Marrying My Billionaire Hookup

“Of course.” I hold Aaron’s eyes long enough for him to swallow and finally drop his gaze. I smile and turn to Charles. “Shall we order lunch now?”

* * *

Edgar

After lunch I make a brief stop in the men’s room, then leave the restaurant. Aaron is waiting outside.

“Edgar, my man. I need to say something to you.”

I note Charles is gone. “Yes?” I say in my coldest and most aloof tone. It’s a skill learned from my mother—probably the only thing she ever bothered to teach me that’s occasionally useful.

“Look, uh, I don’t know how to say this diplomatically, so I’m going to just say it, know what I mean? I don’t like playing games.”

I merely stare at him. What does he call what he’s been doing with Jo? Earnestness? Sincerity?

“There’s been a mistake,” Aaron continues. “See, Jo’s actually my girl. If she’s acting interested, she’s just messing with you, man. Stringing you along. I thought I’d let you know so you don’t end up getting fu—uh, screwed over. Just sayin’. But look, don’t worry. I’m going to tell her to cut it out. But if she doesn’t, if she keeps bugging you, then you can tell her you know what’s up.”

I inhale deeply. Losing my temper would mean giving up dominance over the situation. I pin Aaron with a gaze sharp enough to make him bleed. “Josephine Martinez is mine. You stay away.”

Sweat beads along his hairline, but he suddenly lifts his chin defiantly. “I hate to break this to you, buddy, but she’s actually marrying me this afternoon. Guess she didn’t tell you that, huh?

We already have the courthouse picked out and everything.” He recites the exact address. “If you want, you can be a witness at the ceremony. Since you know her and all.”

The taunt hits its mark. I grit my teeth at the hot anger exploding in my gut. Why the hell didn’t she tell me? Didn’t she think it was important enough to let me know? Doesn’t she trust me to take care of the problem? I don’t want anything to happen to her dad any more than she does. I’ve seen how much he cares for her, and that makes the man worthy of my respect and protection.

But first things first. I need to deal with Aaron Korvid before confronting her.

“As a matter of fact, she didn’t,” I say icily. “The reason being that she isn’t marrying you.” I take a step forward and crowd him with my much bigger frame. “Now listen carefully. You’re done with Jo. Don’t go near her. Don’t threaten her or anyone in her family.”

“What? Threaten? I didn’t do anything! She’s lying!” His words are flying a tad too fast, betraying his panic.

“I know you made certain videos.” My hands itch to clench into fists. But that’s a bad idea. He’d try to sue me or cause a massive public scandal, and I don’t need that kind of negative publicity…or the fine and civil settlement I’d have to offer. I’ll be damned if he gets a penny of my money.

“But I didn’t…” He trails off, then swallows so hard that I can see his prominent Adam’s apple jump up and down on his skinny throat.

“If any of them leaks, I’ll be displeased. And when I’m displeased, I don’t stop until I’m pleased again.”

“What are you gonna do?” His voice shakes, even though he’s doing his best to look tough, to maintain some scraps of pride. “Beat me up?”

I give him the soulless smile my mom used to use when she was lording it over someone. “If you’re that curious…try me and find out what brings me satisfaction when somebody fucks with me and my woman.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jo

This is not how I envisioned my wedding.

It isn’t that the Versace I’m in isn’t fashionable. It is. Plus it’s from the latest collection. But it’s red, the skirt ending above my knees, not what I ever thought I’d wear to my wedding. I only need to sew an “I” in a matching scarlet shade on my chest for “Idiot,” but at least my Jimmy Choos are ivory, with elegantly slim stiletto heels.

The room the local courthouse designated for civil ceremonies is bright, but not exactly bridal. It doesn’t even have flowers. Maybe the local politicians found a better pet cause to support than putting a token vase in the room.

The officiant is looking at his phone, then at me. From the barely trimmed beard to long, messy hair, a pair of slightly scratched reflective sunglasses and ridiculous, mismatched, sun-faded tropical shirt, shorts and flip-flops on his lanky frame, I’m certain he’s a beach bum who’s doing this for some extra spending money. Or maybe he was an officiant before he decided to become a beach bum. Hard to say.

“Duuuude. Your man’s late,” he says.

I give him a thin smile. Like you have someplace to be right now.

That damned Aaron.