Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1)(5)

“So am I,” she retorted.

“Don’t I know it.”

“Four urgent messages from new potential investors on top, and multiple urgent IT problems below those,” she called to my back as I walked away.

I shook my head to myself. Potential investors were always urgent.

Pausing briefly and turning to look over my shoulder, I asked, “And you’re giving me the messages from IT, why?”

Things like that normally came from my personal assistant.

“Because I am,” she called back, not even looking up from her desk. “And because Pam is at home with a sick baby.”

I leaned my head back in understanding and bit my lip to stop a laugh from escaping.

“Ah. And we all know the only soft spot in your entire body is reserved for the babies.”

“Precisely,” she confirmed unapologetically, looking over the frames of her glasses and winking.

I turned to head for my office again, but she wasn’t done talking.

“But don’t you worry—”

Shit. Anything that started with Meryl telling me not to worry meant I should worry. I should really worry.

“Leslie’s here to pick up her slack.”

I shook my head. I didn’t know if it was in disbelief or resentment, but whatever it was, I couldn’t stop the motion.

Meryl’s eyes started to gleam.

“And since you hired her and all, I figured you wouldn’t mind taking her directly under your knowledgeable wing for the day.”

Fuck.

I let my head fall back with a groan briefly before resigning myself to a day from hell and getting back on my way.

One foot in front of the other, I walked toward my doom, knowing the only people I had to blame, other than myself, were my family. And I couldn’t even really blame them. I was an adult, a business owner, and the leader of my own goddamn life. It had been my choice to hire the airhe—Leslie—whether I had done it out of obligation or not.

Still. “Fuck.”

“Good morning, Mr. Brooks,” she greeted as soon as I rounded the corner, the last syllable of my name trailing straight into a giggle.

God, that’s painful.

Her eyes were bright, lips pouty, and her forearms squeezed into her breasts. Her black hair teased and sprayed, several curls rolled over her shoulders and hung nearly all the way down to her pointy nails. And she eye f*cked me relentlessly, pounding me harder with every step I took.

I plastered a smile on my face and tried to make it genuine. She was really a nice person—just devoid of each and every quality I looked for in both lovers and friends.

“Come on, Leslie.” I gestured, turning away from her nearly exposed—completely office inappropriate—breasts and walking straight into my office with efficiency I knew Cynthia, my head of Human Resources, would appreciate.

The boss in me wanted to tell her to put them away. The man in me knew I wouldn’t be able to do that without opening some sort of door for a sexual harassment suit. Situations like this were ripe for postulation.

“You’re with me today,” I went on, walking straight to my desk and shucking the suit jacket from my shoulders to hang on the hook to the back and right of me.

“Here,” I offered when she didn’t move or speak, holding the messages from potential investors Meryl had handed me not five minutes ago out to her. “Take these to Dean and have him make some precursory calls. He can schedule calls for me this afternoon with any of them that show signs of legitimacy.”

A fake-lashed blink followed by a blank stare.

I even shook them a little, but she didn’t respond.

Right. Small words.

“Ask Dean to call these people back. He’ll know if it’s worth my time talking to them, and if it is, I’m free to do so this afternoon.”

“Got it!” she said with a wink, jumping from one heel to the other, spinning, and sashaying her way out of my office.

I wasn’t a psychic, but one thing was increasingly clear—I was going to need to stop and buy an extra bottle of scotch tonight.





I dove through the subway doors mere seconds before they crushed me to my death.



Okay, maybe that seems a tad dramatic, but if you lived in New York, you’d understand the sentiment I’m trying to portray.



The subway waited for no one. It didn’t care if you were the next big shark on Wall Street. If you didn’t reach those doors in time, fuhgeddaboutit.

I loved my job. I loved working at my job, once I managed to get my “never on time” ass there. It was that whole getting out of bed thing that caused me the most grief. Morning person, I was not. My body preferred to wake up on its own time. Therefore, my snooze button was ridden hard and put away extremely wet.

Every day was a race against time, and today was no exception.

I found a seat across from a thirty-something-year-old guy whose nose stayed buried in a book. He was hot by all accounts—brooding eyes, red flannel shirt, beanie-adorned bedhead, and cheekbones that would make Michelangelo’s David look soft.

His book: Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto by Chuck Klosterman.

I knew that book well. I’d fiddled around with it during undergrad at NYU. It was a handwritten bomb of pop culture references and reflections on pretty much anything that mattered to young people. The Real World, porn, kittens, Star Wars, you name it and Klosterman discussed it. His witty take on American culture was supposed to be ironic in an existential kind of way. But I wouldn’t say any of the topics were deeply examined, which was probably why the book had left me with a Tumblr-like aftertaste in my mouth.