The Billionaire Book Club

“It’s not fine!” Thatch protests, jumping up from the table. “What the hell are you doing, K?”

Kline doesn’t say anything, but he must command it silently, because Thatch’s big body settles immediately.

I peek out from under my blanket again. I can’t help it.

Kline’s eyes are sympathetic. “It’s fine if you want to stay here. I get it. Most of us get it. But what if there’s another option you’re not thinking of? A better one.”

I glance from him to Thatch and back again before asking skeptically, “What better one?”

“You don’t wallow. You don’t fuse to the couch. Instead, you get off your ass, and you get your woman back.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not going to get her back. I never really had her in the first place.”

He nods sagely, turning away, pacing in front of my windows and then turning back and crossing his arms over his chest. I can’t help but watch him.

“Maybe not. But holy shit, Cap…can you imagine if you could have…and you didn’t try?”

“We told you you were gonna fuck up,” Thatch reminds me. “You’ve done it, and it sucks. But now you need a plan.”

Something foreign is stuck to my face; I can feel it, but I don’t care. At the prospect of saving myself—of saving my misery for a time when I’m old and gray—I perk up enough to look Kline in the eye.

“You guys can help me?”

Kline nods. “We’re going to help you help yourself.”

I take a full breath for the first time since Ruby left me standing on the sidewalk in front of her building and climb to my feet.

Wes comes out of my kitchen with a shot of tequila, but he drops it when his hand shoots up to cover his eyes. The glass shatters into a mess on my living room floor.

“For the love of God, guys. Somebody get the guy a pair of pants.”

I look down at my naked dick and then shrug. “You don’t have to be jealous, Wes. I’m just unnaturally gifted.”

Wes scowls, but Trent and Quincy smile at each other and embrace my usual madness. “We’re in business, boys. He’s back.”

“Where do we start?” I ask.

Kline smirks. “Somewhere very important.”

I nod. I’m ready for anything he throws at me.

“The shower.”

I almost laugh, because I do, in fact, smell like a fucking garbage can.

But for once in my life, I’m not thinking about me.

I don’t give a fuck about me.

I only care about her.

“And then?” I ask, and Kline’s smirk turns into a full-blown smile.

“A rock-solid plan to fix this fucking mess you’ve made, and hopefully, one that will get you back your girl.”

There’s only one thing in the entire fucking world that can make me focus like this.

And it’s not these bozos. Or the courtroom. Or billion-dollar contracts. Or the adrenaline rush that comes from winning a case.

It’s her. Ruby. The woman who has managed to become my whole damn world.

Ruby

I groan a little as the cab pulls up in front of Hilson House, a trendy spot in SoHo where Kevin and Julie are apparently having some kind of prewedding party, which pretty much just sounds like a second engagement party to me.

I teased him mercilessly about being that extra, but he was insistent that if I didn’t attend, it’d be the end of our friendship.

With the way the last few weeks have gone for me, I actually considered it but, in the end, decided I wanted people I could count on to stick around.

Sigh.

My dress snags a little on the seat belt as I climb out, and I have to reach back in to completely free myself.

My dress is black with fringe, stops just below the knee, and brings a sense of fun to the party that I knew I wouldn’t be able to provide on my own.

Something about celebrating love right now just feels like torture.

I’m not even willing to consider the idea that the reason is Caplin fucking Hawkins.

It’s been fourteen days since he basically tore my heart out of my chest and stomped it into the sidewalk, and even though the pain still smarts far too much for my liking, I outright refuse to give him any more credit than he deserves. Nor will I let him have that much control over my emotions.

You sure about that? my brain pipes up with shit I don’t want to hear.

I ignore it, lean into the cab window to pay the fare, and turn on my heels to find twinkling lights at the top of Hilson House. It’s apparently a rooftop party—a bold move at the beginning of November in New York—but I’ve been assured there will be heaters involved so I don’t have to keep my parka on.

When I step into the building, the woman at the front desk takes my coat to check it and then directs me around the corner to the elevators, where a group of women stands waiting.