Mr. Perfectly Wrong (Alphalicious Billionaires Boss 5)
Big note to self, the next time Adam asks me to buy his clothes, I’m not going to get ones that fit like they’re made to make every single woman ovulate out of the blue. Because it’s not cool. Not to my ovaries, not to ovaries everywhere.
Dear lord god, what is happening to me?
CHAPTER 4
Adam
I lay in the tent on my back, staring at the domed part where the poles meet in the center. I’m thinking about Stephanie in the shower. No, not Ex-Stephanie. Assistant Stephanie. I’m imagining her soaping up her hair and shaving her legs.
Yeah, I know. Creepo alert right here. Thinking about my assistant shaving her legs shouldn’t be on my list of illicit fantasies, but at the moment, I guess I’m a little effed up.
Her not so subtle reminder is yet another prod in the butt I need about my ex-wife. Obviously, I’m being ridiculous. The whole world would probably vote yes in that poll, but still, I just can’t help myself. There are nights when I still play that last, brutal conversation on repeat, and it gets to me like an ugly pair of socks that came out all wrong from production.
I’m still thinking about how all this was probably a terrible idea when Steph slips back into the tent. Her hair looks even darker when it’s wet. She put it in a braid, which I’ve never seen her do before. She’s also wearing a pair of jean shorts and a neon pink tank top with a picture of a whale surfing on the front.
I sit up with a start. Well, if I’m being honest, I’m not the only one sitting up. Something else is sitting up too. Something very inappropriate that I nearly panic over. I consider grabbing the pillow and shoving it in front of me, but how obvious would that be? Instead, I angle my legs all strangely, away from Steph’s line of sight. A bead of sweat trickles down my temple. My cock throbs as she turns away, clearly uninterested in anything I have going on, in my pants or otherwise. She starts unpacking one of the big backpacks she brought. A minute later, a pair of hiking boots is practically thrown at me.
“Oomph,” I grunt as they hit me square in the chest. I kind of wished they’d bounced a little lower. Then at least I’d have an excuse to worry about my groin area.
“This is a stupid idea,” Steph mutters as she sits down on the still deflated air mattress and sleeping bag opposite me. She kicks off her flip-flops and tugs one black and green hiking boot on.
“What’s a stupid idea?”
“Hiking. All of this. I’ve already said it a hundred times, so I should stop saying it.”
“Probably.”
“Just, please. Take care of yourself. You don’t need someone who kicks your nuts so far up into your throat that they hit your teeth.”
“I get it.” I pull so hard on the boot’s laces that it nearly
rips cleanly out of the first three eyes at the top. “Does it bother you that you don’t have a filter?”
“No.” Steph doesn’t even look at me when she says it. “Why would it?” Apparently, she decides to screw the whole idea of a filter completely and goes on to add, “If you came here to prove you’re capable—oh wait. Of course, you’re capable. The whole world knows that. Plus, you’re funny, smart, good looking, and obscenely rich. You have a net worth of over two billion.”
“Stop.”
“I’m just saying…”
I notice Steph tugs both hiking boots on without any socks. I’m not well versed in hiking or boots, but I’m pretty sure that’s a big no-no.
“Aren’t you going to wear any socks?” I tug one boot on over my socks.
Of course, they’re my company’s socks—green with little yellow dots. Probably not really made for hiking, but they should do the trick. They’re breathable and moisture-wicking. They also last forever, can take a ton of abuse, and come in tons of different colors and styles. I might literally sound like a self-advertisement right now, but what can I say? Socks aren’t just my life; they’re my passion.
“I never wear socks.”
“Hhhhhhhhhhmmmph,” I gasp just as a strangled sound erupts from my throat. “What do you mean, you never wear socks? You know my family has practically made a fortune from socks. That you’re employed from socks, we sell socks, and socks are literally my livelihood and life.”
“I know.” Steph shrugs. Then, she stands up, testing the boots. “But I just hate socks. It’s nothing personal.”
“What do you mean, you hate socks? How can you hate socks? Socks are so essential! What do you do in the winter then?”
“Wear boots that don’t need them when I go outside, and indoors, socks would look pretty funny with high heels.”
“Depends what high heels. And you know we make dress socks for men and women.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll take a hard pass, though. Sorry.”