The Billionaires: The Bosses (Lover's Triangle 2)

“God, I adore that about you.” He swooped in to steal yet another kiss, catching Bayli by surprise. “Sexy and smart. Trust me, audiences are going to love you. Fuck.” He whistled under his breath before whirling around and heading toward the door with a purposeful gait. “Rory and I need to hash out this new platform immediately. I want you in front of a test audience as soon as possible. I’ll contact your agent first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I’m with the—”

“Polenski Agency.” He tossed her a sly look over his shoulder. “That was what my business with Jackson Rutherford was last night when I was still at the party while everyone else was departing. I already knew I

had to see you again. Yet there you were, waiting for your driver—and perfect timing for me.”

She sighed. “Christian, I wasn’t waiting for a driver. I was waiting for a cab. Plain and simple. Nothing fancy, not even an executive town car.”

He pulled up short of the door and turned back to her. “Bayli. Sweetheart. That doesn’t matter. Whether you were waiting for a cab or a helicopter, it doesn’t change the fact that you are sensational. And soon the whole goddamn world is going to see what I see when they look at you. Because they actually will get a chance to look at you. No more hiding out in the stacks at the library. You’re going to be a celebrity. I’m going to make sure of it.”

His brows wagged enthusiastically, making her giggle. Then he ducked out the door. Bayli stared at the empty space where he’d just stood, finding it next to impossible to believe that not only had Christian Davila spent the night in her apartment, but he also was bound and determined to give her the big break she was desperate for.

She felt guilty for having doubted him. But nothing ever came easily for Bayli.

It took a good five minutes of trying to school her breathing and slow the quivering of her body before she slipped from the bed and locked up. Then she returned to the warmth and comfort of her thick bedcovers, pulling them up to her ears. She couldn’t contain her ridiculous smile, so she didn’t even try.

It was a long shot to hang her hopes and dreams on something of this nature. Not just the TV show that could flop, like their first iteration evidently had. This time, however, it could very well be Bayli’s fault if the program didn’t make the grade. But beyond that, there was the crystal-clear reality that she’d just slept with a man who’d be her boss.

Bayli would have to accept the fact that she’d been seduced by the casting director. Willingly seduced.

Like her crummy apartment, she wouldn’t be sharing that tidbit with social media or in Vanity Fair.

But Bayli would always know it.

So would her guardian angel, her mother.

Bayli inhaled deeply. Gave herself another mental pep talk.

It’s the twenty-first century, Bay. In this day and age, I’m sure it’s perfectly acceptable to fuck your boss.

Right?

Bayli sighed. How the hell would she know?

She closed her eyes and tried hard not to fantasize about working so closely with both Christian and Rory. Tried not to conjure delusions of what this project might actually be like. Again, she was wary of getting her hopes up. But it was damn difficult not to build the fairy tale in her mind.

Luckily, she was still a bit exhausted from the night before and all the unexpected twists and turns. And was out minutes later.

* * *

The main-door buzzer woke Bayli around nine. She grumbled as she scooped up her discarded clothes and quickly dressed. Then pressed the button on the intercom, suspecting it was a wrong number.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Breakfast delivery for Miss Styles.”

She frowned. “I didn’t order breakfast.” She couldn’t afford a delivery fee and a tip! She always grabbed a bagel at the shop on the corner if she was out of them in her own kitchen.

“Compliments of Mr. Davila. May I bring it up?”

Bayli was taken aback. She hadn’t anticipated this. But who was she to turn down breakfast from Christian? “Sure.” She buzzed in the deliveryman.

Except that when she opened her door for him, it wasn’t a mere deliveryman standing before her. It was a fully uniformed Davila’s NYC waiter. He swept in with a flourish, the way Pierre LaVallier would have done, and went straight to her tiny counter space, where he set down the box he’d carried in his arms. Then he began unpacking stuff. A lot of stuff.

His head inclined to the round glass table that sat two in the far corner of her studio. “Would you like it over there?”

“Sure.” This said a bit more tentatively.