Tapping The Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys 1)

That was the real root of my grumpiness, I guess. I worked hard from sunup to sundown, and one simple hour in between was what helped keep a happy head on top of tense shoulders.

“Kline!” the owner of my favorite little mom-and-pop deli called as I pushed my way inside the door.

“Hey, Tony!” I answered, gently making my way through the standing-room-only crowd to shake his hand over the counter.

“Here, here,” he urged, moving some old memorabilia to unearth the one empty seat in the place.

“No way,” I denied with a smile and a shake of my head. “I’ll wait for a table like everybody else. I could use the extra time to clear my head today.”

“Sit, sit, sit,” he said over me, his refusal to let me stand in the crowd and wait a regular occurrence. But he didn’t do it because I had money. Tony didn’t even know I had money. All he knew was I’d been coming in every workday I was in town for the last ten years, and I looked him in the eye and shook his hand every single time I did.

“Thanks, Tone.” Giving in was the only option.

“We got a sandwich for you today, buddy,” he said as I slid my butt onto the seat.

“I hope it’s a pastrami and corned beef on rye. I’ve been fantasizing about it all morning.”

“Ah,” he said with a shout and a wink. “For you, I’ve got just the thing!”

And the truth was, he did—a warm smile, familiarity, and a genuine exuberance. Stuff I needed way more than a sandwich.

“Finally!” Dean remarked as he slammed through my door half an hour later.

I’d just finished finalizing and faxing the original Sure Romance contract. The one where a little quick talking had prevented Leslie’s ill-timed interruption from ruining my life and dragging the company over a swath of hot coals. The one I was shoving down Martin’s throat whether he liked it or not.

Meanwhile, my stomach was working on chewing a sandwich-sized hole through itself.

“I swear that evil trampvestite is the bane of my existence.”

I raised a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow in amusement. If Cassie was the expert of parodies, Dean was the single-most talented nickname giver I’d ever encountered. No two people were alike and no name was deemed off-limits in the name of political correctness. Basically, Dean did the dirty work and I reaped the benefits.

“Trampvestite, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” he confirmed, pointing to his fluttering eyes. “Fake lashes to here.” He held both hands out generously in front of his chest. “And fake tits out to there.”

I didn’t bother to conceal my laugh.

“She’s had me running all over this goddamn place this morning, putting out fires and sweating through a five-hundred-dollar shirt.”

“You know what will make you feel better?” I cooed.

His green eyes twinkled under the fluorescent lights. “Twenty million dollars and a private island with Brad Pitt?”

“A hot turkey sandwich.”

“Hmm,” he mumbled as he pretended to consider it. “I guess that’ll work.”

I slid the bottom drawer of my desk open with ease, yanked my purse out, and slammed it shut with a bang.

“Let’s go. Feed me. Regale me with all of your tales of woe.”

“She’s been annoying you too,” he argued as I slid my arm through his at the elbow.

“She has,” I agreed. “You just play a much more convincing victim than I do.”

A small blush stole through his cheeks, and he leaned down to smack a kiss on mine. Compliments always cheered him up.

“I’ve had more practice,” he comforted me. Not that I needed to be comforted. This was still all about Dean and giving him what he needed. I didn’t have a dick, but I could do drama.

“Ah, yes, the struggles of an attractive gay man.”

“They’re like wolves, Georgia! One innocent cherub like me in the club and they swarm like bees.”

“Wait. I’m confused. Are they wolves or bees?” I teased as he pushed the button for the elevator.

“Shut your crimson lip-stain-covered trap!”

Perfect.

A distraction of cosmetic proportions.

“You like the color?” I asked as I backed into the rear wall of the elevator, propping my chin up on a posed hand and pursing my lips.

“Hmm.” He pretended to inspect me, fluffing the hair on both sides of my head. Consideration turned into a quick smile, and a wink popped his left eye closed. “Love!”

“Thanks,” I offered with a return grin.

While Dean proceeded to gab about his recent rendezvous with a cute bartender, I couldn’t shake a question that’d been nagging me. I needed an answer.