Tapping The Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys 1)

That was what this was, though. It had to be. The illusion of someone being there, listening, and fooling me into saying all of my rambling thoughts out loud rather than reciting them internally.

Long and unkempt, his whiskers flowed freely from beneath his nose, and in keeping with his old man status, stuck out haphazardly from his kitty eyebrows. His white-rimmed eyes rooted me to the spot with their contempt, and the subtle stripes in his fur did nothing to soften his appearance.

“This is your fault,” I told him, his wolflike ears mocking me with every word.

One uninterested lick of his lips is all he gave me in return.

“What? Nothing to say? No support?”

He licked his paw and wiped his face before turning abruptly and sauntering out of the room, holding his tail pointedly straight in the cat version of a middle finger salute.

“Thanks for nothing, asshole,” I shouted after him.

Jesus.

I shook my head as I stepped in front of the mirror to adjust my tie. This was a whole new level of low. Not only was I talking to the fucking cat; I was yelling at him.

Tonight had my stomach on edge in a way it hadn’t been since I’d given Tara Wallowitz my first kiss behind the gym after our seventh-grade dance. She’d had braces and I’d been drowning in all my awkward, barely-a-teenager glory. Two sets of fumbling hands, an overaggressive tongue, and a cut to my lips later, it was over.

I didn’t foresee tonight with Georgia being like that at all, but the basis of my feelings was remarkably similar. Out of my element and thrown off by her initial lack of enthusiasm, I’d put in a lot of effort over the last couple of days to turn it around and smooth the way for tonight’s date. But now I was invested. I cared how tonight went. And that hadn’t been the norm in a long time. I felt a little like I was walking into a set-up with no tools to escape the consequences. That wasn’t cool. MacGyver was cool, and he always made tools out of whatever he had. I’d have to do the same.

“Mr. Brooks?” my intercom squawked.

I grabbed my phone from the counter and jogged the five steps to press the button.

“Yeah?”

“Your driver’s here.”

“Thanks.”

I snatched my wallet and keys off of the front table and slid out the door without looking at myself in the mirror again. I’d already spent far too much time questioning my tie color.

I was not the kind of guy who carefully considered every element of my outfit. Tonight was the closest I would ever get to contradicting that.

“Frank,” I greeted as I approached the car, reaching a hand out to shake his. On days like today, I couldn’t help but notice how much of his time I monopolized.

“Mr. Brooks.” His greeting was warm, and he had a face to match. A smattering of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes pointed to a life filled with laughter, and the gray of his hair hinted at the possibility of a daughter or two.

“I wish you’d call me Kline,” I said with a smile, knowing it would never change.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

I shook my head and gave him a friendly slap on his shoulder with the hand not clasped in his. “Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who should apologize—dragging your ass all over town all day and night.”

“No trouble at all, sir.”

I chuckled again. “This makes twelve hours in this shift, right?”

“Yes—”

“And you’ve still got the rest of the night to go?”

“It’s no trouble, Mr. Brooks.”

A nod was all I could give at the time, so I did. It was a gesture that made it possible to get on our way, to get to the benefit, and to get busy letting Frank off the hook. I’d embellish the not-nearly-enough gesture with a fatter-than-expected tip on the bill later.

I slid into the car and Frank closed the door behind me. I unbuttoned the coat of my tuxedo and pulled at the lapels to make it stop feeling like it was choking me.

As Frank climbed into his seat, he spoke again. “Another stop, sir?”

Forced to give an answer I didn’t like, I shook my head. “No. Straight to the benefit.”

He nodded and pulled the gearshift into drive. “Yes, sir.”

I’d been hell-bent on picking Georgia up like a proper date, but apparently, on this matter, she had a closer relationship with the devil. Refusal was too kind a word to describe her reaction when I had suggested my driver would pick her up. In fact, she’d looked like the suggestion was more revolting than stepping in dog shit.

And I understood to a point. I personally hated taking the car, preferring immeasurably to take the subway and people-watch. I didn’t even mind walking fifteen blocks on a nice Manhattan day.