The Billionaire Game(7)

I followed her gaze to a waiter who indeed had a very brooding brow, with a low tumble of dirty blonde hair, flashing dark eyes, and slacks that clung nicely to all his…attributes.

“Mmm, yummy,” I agreed. “I can’t go hit on someone on the job, though; I get enough of people doing that to me all day long to ever turn it around.” I spared him one last regretful look. Oh, but those shoulders would look nice framed against my bedspread…

“Girl, we need to find you a distraction,” Lacey said, slinging her arm around my shoulders. “Want me to be your wingman? Grant’s got a lot of yachting friends that, were I not happily about to be hitched, would catch my eye. And possibly also other parts of my anatomy. So. See anything you like?”

She was happier and more relaxed these days than I’d ever seen her before in her life. And I was happy for her. Of course I was. Really.

It was just hard, sometimes, realizing I had gone from the happy-go-lucky friend with a bag of good advice to the moping downer who needed to be cheered up.

“How’s that wedding coming along, by the way?” I asked in a change of topic so transparent you could have used it in manufacturing windows. “Got everything sorted out?”

Lacey sighed, just slightly put out. “We had to delay again, because we’re going to be in negotiations with Genji Inc. in June. It’s just as well, though, since that timeline works better for my parents—something about Mars being in the fifth house—” she rolled her eyes fondly; Lacey’s parents are great people, but man, sometimes they are exactly like the cartoon picture you would find next to the word ‘hippie’ in a kids’ dictionary—“and it does give me more time to get the details just perfect.”

Uh-oh. When Lacey spends time obsessing and over-thinking little details, it’s usually not long before a freakout and tears are on their way. “What kinds of details?”

Lacey grinned. “Well, I had a little attack of traditionalism, and I thought: you know what I want? A trousseau! You know, the collection of linens, and clothes, and lingerie that a bride traditionally—”

“Lacey, I know what a trousseau is,” I said. “Do you need any tips on what companies make good stuff?” I could feel my stomach doing a completely unfair little roll and sink. Lacey’s wedding is a big deal, I reminded myself. She’s bought your designs plenty of times, there’s no reason she’d be obligated to buy from you this time. She needs it to be perfect, and professional, and and—

“Of course you do, sorry,” Lacey said apologetically. “Anyway, and then I had a great big attack of common sense, and I thought: you know who I want to make mine? Katie!”

I felt an answering grin bigger than the Grand Canyon split my face. “Oh my god, Lacey!” I grabbed her hands and jumped up and down. “OMG, OMG, OMG, I have so many ideas already! This will be the best trousseau ever, I swear, all the other trousseaus will just go home and cry their little trousseau hearts out! Oh, wow, I can’t even stop thinking of ideas! Shit, I need to write them down.” I dropped Lacey’s hand abruptly and began to paw through my purse for my notebook. “Okay, so we’re going to go with, like, just all the teddies for you, and a few babydolls. And a peignoir, I’m trying to bring those back. Red is a good color on you, and purple, and gold is pretty great. Can’t go wrong with black. Damn, I wish I had my fabric notes! Okay, I remember you liked the design with—”

Lacey let me ramble on for what was probably ages, until my imagination ran dry, and shortly after that, my pen. Before I could tell Lacey that I was fine, she motioned to her assistant, who came running with a new one.

“Damn, girl,” I said, “free pens whenever I need one? I knew hooking you up with a billionaire was going to have its perks, but I can say with complete honesty that I was not expecting this one.”

“Oh, you weren’t?” Lacey said with a completely straight face. “But everyone knows that billionaires have unlimited pens, staples, paper clips, and all other office supplies. Except toner.”

“Oh really?” I asked, trying to match her deadpan. “Why is that?”

“The Great Toner Wars,” Lacey said, affecting a voice of deep sorrow. Then she ruined it by nearly snorting champagne out of her nose as she broke into laughter.

I joined her. “You are the silliest damn person I know,” I told her. “And I know me, so that is saying something.”

“Oh, there’s Grant,” Lacey said. “Good. He can rescue us from our silliness. He can be our knight in extremely serious armor.”

It was just possible that we’d had too much champagne.

Maybe. Just putting it out there as a hypothesis. Were there any scientists at the party? We could ask them to test it.

Grant came strolling up to us with the self-satisfied saunter of a man who has successfully parted several people from their not-terribly-hard-earned money for a good cause. He was accompanied by two other guys, one tall and sandy-haired in a rumpled suit, his square jaw and slight belly making him look like a jock gone to seed. The other one—

—was Asher.

If I’d thought he’d looked good in that T-shirt while at my apartment—well, shut my mouth. And open it again, because those dimples were in danger of making my jaw hit the floor.

He wore a midnight black suit, the jacket unbuttoned and the tight red silk of his shirt making his skin almost glow. He’d tugged off his tie in the heat, and was now absentmindedly wrapping it around and around his strong, graceful hands. His green eyes seemed to sparkle in the faint light of the torches and fireworks, and his hair fell in defiant curls around his face. A hint of stubble graced his cheeks, just enough to rasp against someone’s skin if he leaned down to claim their mouth with those full, pouty lips…