The Mogul and the Muscle: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy(42)

“Bloody Mary or mimosa for you, honey?” she asked. “And tell me about the blush you’re wearing, because your face is all kinds of sexy pink.”

Jude paused next to our booth and everyone’s faces slowly turned toward him. He gave me his everything looks good nod. “Ladies.”

“Mercy,” Lady Raquel said, watching him walk to the front of the restaurant where he took up a position against the wall.

“He’s security,” I said lamely.

“Is he, now? How about I bring you one of each.” Lady Raquel swept away, her feathery dress swishing.

I opened my mouth, another round of verbal vomit already racing its way up my throat, but Luna laid a gentle hand on my arm.

“Slow down,” she said. “Maybe breathe first.”

“Can we go back to the part about the hit and run?” Emily asked.

“I’m kind of fixated on the forehead kiss right now,” Daisy said. “Although I really want to know if you punched Aldrich when you saw him. Or did you let Jude punch him?”

I took Luna’s advice and breathed deeply before trying to speak again. “There was no punching. I didn’t want to confront him about the you-know-what in public.”

“And what about the hit and run?” Luna asked gently.

“We were outside Wynwood Walls and an SUV swerved onto the sidewalk. Jude got me out of the way. The SUV hit a parked car, then drove off. It was probably just a shitty driver.”

“But maybe it wasn’t,” Emily said.

I nodded in acknowledgment. “Maybe it wasn’t. And I know that represents a giant problem in my life and it’s what I should be concentrating on.”

“But the forehead kiss,” Daisy said, her eyes flicking toward Jude. “Why forehead kiss? What’s that about?”

Emily and Luna glanced in Jude’s direction.

“Stop looking at him,” I hissed, and their gazes snapped back to me. I took another breath. “He took me home afterward and we talked a little. Before he left, he asked if I was sure I was okay, and he kissed my forehead.”

“That’s so sweet,” Luna said.

“It felt like a pity kiss,” I said miserably.

Lady Raquel brought my two drinks and set them in front of me.

“And you wanted him to rip your clothes off and destroy your body in an adrenaline-fueled lust fest,” Daisy said.

“Of course not.” I was such a liar. “That would have been completely unprofessional.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Do you want to know what your problem is?”

I actually did, and I knew my attempts to maintain my composed image in between letting my crazy out weren’t doing me any favors. “What?”

“You’re too worried about professionalism,” Daisy said. “If you want the man to fuck your brains out, start by fucking his brains out and I’m sure he’ll happily return the favor.”

“That’s terrible advice,” I said.

“This isn’t just about sex, is it?” Luna asked. “You like him.”

I tucked my hair behind my ear, opted for the bloody Mary, and took a sip. Could I admit it out loud? Even to them?

And I was still mentally berating myself for letting this get to me in the midst of my other problems.

A female voice carried over from the booth next to us. “How are we feeling about butt stuff lately?”

I gasped. The one thing in the world that could distract me from my current emotional turmoil was the second reason my friends and I loved coming to Mordecai’s. The first was, of course, the best drag queens in the business, coupled with a fabulous bloody Mary and great brunch menu.

The second was seated in the booth next to us. Our weird obsession. The romance novelists.

They were a group of four women who met here regularly to discuss their work. Sometimes they typed away on laptops while sipping coffee or cocktails. Other times they chatted about characters, plot points, tropes, and twists. From the time we’d realized who they were we’d started devouring their books and eavesdropping on their conversations, eager for a hint of what was to come for our favorite characters.

I’d been so caught up in my own internal drama, I hadn’t even noticed they were next to us.

“I’m always down for butt stuff,” one of the ladies said in an excited voice more than slightly too loud for the conversation topic.

“Just watch the hands,” another one said. “If his fingers are involved, make sure they don’t wind up on her face or in her mouth. Also, does anyone need more coffee? Because I do.”

“Me, always,” the enthusiastic one said. “And hard yes to watching the hands.”

Daisy’s face lit up with excitement and she mouthed, One of them is writing anal.

I stifled a laugh, but felt a little better. We were ridiculous. Four of the wealthiest women in the country—CEO, goal-getter, stiletto-wearing badasses—who also loved to hang on every word while four authors discussed their craft, and giggle at discussions of kinky sex in fiction.

“I’m just not sure if it fits,” the first one said. “And as often as my kids make poop jokes, I don’t know if I can make anything with butts sexy.”

“If the story needs an edge, you can always take their sexytimes outdoors,” the fourth woman said. “I wrote sex in a garden shed once. Readers loved it.”