The Millionaire's Bet [BOOK ONE][#Wattys2015][#SYTYCW15][#CarinaPress]

part eleven

ALYSSA {mature content}

I checked myself in the mirror, for some weird reason I actually wanted to make a lasting impression on the guy, and I quickly accepted that I wasn't going to look any better than I did right now. I didn't even own any dresses, other than the ones which Robert had picked out for me to wear to work, and I mentally reminded myself that I was going to have to pay a visit to Undertone when I received my first paycheque because I had spotted some rather hot dresses while I was in there. And you never know when you're going to need a hot dress, so it pays to be prepared for all occasions.

A gentle knock on the door finally forced me out of the bedroom and away from the mirror. I glanced through the peephole to see Darren on the other side, wearing a chalk grey suit with the top buttons of his shirt casually undone, and he looked rather dashing from this side of the door so I couldn't help but wonder if I was going to be able to keep my hands to myself for the entire evening—it may not have been a date, but that didn't mean I wasn't allowed to have some fun and get something more out of it in the end.

"Well, hello there Mr Brent," I chuckled. I wasn't even ashamed of the fact that I was obviously checking him out because he looked extremely attractive in the suit he was wearing, which were two of my weaknesses when it came to the male population, an attractive male and a male in a suit.

"Hello to you too, Miss Lopez. You look beautiful this evening," he offered me his arm with a smile on his face, and I willingly took it as he guided me away from my apartment, and towards the flight of stairs.

"And you don't look too bad yourself," I teased with ease.

"I happen to find that offensive," he put his hand over his heart as he feigned hurt from the words I had used, "I took three full hours to perfect this look."

I glanced at him for a moment and his face was void of anything which would be able to tell me whether he was being serious or not, but there was something about the words he had used and the way in which he had said them, that told me he had never been more serious about anything in his life.

"I want to believe you're joking," I paused for a second as he took hold of my hand and helped me down the final flight of stairs, "but your face tells me that you're being serious right now."

"Oh. I am being deadly serious. Being this good looking doesn't just happen," Darren replied with a shrug and I literally didn't know what to say. I knew women who took as long as five hours to get ready for a night out, such as my own mother and sister, but the men I knew were ready in a matter of minutes, especially those like my father who didn't give a damn about his appearance and have never given a damn about what people thought about him.

My parents were, quite possibly, one of the most mismatched couples out there. My mother was beautiful, even though she was nearing sixty, she was still gorgeous and had the younger man fawning over her, though she was wholly devoted to my father so they wouldn't stand a chance with her. My father, on the other hand, was average at best, the years showed on his face with each wrinkle and on his head with each grey hair—he often joked that it was down to Rebecca and I that he looked older than he actually was and, if he had had a son rather than two daughters, he would still be as good looking as he was back in the days when he first dating my mother.

My mother did love to talk. You could be in a room with her for two hours and still not have the chance to say anything because, the moment you thought she had finished speaking, she would think of something else she needed to tell you and you would just have to sit there and listen to her blabber on about anything—usually stories of when she first met my father and their life together since the day they finally tied the knot, against the wishes of both their families. My father, though, had always been a man of very few words and, even when I was younger, he would rarely speak because he would prefer to communicate his love through actions rather than words.