The Billionaire Book Club

Cap: She didn’t act like you existed, you’re right. But I acted like you existed, did I not?

I scrunch up my face. I mean, I guess technically he’s right. But—

Another text rolls in before I can finish my thought.

Cap: I’d say it’s really only reasonable to expect that I can control MY actions, not the actions of others. Correct?

Okay. I understand what’s going on here. But if he thinks I’m going—

Cap: You wouldn’t be able to convict me of a murder my friend committed, would you?

My eyes narrow and my shoulders square. Is this freaking guy really trying to cross-examine me via text?

Cap: No. You wouldn’t.

I type quickly, my tongue hanging out of my mouth, I’m so determined to get some words in.

Me: Sure, I guess you’re right. But if you’re a witness to the crime, I WOULD be able to hold you accountable for that. Aiding and abetting.

Cap: I did not a) know about her plan to ignore you, b) intentionally encourage and/or facilitate that plan, c) aid, instigate, or promote her actions. They’d never convict me of aiding and abetting, and you know it.

Goddammit, why does this guy have to be so smart? I’ve never met someone who can keep up with me like this—especially not this consistently.

I tuck my head and lick my lips in preparation to type out another message when I hear the resounding shouts of “Surprise!” all around the bar.

I frown. Apparently, I was so involved in arguing with Cap, I missed Julie’s big entrance.

Ugh. Stupid fucking long-winded lawyer.

I put away my phone immediately and paste on a smile.

I may have missed her entrance, but I haven’t missed the party. I refuse to be distracted by Cap and his womanizing and his out-of-the-blue apologies for another single second.

I jump up from my stool as Julie wipes away a few tears, wraps her arms around Kevin’s neck, and holds on as he lifts her up and puts his lips to hers.

Internally, I scoff.

No such thing as a perfect relationship, Kevin?

I think he’s full of shit. There’s someone out there for everyone, and the waiting while you find them is the hard part.

But I’ve got patience, and I’ve got hope.

There’s someone perfect out there for me, and I’ll know it when I find him.

I bite my lip as visions of a lonely life of spinsterhood dance in my head. I’ll know when I find him. I’ll have to. Won’t I?

Cap

I head into Thatch’s Manhattan apartment with the kind of focus and concentration I usually only reserve for the courtroom.

Another Billionaire Book Club meeting with the guys, and goddamn, I need to leave here with something that will actually lead me in the direction of progress with Ruby.

It’s been four days since I apologized to her using the three steps I was assured were effective, and I’ve yet to see any tangible results.

In the office, she’s been cordial and efficient while she works, but she doesn’t compliment my wit and charm and reach out to touch me inconspicuously nearly enough.

It’s almost as though she’s impervious to me.

No, no, I think after a moment of panic. That can’t be it. All women eventually cave to the Cap-i-tain.

Thatch sweeps by me on his way out of the smoke room while I’m on my way in, and I look back over my shoulder to call out to him. “Hey! Where are you going?”

“Just getting the snacks, bro. Don’t worry, you won’t have to miss me long.”

I laugh him off and turn back to the room to find the table almost ready. I stop behind what’s become my regular seat and pull the new book out of my jacket before taking it off and draping it across the back of the chair. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me as I sit down. “You all got the new book I texted you about?”

Mostly “Yes” and “Yeah” are grumbled into the air, but Wes chimes in with, “How long are we going to do this?”

I roll my eyes at their lack of enthusiasm. At some point, they’re going to get with the fucking program. It’s like none of them has ever done crazy shit to win a woman before.

“She reads fast, and she’s moved on, okay?” I explain as Thatch walks in with a tray full of mini hot dogs, warm pretzels, and assorted charcuterie. It’s like Martha Stewart in a giant man’s body. I’d love to pause long enough to make a comment about it, but the pretzel’s salty magic tastes too good in my mouth. The other guys fall on it like vultures too. As Thatch takes his seat at the table, I finish speaking. “I’m not going to waste my time on some bullshit book she doesn’t care about anymore. We need to stay relevant, for fuck’s sake, so quit your whining,” I lecture, scanning their faces around the felt-topped table.