The Billionaire Book Club

Trent snorts, Kline smiles, and Wes, Theo, and Harrison all tuck their faces behind their bottles of beer as they take a swig.

Thatch and Quince, though…they smile so big, their gums almost bleed.

But it isn’t long before Thatch’s smile melts into a sniffle. “It’s perfect. Motherfluffing destiny deals a hand.”

I shake my head as a pang bounces around on the left side of my chest. It’s a foreign feeling—and an uncomfortable one.

I have no idea, however, what it is.

Guilt over my deception?

Or does fate have really pointy hands?

Ruby

To say the office has been weird since I basically peaced out of Cap’s dad’s birthday party last weekend is an understatement.

Don’t get me wrong, I said goodbye—I’m not a complete degenerate—but I left super early, and I barely made eye contact with Cap when I told him I was leaving. Now, it’s Friday, a full five and a half days later, and he still hasn’t mentioned it. He hasn’t brought up the half kiss. He hasn’t even acted aloof.

Basically, he’s given me nothing, and I’m officially coming to the end of my wits’ rope.

Are we really both just going to go on, forever, pretending none of it ever happened?

I mean, that scenario seems ideal, but I know, for my part, it’s impossible. Because my stupid brain won’t let me forget it.

The memory of his lips grazing mine is seared there like grill-lines on a premium cut of beef.

Luckily, I finally have a secondary assistant hired, and going through the ropes with her is serving as the perfect distraction. She’s younger than I was going for, just about twenty-five, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders, I can tell. So far, she dresses appropriately and arrives on time, and well…I feel a little guilty about profiling like this…but she’s gay.

How do I know this? Because not only does she have a cute little rainbow flag tattoo on her wrist, but she also talks about her fiancée, Tiffany, a lot.

I know it’s terrible to put people in a box based on gender or sexuality or anything really, but in this instance, it’s a hirable quality. The last thing we need around here is someone getting distracted by the boss.

Are you sure you don’t mean that this office doesn’t need someone distracting the boss? Because you already seem to have the whole being distracted by the boss thing down, my brain mocks. I largely ignore it.

“So, you just push F4, and then the Caps Lock,” I continue training Betsy on the various computer tasks that are vital to her daily responsibilities.

“Got it.” She nods and follows my instructions perfectly.

“That brings you into the call log,” I say, moving right along. “You can just make simple notes about the person and their reason for calling. They’ll all info-dump into an email to Mr. Hawkins at the end of the day.”

I’m not sure why I didn’t call him Cap when I started training Betsy this morning, but something about it felt so personal. Which is ridiculous since it’s his name, but once I started with the formalities, I couldn’t make myself stop.

“I should do that for all calls?” Betsy asks. “Or is there some system you use to filter through more important ones?”

I nod because that’s a great—and oh so complicated—question. While the phone calls from female suitors have decreased to practically nothing, I’m afraid to leave the possibility undiscussed. “Right. So, the first line of filtering I use is based on his schedule. If it’s one of the cases he’s working on or one of the companies he’s working with right now, I’ll put them through. If it’s a name I recognize as a major CEO or company president, I put them through.” She widens her eyes slightly, but to her credit, she nods anyway. “Also,” I begin, and I swear, my voice must come with its own personal rain cloud because Betsy can sense the doom.

“What?” she asks nervously, a dramatically adorable hand to her chest. “What is it?”

“Well, it’s pretty much stopped as far as I can tell…but there’s still a chance you’ll get a phone call—or a fax—from a woman in personal pursuit of Mr. Hawkins.”

“And, what? They get desperate?”

“Betsy…I hate to be the one to tell you this…but they don’t hesitate to describe their genitalia. In detail.”

Her eyes go even wider in surprise. “Seriously?”

“It’s happened more than once. But he did buckle down on it, and I told a few women off—”

“Good for you,” she says with a smile. “Don’t let anybody come in here and steal your man.”

Wait…what?

My laugh is both stilted and rapid-fire like a machine gun all at the same time. It’s one of the weirdest sounds I’ve ever made in my life, and I’m not even sure I can properly explain it. “No, no. No. He’s…he’s not my man. We are not together.”