The Billionaire Book Club

“Well, thanks,” he replies with a laugh and a stare. I flounder under the attention a little, but I somehow manage to keep it inside. When I raise an eyebrow at his less-than-subtle inspection, he smiles. “I might have to run my own case errands more often. And what did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.” And I’m definitely not going to.

He chuckles at that, but he doesn’t offer any other retort than a smirk and a wink as he pulls his wallet from his pocket and tosses a ten and a one on the counter. I take them and step to the side, ready to get his change, but he stops me with a gentle tap to the counter with his now-curled roll of case copies. “Don’t worry about it. Keep the change. And I look forward to seeing you again.”

Look forward to seeing me again? Um, no thank you, buddy. After this traumatic exchange, this will be the last time I ever agree to pick up one of Kevin’s shifts.

Sorry, Kev. But you’re going to have to find someone else to do your library dirty work.

But I can’t deny that I watch avidly as the far too handsome, nameless stranger heads for the front door without looking back.

His gait is smooth and his stride long, and the way his pants hug the muscled backs of his thighs and ass is seriously reminiscent of a statue.

I’d like to say that I turn away as he pushes open the door and that there isn’t a drop of drool at the corner of my mouth, but I’ve never been much of a liar.

Sergio and Catarina got my fantasies started today, but I have a real sneaking suspicion someone else—someone with eyes the color of brown sugar and dimples and a smart little smirk—will be finishing them.

But then, I’m going to forget all about him.

Cap

Errands officially run and work and Hell-ary’s margs with the girls out of my fucking head, I settle into poker night with the guys.

This, right here, is exactly what I needed.

Just the guys, smoking cigars, and playing poker.

Smoke swirls above the green felt of the table as Thatcher Kelly knocks the ashy end off his cigar, puts it back in his mouth, and deals a round of cards.

I catch them under my hand as he throws them, placing them one by one into the palm of my other hand and studying what luck has dealt me.

This hand gives me a queen, a king, and a trio of shitty other random cards, but in my actual life, it’s a whole lot of really good shit.

I’m a happy guy with a job he loves, friends he can count on, and more money than I’ll ever know what to do with.

I don’t have to worry about making the mortgage every month, I don’t have a sordid past with demons to conquer and wounds to heal, and I get more pussy than the SPCA.

There are occasionally stressful situations that come with being the top corporate lawyer for nearly every muckety-muck in the country, but I thrive off the pressure. It feeds my need for adrenaline and puts a nice layer of padding on an already swollen ego.

Which is, frankly, just how I like it.

Confidence keeps my life balanced. If I weren’t confident in my abilities at work, I’d be spending this time poring over files instead of enjoying a game of poker with my rarely available, pussy-whipped friends. But I know myself, I know my tenacity, I know my willingness to work an all-nighter, and most importantly, I know a little free time for pleasure does the business part of my mind a whole lot of good.

Kline Brooks, Thatcher Kelly, Wes Lancaster, Milo Ives, Trent Turner, and Harrison Hughes sit around the table in front of me, arranging their cards and smoking their cigars in comfortable silence. Quincy Black and Theo Cruz couldn’t make it tonight—something about a baby and a new hip nightclub respectively—but as I understand it, they have a standing invitation to poker night as well.

When the last card is dealt, Thatcher Kelly, a numbers genius, friend, fellow billionaire, and client of mine, places his cigar in an ashtray and shoves back in his chair to make his massive frame look even bigger. Frankly, I’m the only one in this group of guys who even comes close to his size, but I’m still not a giant like him. At six foot three and just over two hundred pounds, I’m leaner, but I can still pretty much guarantee I’m the stronger of the two of us.

“Welcome, motherfluffers…to the official Thatcher Kelly Poker Night, trademark.”

I roll my eyes at his theatrics, and trust me, I’m not the only one. Thatch has been trying to get a poker night going for our group for months, and now that it’s finally happening, I’m not even a little surprised he’s treating it like the first night of the Olympics. “What happens here, stays here, locked away from the women, the men, the children in your lives. This is a sacred table, a sacred ritual, a sacred game, and you will respect it.”