Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1)(23)

“Touchdown!” she whooped. “Coca-Cola to Howie Mandel!”

Translation: Cokel to R.J. Howard.

“Fuck yes!” I cheered.

“Son of a bitch!” Thatch shouted.

“Go Wild Horses!” Georgia put in.

I chuckled. “That’s right, sweetheart. The Mustangs are going to pounce on Thatch’s * Tigers.”

While my best friend was cursing up a storm, Georgia commentated the game for the rest of our flight. She added ridiculous nicknames for every player, called running backs’ stutter steps Icky Shuffle steps, and gave her overall opinions on which player looked the most cuddly (Boobear, of course), the meanest, the nicest, etc. It was an endless list and I damn near forgot there was five grand and a long-standing rivalry between Thatch and me on the line.

Once we landed and were sitting with beers in our hands, watching the final five minutes of the game in the airport bar, I still kept Georgia in my ear.

I couldn’t help myself. This woman whom I’d seen handle an entire boardroom full of cocky sons of bitches without batting an eye was crazy adorable. She was tough as nails and hotter than sin. And Christ, she was hilarious. I wanted more of her. A lot f*cking more.

“Sorry your flight got delayed on the runway, but I’m glad you guys got home safely.”

“Me too,” I replied in half-truths, taking a swig of beer. I wasn’t even remotely upset about the extra time I’d spent talking to her. “So, is it safe to say that Georgia Cummings is now a Western University fan?”

“Uh-huh.” She giggled. “They kick ass.”

“Next year, you’ll have to come to a game with me. It’s insane.”

“Kline Brooks, are you still trying to plan a second date before we even go on a first?” she teased.

I laughed. “You’ll find I’m a determined kind of guy.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” She yawned. “Well, that’s my signal to get my tired ass in bed. I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Georgia girl,” I said, stealing Thatch’s endearment.

“Night,” she whispered, ending the call.

I set my phone on the bar and downed the rest of my beer. “Ready to hit it?” I asked Thatch, tossing money down on the bar.

He just shook his head, sighing heavily. “Glad you got time for precious pillow talk during the f*cking game.”

I patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I think Boobear will be healthy and ready to play next season.”

“Fucking Boobear.” He chuckled with another shake of his head. “Even I can’t deny that’s hilarious.”





It was Friday—the big date night with my boss—and I was sitting on the subway, heading home from work a little early. Nerves were starting to get the best of me. My brain ran through a thousand possible scenarios of how the charity event with Kline would go. Most of them were awkward and ended with me doing something outrageous. It was my M.O. I had a serious propensity for word vomit. A certified foot-in-mouth expert.

I needed someone to talk me off the proverbial ledge or else I’d end up faking the flu and backing out last minute.

Cassie was a no-go. She had just boarded a flight to Seattle to photograph an up-and-coming football star who’d signed with the Seahawks. My beautiful, spunky best friend had made a name for herself as a freelance photographer. Her photos had graced the pages of The Times, Cosmopolitan, and even ESPN. It seemed her lens had a knack for hot men flexing their muscles. Shocker, huh?

My mother was a hell-no. Ever the sex therapist at heart, she’d probably offer her sage advice of rubbing one out pre-date to stave off nerves.

My finger hovering over the TapNext icon, I finally said, “Screw it.” Maybe BAD_Ruck could make me feel better about this situation. We’d been chatting back and forth over the past few days, and despite the absurdity of our introduction to one another, I was really starting to like the guy. He was funny, laid-back, and could give good flirt. I spent a crazy amount of my day wondering what he was like in person. Did he really look like the guy in his profile? What did he do for a living? Where did he live in New York?

We hadn’t shared any intimate details of our personal lives, a la You’ve Got Mail, which I preferred at the present time. We weren’t living in the dial-up internet era of Kathleen Kelly, and it was a different world. For me, all of her dangers were magnified by a thousand—and she was worried Tom Hanks was a serial killer! These days, there was a show called Catfish. It seemed like people got off on it now more than ever. And, although Ruck was quite charming in our online conversations, I wasn’t convinced he wasn’t a complete weirdo in real life.

Funny how that didn’t stop me from messaging him.

TAPRoseNEXT (2:15PM): Ruck? Come in, Ruck? I need someone to talk me off the ledge.

BAD_Ruck (2:16PM): We’re talking proverbial ledge, right?

TAPRoseNEXT (2:16PM): Yes. Don’t worry, I’m not literally standing on the ledge of a skyscraper.

BAD_Ruck (2:16PM): That’s good news. So, tell me, why are we flirting with proverbial death?

TAPRoseNEXT (2:17PM): I’ve got a date tonight. I’m nervous. And freaking out. Big time.

BAD_Ruck (2:17PM): And here I thought I was the only man in your life. You wound me, Rose.