Home > The Billionaire Book Club (Billionaire Collection 3)(6)

The Billionaire Book Club (Billionaire Collection 3)(6)
Author: Max Monroe

I take the files out of the folder he’s given me and put them into the feeder of the copy machine. I type in his twelve-digit code and use a Herculean effort to avoid seeing the name tied to his account. I do not want to know this guy’s name. I just want to make his copies and get him the hell out of here.

Thanks to Sergio and Catarina’s moans of delight, our awkward introduction needs to vanish straight from the present and be locked away in the very distant past.

A memory I prefer to eventually forget entirely.

I type in the commands and then stand patiently as the bulky machine starts to whir. There are quite a few pages, and watching a copier is about the same as watching paint dry or water boil, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to go back out there and give myself more opportunity to be a train wreck.

Of course, someone thought ahead—assuming you might end up in the copy room while patrons approached the desk—and hung a mirror on the wall with a perfect view.

I watch surreptitiously as insanely-hot-bad-news-bears-stranger-man takes out his phone and scrolls through something, types out a message, and puts it back into his pocket before running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair.

I’m just about to lull myself into a vividly dangerous daydream where he is Sergio and I am Catarina when the machine stops churning and spits out the final paper of his copies.

Good God, snap out of it, Ruby!

I grab the stack along with the papers from the original file and walk back to the desk where he’s waiting.

He smiles as I set the stack on the counter in front of him and push it over with a shove.

“Go ahead,” I direct. “Count them. I’ll get the original file organized again.”

Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment because I watch raptly as he takes the tip of one long finger and licks it before using it to count the corners of the stack.

I peel my eyes away from a guy who has way too much sexual charisma for his own good—or certainly, at least, mine—and slide the papers from the case folder back inside. I loop the metal brads through the holes to secure the pages again, check the tag for the case number and enter it into the computer under my username before tossing the file onto the stack to be put back in place on the shelves.

He watches me—I can feel the weight of his eyes—but waits to speak until I’m done with all of my busywork and once again turn my eyes back to him.

“Seventy pages,” he says. “I guess that means I owe you $10.50.”

I jerk my head back and then narrow my eyes as his smirk grows. I grab a calculator from the shelf at the side of the computer and do the math he obviously did in his head.

$10.50.

Well, well. The charming, model-looking man also has a brain. Evidently, a big one.

“Yes. $10.50.”

“What?” he remarks good-naturedly. “You didn’t trust my math?”

“Just double-checking,” I say, and he laughs.

“I wouldn’t short you, honey. Wouldn’t want to put your job in jeopardy.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that this isn’t really my job—that I’m just filling in for a friend. But then I remember that this man is a stranger—a really good-looking one, sure, but a stranger, nonetheless. He has no business knowing the details of my personal life, and I shouldn’t feel obligated to give them to him.

“Thanks,” I say instead before glancing at my watch. “Looks like it’s about closing time.”

Unsurprisingly, he takes my hint. If the guy’s brain is big enough to do multiplication like that in his head, he should be able to tell when an exchange is over.

“Well, thanks,” he replies with a laugh and a stare. I flounder under the attention a little, but I somehow manage to keep it inside. When I raise an eyebrow at his less-than-subtle inspection, he smiles. “I might have to run my own case errands more often. And what did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.” And I’m definitely not going to.

He chuckles at that, but he doesn’t offer any other retort than a smirk and a wink as he pulls his wallet from his pocket and tosses a ten and a one on the counter. I take them and step to the side, ready to get his change, but he stops me with a gentle tap to the counter with his now-curled roll of case copies. “Don’t worry about it. Keep the change. And I look forward to seeing you again.”

Look forward to seeing me again? Um, no thank you, buddy. After this traumatic exchange, this will be the last time I ever agree to pick up one of Kevin’s shifts.

Sorry, Kev. But you’re going to have to find someone else to do your library dirty work.

But I can’t deny that I watch avidly as the far too handsome, nameless stranger heads for the front door without looking back.

His gait is smooth and his stride long, and the way his pants hug the muscled backs of his thighs and ass is seriously reminiscent of a statue.

I’d like to say that I turn away as he pushes open the door and that there isn’t a drop of drool at the corner of my mouth, but I’ve never been much of a liar.

Sergio and Catarina got my fantasies started today, but I have a real sneaking suspicion someone else—someone with eyes the color of brown sugar and dimples and a smart little smirk—will be finishing them.

But then, I’m going to forget all about him.

 

 

Cap

 

Errands officially run and work and Hell-ary’s margs with the girls out of my fucking head, I settle into poker night with the guys.

This, right here, is exactly what I needed.

Just the guys, smoking cigars, and playing poker.

Smoke swirls above the green felt of the table as Thatcher Kelly knocks the ashy end off his cigar, puts it back in his mouth, and deals a round of cards.

I catch them under my hand as he throws them, placing them one by one into the palm of my other hand and studying what luck has dealt me.

This hand gives me a queen, a king, and a trio of shitty other random cards, but in my actual life, it’s a whole lot of really good shit.

I’m a happy guy with a job he loves, friends he can count on, and more money than I’ll ever know what to do with.

I don’t have to worry about making the mortgage every month, I don’t have a sordid past with demons to conquer and wounds to heal, and I get more pussy than the SPCA.

There are occasionally stressful situations that come with being the top corporate lawyer for nearly every muckety-muck in the country, but I thrive off the pressure. It feeds my need for adrenaline and puts a nice layer of padding on an already swollen ego.

Which is, frankly, just how I like it.

Confidence keeps my life balanced. If I weren’t confident in my abilities at work, I’d be spending this time poring over files instead of enjoying a game of poker with my rarely available, pussy-whipped friends. But I know myself, I know my tenacity, I know my willingness to work an all-nighter, and most importantly, I know a little free time for pleasure does the business part of my mind a whole lot of good.

Kline Brooks, Thatcher Kelly, Wes Lancaster, Milo Ives, Trent Turner, and Harrison Hughes sit around the table in front of me, arranging their cards and smoking their cigars in comfortable silence. Quincy Black and Theo Cruz couldn’t make it tonight—something about a baby and a new hip nightclub respectively—but as I understand it, they have a standing invitation to poker night as well.

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