The Billionaire Book Club

Ruby

Cap’s hands feel strong and dangerous in their place on my hips as we move from side to side with the melody of Frank Sinatra.

And his big, muscular body feels good. Too damn good. I hate how much I’m enjoying it.

My mind is scattered into a million hows and whys and whats that I can barely focus on a single thought.

From the moment I looked at myself in the mirror after getting my hair and makeup done, I’ve been walking on the eggshells hatched by nerves and uncertainty.

Like, what in the actual hell is really going on here?

I’m at a family function with my boss, dressed in a way that invites attention, and currently and alarmingly, dancing in his arms.

What happened here that this suddenly feels very much like a date?

But this most certainly isn’t a date…right?

Cap stares down at me—I can feel the weight of his eyes as they roam my face—but I’m completely unable to return the gesture. I’m unable to meet his gaze.

More like you’re afraid you’re going to get a little too lost in those warm, inviting eyes of his…

I look everywhere else in the glamorous tent instead.

Up to the silken drapes and starry sky, over to the people gathered by the bar, into the face of a far-too-amused Lena, and back over to the other side of the room to count the flowers in the centerpieces.

I run the gamut like a circuit, but eventually, Cap grows tired of my less-than-stellar attention and squeezes his long-fingered, perfect hands on my hips.

I swallow thickly, knowing I can’t ignore him forever, and then brace myself—for what, I’m not sure—as I look up and into his eyes.

“Hey, there,” he says with the same goddamn smirk he used on me the day I met him. “Nice of you to finally join me.”

“What?” I mumble, and he laughs.

“With the way you weren’t looking directly at me, I was starting to wonder if I’d transformed into the sun, Rube.”

“Oh,” I mutter. “Right. Sorry. I’m just a little…” Fucking overwhelmed? At a loss for words? Confused?

“Out of sorts?” He tosses me a life vest via words, and all I can do is offer a half-shrug. “How about I not only lead this wonderful dance—” he squeezes my hips gently “—but the conversation too?”

For some strange reason, even though Caplin Hawkins should never be trusted to lead a conversation—Lord knows, he will inevitably lead it down dirty paths—I nod my agreement.

“I’ll start easy,” he says with a secret smirk. “What’s your favorite color?”

I crinkle my nose at the random question but answer it all the same. “White.”

“Your favorite fruit?”

“Mango.”

“Your favorite pizza topping?”

“Mushrooms and extra cheese.”

A soft laugh escapes his lungs. “That’s kind of weird…”

“Don’t be a snob,” I retort, and it only makes him grin down at me.

But the silence is brief as Cap proceeds to dive back into his twenty questions game.

“Favorite spot in the city?”

“Washington Square Park.”

He zings the questions like an auctioneer, and I find myself joining in on the game, trying to answer them just as quickly as they leave his lips.

“Favorite scary movie?”

“Zero. I hate scary movies.”

“What’s your stage name?”

“Elizabeth As—” I pause and my eyes turn so wide, I’m certain they’ve consumed my entire face. I’m literally just a head with two giant eyeballs connected to a woman who just got loopholed by Caplin fucking Hawkins. “I can’t believe you just did that, you bastard!” I smack his shoulder with my hand. “That was not fair!”

“How was that not fair?” he questions with a sly grin. “You agreed to let me lead the conversation. I’m certain you didn’t apply any rules on where I could and couldn’t lead it.”

I narrow my eyes, but he just keeps on grinning.

“You might as well just tell me the rest, Ruby.” He shrugs one annoying shoulder at me. “I mean, I have the first name and the first two letters of the last… At this point, it probably wouldn’t be too hard for me to figure it out on my own…”

Goddammit.

“Ugh.” I groan. “You’re a real jerk, you know that?”

“I would like to let the record reflect that I simply asked a question. One that was not out of malicious intent, but actually because I just wanted to get to know you better,” he says, going all fucking lawyer on me. “So, I think the whole jerk statement should be struck from the court documents.”

“God, you’re annoying, you know that?”

“I’m pretty sure you mean I’m persistent.” He quirks a knowing brow. “So…?”

He doesn’t have to finish the question. I already know what he’s getting at.

And because I really don’t see any way around it, and I’m probably a bit insane, I tell him the one thing I never tell anyone. Not my mom or dad. Not Kevin. No one.

“Elizabeth Aster.” I say my pseudonym out loud. To someone else. “It was my late grandmother’s name. And she is one of the main reasons I love reading romance novels.”