The Billionaire Next Door (Billionaire Bad Boys #2)(5)
Back in his apartment, he opted to drown out the dog’s barks with music, cranking Adele to ear-bleeding decibels. For a guy who viewed his dating life through a lens of common sense, Tag would admit he admired the kind of love she sang about. The kind of love his parents had. The kind of love his oldest brother had found in the most unlikely of places. As much as he admired it, however, he was too practical to be stupid.
He was randomly hit with a memory of the woman outside the building this afternoon. That body. That hair. Women were fun. He adored them…for a while. Letting them down easy was the key to everyone having a good time and keeping the heartache at a minimum.
Sex was fun. Hanging out was fun. When it encroached on relationship territory, there were few couples who could keep the fun alive. Tag preferred to binge on the highs and bail before the lows happened.
It was as good as his personal motto.
He sat down at his desk only to stand up right away. He couldn’t look at pictures of bars without wanting to pour a drink. In the fridge, he found a bottle of beer, cracked it open, and enjoyed the first ice-cold swallow.
Outside, wind blew the flags below; the sky was a cavernous gray-black. He shuddered. He’d chosen this apartment with this view because cities made him feel claustrophobic. But neither did he want to live on acres of land like his brother, because something about a house was too settled for Tag’s taste.
He loved to travel, which was another reason in the con column for settling down. His work took him to other states, where he’d stay away a week or a month, depending on what mood struck him.
Women tended to get pissy when their men didn’t come home for long stretches.
Freedom. Flexibility. That’s what his lifestyle had afforded him.
He went back to the desk—a large table in the corner of the living room—and frowned down at the plans—and yes, the report he’d chucked into the trash at the board meeting. He’d found an emailed copy (gee, thanks, Bob) and went ahead and printed the damn thing in case there was some insight to be gleaned in the numbers and spreadsheets after all.
Guest and Restaurant Services wasn’t all fun and parties, but the board seemed to think so. Frank’s obnoxious words a few months back sat like a stone in the center of Tag’s stomach.
Just because he drinks at a bar doesn’t mean he’s qualified to oversee the bar business for this entire company.
Frank, the jackass, was dead wrong. Tag could and would handle this. Even though the board had found something else to focus on, Tag wasn’t going to allow his bars to bleed money until they deemed it a “code red.”
An adrenaline spike flooded his system, and he felt a smile of challenge crest his lips. This was a winnable battle, one he was made for.
He plunked down the beer bottle on the edge of the desk and rubbed his hands together.
“Let’s f*cking do this.”
*
Rachel’s mother was standing in the Andromeda Club knocking on a table. An annoying rap-rap-rap. The rapid-fire series of knuckles to wood was paired with questions like “How could you give up a desk and nice clothes to work here?”
Rachel opened her mouth to defend her choices when she jerked out of sleep with a start. She wasn’t at the bar, but in bed at Oliver’s apartment. And the knocking wasn’t her mother, who’d found out the truth and drove to Chicago to interrogate Rachel. The knocking was coming from the front door.
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and took in Adonis lying next to her, his big, square head on a pillow.
“I hope this isn’t disturbing you,” she told the dog, her voice craggy. Still foggy from her dream and the late night, she stretched.
The Andromeda had been packed last night, thanks to a nearby company bringing everyone in for happy hour on the boss’s dime. She’d already sent Bree home since things were slow, so Rachel had been waiting tables and bartending until well after closing time.
The Andromeda didn’t have entertainment aside from a few televisions and a pool table in the side room that was rarely used, but the clack-clack of balls rolling on felt hadn’t stopped until well after midnight. And only because the remaining twenty or so patrons ringing the bar were doing body shots. Yes, a few employees of Lobby, Inc., would find it hard to make eye contact with one another on Monday morning.
Especially the guy who’d worn his tie on his head.
For those reasons and because one, okay, she’d admit it, charming guy who wasn’t sauced included her in a round of shots (not body shots—she hadn’t done that since college) before she closed, the knock on the door at eight a.m. came way, way too early.
Adonis, in the bed next to her, opened his eyes and met Rachel’s, then shut them again as another knock pierced the quiet.
For a dog who’d spent the evening cooped up in the penthouse while she worked her tail feathers off, he was awfully wiped. He’d likely spent the entire afternoon into evening snoring on the couch, so why the major case of the lazies?
The knock sounded again, a deep voice booming, “Oliver? You home? Adonis?”
And now her visitor was talking to the dog.
“Why don’t I get that?” Rachel told Adonis as she slid out of bed. Thankfully she’d slept wearing flannel, so there was no need to get dressed or fuss with a robe. Not that she owned one, but she’d bet Oliver had one in his closet. He was the robe type.