The Billionaire Book Club

It might seem like I give her a hard time, but for every ten times I’ve given Liz shit, she’s told me to “fuck off” a hundred. Literally.

No doubt, our boss-assistant relationship makes zero sense to anyone but us.

“Liz, you cannot have more time off. I’m already drowning with the imposter you left behind. I can’t take any more days like this. I might actually start to age.” I shiver. “I’d hate to think about what that’ll do for me socially.”

“See, this is what I like most about you. Worrying about me, the woman who keeps your life in order and just spent an entire day actually pushing a human out of her body, more than yourself. Thank you. Thank you for being so thoughtful and considerate. I’m really going to enjoy those extra three weeks of maternity leave.”

Three more weeks? On top of the already twelve weeks? Oh, fuck me.

“Look, if you really want to, we can talk about you and your maternity leave later,” I say. “I’ll even pretend to listen. I’m really good at it. But if you could just help me with my current assistant situation now, we’ll have plenty of time for all that later.”

“You know what?” she says, a grittiness in her voice I’m not entirely unfamiliar with. “I called the temp agency. They’re sending you someone else tomorrow.”

“You did?” I say. “Well, Jesus, Liz. You should have just said that in the first place. Then we wouldn’t have had to waste the last five minutes talking about you.”

The Suburban pulls up at the curb in front of my office, and I climb out without waiting for Vin. He won’t be offended. He’s used to how I operate.

“You’re right.”

“Of course I am, Liz. This is me we’re talking about here.”

“Is that it, then?” she asks. “Can I now go back to caring for the brand-new human I just pushed out of my vagina?”

“Yep. Congrats, again. And be sure to send your vagina my condolences.”

“Fuck off.”

“Love you too, Liz.”

“I’m officially hanging up now, asshat. Have a good day tomorrow.”

I hit end on the call with a smile. Now that my assistant situation is fixed, there’s no doubt I will.

Through the lobby, up the elevator, and past an empty assistant desk, I step inside my office, take off my jacket, and settle into my desk chair.

I pull up the Porvost account and start scrolling through the particulars. I’ve been at it for nearly an hour, only taking one short break to reach out to an old contact, when a text message pops up on my phone. It’s from a woman named Yvette, whom I spent a week with about a year ago.

Yvette: Dinner Sunday? I need your cock.

I nearly laugh, but my dick stirs in my pants before I get the chance. This. This is what I love about being a single guy with no obligations. Pussy calls, and I get to answer. It doesn’t matter that Yvette wasn’t on my radar five minutes ago. Now she is, and I’m free to do what I like.

Me: Sure, honey. But how about we skip dinner and go straight to fucking?

Yvette: Just tell me when and where.

I smile to myself and begin to type out another message when Hell-ary knocks on my door and peeks her head in. I’d assumed she’d gone home for the day, but apparently, I was wrong. “You have a call.”

I raise an eyebrow, but she doesn’t take the hint. I suppose some people don’t respond to anything other than verbal direction. There is a silver lining, though. At least I’ll be rid of her tomorrow.

“Right. Who is it?”

Her eyes widen, and then she shrugs. “I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t ask…”

Jesus Christ, unable to run errands and doesn’t take names of callers. Maybe I need to swallow some sort of medication to knock me out until tomorrow. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll figure it out.”

Quickly, I type out another message to Yvette.

Me: I’ll let you know.

I toss my cell down and scan my desk phone for a line with a light on it. When I find the call, I pick up the phone and put it to my ear.

“Caplin Hawkins,” I greet.

“Caplin!” the voice says, clearly excited to be talking to me. Obviously, that doesn’t shrink down the pool of potential callers at all. I’m a delight.

“That’s me. Who’s this?”

“Oh, oh, right. It’s your old law professor, Dr. Hullum. My assistant said you called.”

God bless the loopholes and still being able to contact the man who is known for being one of the hardest third-year law professors at NYU.

Visuals of the blond goddess from the library flash through my mind, and I grin.

“Professor Hullum! It’s good to talk to you.”

“You too, Caplin. You too. In the interest of being candid, I was shocked to hear from you. Thrilled, but shocked. It seems like all I do is read articles about your accomplishments these days.”