Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1)(9)
Me: Well, it is the Theater District.
I exited my messages, and before I locked the screen, I noticed the little red notification on my TapNext app. A message from BAD_Ruck from this morning made promises of sexual normalcy despite his indiscretions. A truce was in order.
TAPRoseNEXT (12:14PM): Awkward apology accepted.
His response came two minutes later.
BAD_Ruck (12:16PM): Thank God. Though, to be fair, your profile name really does nothing to discourage bad behavior.
TAPRoseNEXT (12:19PM): Ugh. Don’t remind me. I owe it mostly to a bottle of wine and an ill-advising roommate.
I chuckled to myself and then glanced at my watch, compelled to double-check the time even though the display on my phone told it to me just fine.
A pastrami and corned beef on rye from the deli on the corner was calling my name, yelling louder with each passing minute, but every single action of the day seemed to move as if it were coated in molasses.
“What are you laughing at?” Thatch asked from the screen in front of me.
I’d nearly forgotten I was on a video call with him.
“Your ugly mug,” I countered, pointedly electing not to tell him I was having any further conversation with TAPRoseNEXT.
“This face? No way. This is my moneymaker, son.”
“You sound like the biggest douche on the planet right now. Can we work, please? I’d like to eat lunch sometime this century.”
“You and your delicate stomach.”
“It’s not f*cking delicate,” I argued grumpily. But he really couldn’t blame me. I was hungry after all. “It’s manly and it needs food on the regular. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Right. Now you’re justifying your PMS symptoms—”
“Yes, Leslie?” I interrupted Thatch as she pushed open the door to my office.
“I just finished moving all of your meetings from this morning to this afternoon,” she purred, smiling at me like I should praise her. She was the one who’d told Dean to schedule the investor calls for that morning rather than this afternoon, necessitating a schedule flip in the first place.
“Thanks,” I said through gritted teeth. Catching sight of Thatch’s “Duran Duran” face on the screen in front of me stopped me from rolling my eyes. Operation Cockblock Hungry Wolf superseded my needs.
“You can just leave the new schedule by the door and head to lunch,” I offered, hoping she’d telepathically understand what I was trying so hard to communicate—get out.
She giggled.
Nope. Life wasn’t that easy.
The tile of my office floor turned into a runway, her dramatic, foot-crossing steps designed to amplify the swing of her hips and elicit a man’s attention.
And for any other man, it probably reached into his pants and hardened the attention right out of him.
I, however, was too busy cleaning up her mistakes and trying to finish a phone call so I could go to goddamn lunch.
Tits suddenly filled the frame of my vision, and I practically had to slam my head back into my chair to keep from eating them by accident.
No, I wasn’t that hungry. That was how close she had placed them.
“Here you go.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said, dismissing her and averting my eyes as much as possible. It wasn’t a battle of wills, but rather, strictly a game of proximity.
The day I was willing to subject myself to that kind of * was the day my cock would rot off and my office would burn straight to the ground. I was sure of it.
Come hell or high water, I was done being this amenable to my mom’s suggestions. Leslie needed to be gone by the beginning of next week. Soon, but not soon enough that I couldn’t talk my way out of it at family dinner.
I watched as she walked, counting the seconds and praying he’d wait until she left the room.
“Ho-ly hell—”
“Thatch—” I attempted to interrupt, recognizing his tone from experience and knowing it would only lead to bad things.
“Where the hell have you been hiding that one?”
“Don’t say another word,” I warned, just as the door shut blessedly behind Leslie.
“Fuck me hard, fast, and dirty, Kline-hole. Did you see the tits on her? Seriously, let her know she can swaddle me up and ride me like a cockpuppet any f*cking time she wants.”
I picked up a pen and pretended to scribble on a piece of paper.
“Ride…you…like…a…cockpuppet. Got it.”
The muscled chords of his throat flexed with a bark of laughter, and recognition of his absurdity flashed in his eyes.
“All right, point taken.” He raised his hands and winked, his fingers in air quotes, mocking, “Business.”
I didn’t waste any time getting back to it. “I’ve got two investor meetings in L.A.—”
“And you want me to be there.”
“Yeah.”
He sat back in his leather chair and crossed his thick arms. “Done.”
“You don’t even know when they are,” I pointed out. I reached forward and took hold of my mouse to double-check the timing, but he didn’t wait.
“For you, my love, no time is a bad time.” He blew me a kiss.