Dreaming of the Billionaire by Alice Bright Page A

my makeup and smile at myself in the mirror. My black-and-blue streaked hair reveals that I’m not as much of a lady as I’m pretending to be, but I don’t mind.
     
    I don’t think most people do, either.
     
    While my boss isn’t entirely pleased with my choice of hair color, he lets it go because I’m good at what I do. I’d venture to say I’m the best in town, but it’s a small town, so that’s not really a brag as much as it is a sad reality.
     
    I finish scoping myself out in the mirror and head back to my office to count down the minutes until lunch. Tim knocks on my door and peeks in, smiling his approval of my choice of dress.
     
    “I’m heading upstairs with Nathan,” he tells me. “See you in a few minutes.”
     
    “I’ll be there as soon as I finish this up,” I nod toward my computer, where I have a spreadsheet open.
     
    “Don’t be too long.”
     
    And then he’s gone.
     
    With a sigh, I glance back at my stack of paperwork. There’s a lot to do today. I’m looking forward to the luncheon simply because it’s a catered meal and means I don’t have to eat instant ramen in the break room again.
     
    What I’m not looking forward to is the fact that I have to smile and meet people and suck up to the donors during the luncheon instead of doing what I was hired to do: design websites.

2.
     
    The president of the college speaks about the importance of our college’s donors. He shares how much of an impact their financial contributions make at Southvale. One of the football players gives a small speech, as does one of the honor students.
     
    I sit and watch, trying to pay attention to the routine, but it all seems trite and superficial.
     
    I should be grateful, I realize. It’s because of our campus donors that the college has the means to do things like hire a webmaster and improve the tech on campus. I don’t feel that way, though. I feel like the routine of sucking up to people I don’t even know means I’m not at my desk, which is where I should be.
     
    I bite into my sandwich.
     
    It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
     
    I try not to stare at the people surrounding me. I recognize most of the faces. Nearly all of the staff and faculty members are present, along with some of the most popular and best-loved students. Then there are the donors, the ones we’re honoring today, who are all sitting up front.
     
    They all look just as bored as I feel.
     
    I finish my sandwich while a couple of choir members start to sing a song and quietly excuse myself from the table. I grab a cookie from the dessert table and slip out into the hallway as quietly as I can. Once I’m alone, I heave a sigh of relief.
     
    “Not having fun?” A voice startles me. I almost drop my cookie.
     
    I look up and see one of the donors standing there, smiling at me.
     
    Shit.
     
    “Oh, it’s not that, I just…” I look at my cookie. I’m obviously caught red-handed. “I just wanted some fresh air.” I finally blurt out, trying not to notice how tall, dark, and handsome he seems to be, unlike the rest of the donors who are mostly old, old, and older.
     
    He laughs heartily at my obvious lie and smiles. “It’s okay, these luncheons aren’t really my thing, either. I’m just here because my dad couldn’t make it.”
     
    He holds out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Sean Moormead,” he tells me.
     
    I don't hesitate before grabbing his perfectly manicured hand. My own fingernails are littered with peeling black polish and silver stars I pained less than a week ago. I don't bother feeling embarrassed about them, especially not compared to this guy. He's probably never even cut his own nails, let alone tried to pain them.
     
    “Violet Nielson," I tell him with a firm shake and a bright smile. I can't help but wondering what this guy's story is. Sure, he's a donor, but that doesn't say much. Is he a single donor? Is he a super-married donor? Is he someone who is looking for a