The Billionaire Book Club

I smile. All in all, things are starting to shape up. I’m sure Liz will do a better job selecting someone this time, and my hire will pick up the slack.

Not to mention, keep me entertained.

Ruby is more than just easy on the eyes. She’s smart, sarcastic as hell, and I’m finding that I actually enjoy her company.

Plus, I haven’t had a real chase in a while, and I’m surprised to find I miss it. Women throwing themselves at me is great, but it feels nice to have to dust off some old skills a little bit.

The anticipation is likely to make the fucking that much better, too.

Thoughts of Ruby make me think of my promises to Ruby, namely talking to her professors.

Once I sit down at my desk, I type out a quick email to Hullum, Shank, Koontz, and Marisol—all of Ruby’s current professors—and let them know she’s my new intern. I also assure them that whatever lectures she misses, I’ll review with her personally.

All four of her professors were my third-year professors and, once I graduated from law school, have become esteemed colleagues. They’ll trust my judgment on this, I’m certain. Plus, it’s not completely unheard of to focus your third year of law on practical credit, and I’m nothing if not the most practical credit of all.

And I’d really prefer Ruby have very little to focus on other than me.

After I hit send on the email, I take out a pen and a pad and get to work poring over the files I got from my fourth fucking visit to the law library yesterday. There are a couple statutes on the tax penalties Hugh Gorman is facing but not much documentation of a defense ever successfully using them.

If I’m going to make a case for a deferred sentence in lieu of a penalty payment, I’m going to have to find a basis.

Head down and focused, I make my way through half the file by the time seven rolls around.

The cleaning staff comes through and empties my trash cans, but I don’t pay much attention, and neither do they. They’re pretty used to working around me at this point, as I don’t keep what most would consider normal hours in the slightest.

When the clock on my desk chimes to announce the eight o’clock hour, I get up to pour another cup of coffee and look out the window.

Unfortunately, the absolute first thing I spot down on the sidewalk is Hillary making her way into the building.

What the fuck?

I speed walk back to my desk, grab the phone off the hook, and dial Liz’s number. After three quick rings, it rolls straight to voice mail.

I slam the receiver down on the base and pick up my cell phone instead. If she’s too relaxed to answer my call, I’ll use some texts to tense her up.

Me: What the hell, Liz? I thought you said you got someone new?

When she doesn’t respond immediately, I send several more messages, demon-style.

Me: HELLO. Liz, someone has to answer for this. I know you’re busy staring at your new cherub, but I’m not going to stop until you take responsibility.

Me: This is the work of Satan, Liz. Siccing this woman on me again. After the way I’ve treated you, too.

Me: Hey, you know what, maybe I’ll just send her on an errand to your house. Tell her to show up and ring the doorbell repeatedly, make a fucking remix with it. Seems like a simple enough task, even for her…

Me: Probably really good in a house with a newborn, too. Hell, maybe Hell-ary can kill two birds with one stone and post selfies of her and your little bambino on her Instagram. A cute baby beside a pair of fake tits and overly glossed lips probably brings in killer likes and comments…

Eventually, my annoy-her-until-she-responds plan works.

Liz: FINE. GOD, I HATE YOU.

I grin and type out a response.

Me: That’s a really strange way to say you love me, Liz. Really strange. I’ll log it for further study at a later date. But for right now, why don’t you just answer my question—what the fuck?

This time, she does me the courtesy of answering immediately.

Liz: You were being an asshole. I lied. I didn’t call the temp agency.

Me: WHY THE HELL NOT?

Liz: Because I’m on maternity leave! Call them yourself if you’re that miserable.

Wait…what?

Me: I can just call them?

Liz: Jesus.

Me: Fine. Whatever. I found someone else on my own anyway.

Liz: Let me guess…pretty, young, perky breasts.

Me: What’s your point, Liz? She just so happens to be really smart.

Liz: Right.

Her snap judgment of Ruby kind of fucking irks me.

I mean, I might have some ulterior motives of my own when it comes to her, but goddamn, she’s not just a pair of perky tits. She is incredibly driven and smart. And the complete opposite of what Liz is assuming, for fuck’s sake.