Courtney Milan - Trade Me

The Cyclone Series, Book 1

Courtney Milan

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Tina Chen just wants a degree and a job, so her parents never have to worry about making rent again. She has no time for Blake Reynolds, the sexy billionaire who stands to inherit Cyclone Technology. But when he makes an off-hand comment about what it means to be poor, she loses her cool and tells him he couldnt last a month living her life.

To her shock, Blake offers her a trade: Shell get his income, his house, his car. In exchange, hell work her hours and send money home to her family. No expectations; no future obligations. But before long, theyre trading not just lives, but secrets, kisses, and heated nights together. No expectations might break Tinas heartbut Blakes secrets could ruin her life.

The Cyclone Series

Book 1: Trade Me Tina & Blakes book

Book 2: Hold Me Maria & Jays book

Book 3: Find Me more about Tina, Blake, Adamand someone else.

Note: This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, companies, or products is purely coincidental.

For CW, CJ, and MT

I would say why Im dedicating this book to you.

But theres an old Russian proverb:

One never speaks of rope in the house of the condemned

TINA

Today is going to be a good day.

There is little outward evidence of this. Ragged, gray clouds skittered in overhead during my morning bus ride. By the time I got to my stop a few blocks from the edge of campus, rain was coming down in earnest. Now, passing cars send up a fine spray of droplets. The umbrella in my backpack gave up the ghost as soon as I pulled it out, and I havent had a chance to duct tape the fabric to the spines yet, because Im about fourteen minutes away from a class that starts in eleven minutes and twenty-nine seconds.

Today hasnt started particularly well, and my schedule only forecasts worse. I have five hours of work this afternoon and several projects due in the next two days. Before I can tackle any of that, theres the pesky issue of three hours of morning classes. Ill be lucky to sleep before midnight.

But counterbalancing that undoubtedly depressing list is one bright beacon: Im wearing my favorite sweater.

I know. It doesnt sound like much. But here are the facts: My favorite sweater is white cashmere. Its soft and warm. I found it in a Salvation Army in Alhambra when I was buying clothes for college two and a half years ago, tagged with the ridiculously low price of $3.79 even though it looked like it had never been worn.

I argued with myselfand my momabout buying it for twenty minutes. On the one hand, it was a mint-condition cashmere sweater for under five bucks. On the other hand, it was cashmere. And white.

And thats why Im positive that today will be a good day. Twenty-nine months after that purchase, I still have that sweater and its still unstained. And let me tell you, Tina Chen is not usually that graceful on her own. Thats two and a half years of no dropped coffee cups or sliding spaghetti strands. Its twenty-nine months of no toner spills at work, of nobody bumping into me holding a slice of pizza at the wrong time.

My life usually feels like a living illustration of Murphys Law. But when I wear my favorite sweater, somehow everything that can go wrong magically doesnt.

So yes, today is going to be a good day. Im not generally a superstitious person, but I dont have to imagine my luck aligning. The rain slows and the clouds begin to thin as I make my way to the forested edge of campus. The pedestrian signal magically changes at the exact moment I come to the intersection. The campus bell tower is playing an arrangement of Take Me to the River, and even though Im breathing fast by the time I make it to Dwinelle, where my class is, Ive made up for lost time. All I have to do is cross one last expanse of wet asphalt and painted white lines.

The lot is filled with gleaming-wet cars, and I pick my way through it, navigating around dirty puddles of rainbow-hued water. I check my watch one last time. Three minutes to go. One minute to get to the building, two to dash up the stairs. Im going to make it.

One minute, Im stepping out from between two cars, looking at my wrist. The next, a silent blur of glistening black engineering going way too fast for a parking lot cuts by. The car sweeps beside me and muddy, oily water sheets up in a wave. I dont have time to move away. I barely even have time to turn my head. Water flies everywhere, drenching me.

The wind picks upor maybe I only feel its chilled fingers against my arm because Im wet through. I wipe my face, glaring at the car ahead of me. It takes me a moment standing frozen in the parking lot to understand what just happened. Im cold. Im wet. And that means

I look down, and its not just my arm that feels cold. The whole world seems to turn to ice around me, shivering and shaking.

My sweater.

That asshole just splashed muddy water all over my sweater. Dark flecks mark the once-bright white sleeve.

For a moment, I cant even believe it. Its not possible.

Oh, trust me. This kind of thing happens all the time. But its not supposed to happen to my sweater.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

I glare at the car. It turns smoothly and pulls into a space marked with a sign proclaiming that the spot is reserved for visitors of the Chancellors Office. Whoevers inside, whoever is driving, is already off limits. My fists clench, but what am I supposed to do? Yell at some visiting official?

Then the car door opens and the driver gets out. Hes tall and thin with sandy-blond hair. He reaches back into the car for a messenger bag and then slams the door.

Hes not the Chancellor. Hes not even a visitor to the Chancellors office. And I dont need to be psychic to know that, because I recognize this driver. For one, hes in my next class.

For another, hes Blake Reynolds. Yes, the Blake Reynoldshe of the adorable childhood commercials, of Cyclone Systems fame.

Up until now, I have had nothing against Blake Reynolds. He sits one aisle over in class. Our discussion section started two weeks ago, and during that time weve made eye contact once or twice during class. He has a nice smile.

When Im eighty, and I dont care about the truth anymore, Ill tell all the kids who will listen that yes, I knew Blake Reynolds, and you know, he kind of had a thing for me. You should have seen me back then. I was so cute!

But Im twenty now and I dont have the luxury of lying to myself. And so right now, watching him stride across the parking lot, the memory of his smile turns my stomach. Blakes smile is like a lottery ticket: Its the smile that a thousand people will use to construct impossible dreams. In reality, its as indifferent as the weather. Good fortune; bad fortune. It doesnt matter. Hes never really noticed Im there.

I have nothing against Blake Reynolds, except that he nearly ran me over. Except that every time hes smiled at me, Ive felt a little tickle of something in the pit of my stomach, and I dont have time for something, let alone harboring that something for Blake Reynolds. I have nothing against Blake, even though hes apparently been told he can park in the Chancellors spot, for Gods sake. I have nothing against the fact that the Graduate Student Instructor who leads our section practically fawns over him, hanging on every word he says as if it were chiseled on stone tablets.