the wealthiest men in the country, and he made news headlines for more than just that. He was constantly doing dare-devil stunts and shocking the public.

  This was the man who was supposed to be interviewing her? This was who the personal assistant job was for?

  “G-good morning sir,” Denny said, cursing her stammering voice once more.

  “Yes, yes,” Larson said in a businesslike manner, striding past Denny now and into the office proper. They were in a front room, and an opulent one at that. Another nameless receptionist sat there, another rail-thin woman who glared at Denny as she scurried past, following Larson.

  What could he possibly want with her? This must be some sort of mistake.

  She followed Larson into his own office.

  “Shut the door,” he instructed, and Denny gripped the gold knob of the heavy maple door, her palm slick with nervous sweat.

  “I'm here for the personal assistant job,” she said as she pushed the door shut, hoping that there had been some sort of mista
ke. Perhaps Larson had mistaken her for someone else? Perhaps she was in the wrong office, and the job was for someone much less... public.

  “Of course, I know what you're here,” Larson said in a short, clipped tone. “I put the ad up myself after all. Or at least, I had Lola out there do it.” He slipped around behind the vast mahogany desk, and slid into the leather office chair. “Do have a seat.” He gestured at the smaller leather wrapped chair on the other side of the desk.

  Denny blinked, swallowed, and then obeyed. Clutching her satchel close to her, trying to hide her weight, she wedged herself into the chair. It was just a touch too small for her.

  She wanted to groan. She wanted to jump up and just flee the room. Why, why had she done this? Why had she even thought she could do this?

  She took another deep breath, and braced herself. Whatever the outcome, this would be good interview experience. She was unlikely to get the job anyways.

  It was strange, but that knowledge seemed to help her. Knowing there was nothing at stake eased her nervousness, at least a little bit. She took another breath and Larson began.

  “So, you want the job as my personal assistant,” he stated, shuffling through papers on his desk. “Ah, here we are.” He pulled out a stapled bundle of paper, presumably her resume, and began leafing through it. “Denise Richardson, is it?”

  “Yes,” Denny said. She didn't much care for her first name, and preferred Denny, but she wasn't about to correct him.

  “Interesting resume.”

  Denny flushed. She knew she listed some things that weren't exactly standard – caring for Rob, namely – but she had to pad it somehow. “I have a fair amount of experience with this kind of work,” she said.

  “I can see that, but I'm a little different from most men.” He looked up at her as he spoke, and his white teeth flashed in the light. His eyes didn't just sparkle now. They blazed, and Denny battled to keep his gaze, despite her rising flush.

  He won, of course. She looked down at her satchel after a few moments. She felt a shiver run through her body, and not just from his eyes. He really was an attractive man, with his blue eyes and that sandy hair, and a masculine squared chin, a strong nose...