Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1) (11 page)

Thatch’s smile mocked me. He knew what I was doing, exaggerating his faults to help minimize my own.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Moneybags.”

Yeah, she definitely thought I was an ostentatious dick.

“Georgia girl, give me an update. What’s going on?” Thatch schmoozed, laying it on thick just to get a rise out of me.

“Uh…” she mumbled, trailing off for a brief second. “Boobear just tackled somebody.”

“Boobear? Who the fuck is Boobear?” Thatch mouthed in my direction.

I shrugged. “Who just got a tackle?”

“Boobear. He plays on the orange team,” she repeated as though it made sense. “Oh no, I think Boobear is hurt.”

It took some serious thinking, but I finally decoded the mystery. “Do you mean
Boudmare?”

“Yeah, that’s him. His nickname is Boobear.”

“The commentators are calling him Boobear?” I asked, fighting a smile.

“No, I nicknamed him Boobear. He looks like a giant teddy bear. He’s so cute!”

“Oh, dear God,” Thatch groaned.

“Oh, thank goodness. Boobear is back up and on his feet. They’re lining up again. White team has the ball. The big guy in the middle chucked it to the thrower guy. He threw the ball… really far…” She trailed off, and then the line went silent.

“Georgia?”

Nothing.

“Georgia!” I strived to grab her attention.

“What?” she snapped.

“The ball was thrown…
where?
What happened?”

“Coca-Cola threw it a bunch of yards to Stuart Little. They’re lining up again near the touchdown box.”

Coca-Cola? Stuart Little? Who in the hell was she talking about?

“Who is she talking about?” Thatch mouthed, arms wide in frustration. “I fucking knew we should’ve called Wes,” he whispered, pacing the aisle.

“Help me out here,” I said into the phone. “Who is Coca-Cola?”

“The quarterback on the white team.”

“You mean Cokel?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Is she fucking nicknaming the players?” Thatch boomed in disgrace.

“Uh-huh,” she responded over what sounded like a mouthful of chips, not an ounce of shame in her tone.

I couldn’t even get pissed at her. She was too fucking adorable. I glanced over at Thatch. He was wearing a figurative hole in the aisle carpet and practically pulling his hair out. I grinned. Even though I hadn’t a clue what was happening in the game, watching Thatch’s upset come to a crescendo was worth it.

“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 pussy 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 fucking 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
fucking 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.”

I
t 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.

TAPRoseNEXT (2:18PM): Get over yourself. I would lay money on the fact that Mr. Charming himself has a date tonight too.

BAD_Ruck (2:18PM): Maybe.

TAPRoseNEXT (2:19PM): My point exactly. Now, help me out here.

BAD_Ruck (2:19PM): Okay. Let’s start with the obvious. Why are you nervous?

Why was I nervous? That was the big question. I stared across the aisle, watching an older woman working on a crossword. The tip of her pen ran across the empty blocks as she tried to think of a four-letter word for 15A. “_____ comes trouble!”

Here comes trouble.
Apt phrase for my present state. My mind had been shouting this from the second I had agreed to a date with Kline.

God, I was definitely freaking out over a bunch of things, and one thing, in particular, stood out the most.

TAPRoseNEXT (2:20PM): For one, I work with him. If things end up badly, I’m worried it could cost me my job.

BAD_Ruck (2:20PM): Ah, the old coworker conundrum. Did he ask you out? Or did you ask him out? And is it forbidden in your employee contract?

TAPRoseNEXT (2:21PM): He asked me. And I have no earthly clue. Was that something I was supposed to actually read?

BAD_Ruck (2:21PM): Okay. Different tactic. Does he normally date women he works with?

TAPRoseNEXT (2:22PM): No, never. Either that or he’s a super sleuth about it. I’m not personally the office gossip, but I know someone with an ear to the ground.

BAD_Ruck (2:23PM): If he asked you out, and you’ve never seen him date any of your colleagues, he’s probably thought this through. How long have you worked with him?

TAPRoseNEXT (2:23PM): A couple of years.

BAD_Ruck (2:24PM): And in that time, has he ever seemed like the kind of man who lets his personal life affect business?

TAPRoseNEXT (2:25PM): Actually, no. Picture of professional. Business always comes first with him.

BAD_Ruck (2:25PM): Then what’s different now?

TAPRoseNEXT (2:26PM): I honestly don’t know.

BAD_Ruck (2:26PM): Smart money says it’s you, Rose.

He had a point. Kline Brooks had never given me any reason to doubt the decisions he made. He wasn’t a player. He didn’t make a show out of fucking anything in a short skirt and pair of heels that sashayed around the office.

Leslie was a perfect example. The girl was gorgeous and made a job out of flaunting her curves for the world to see. And I’d yet to see Kline act anything but annoyed with her—no salacious glances or devilish intents flashing across his eyes. He was ever the professional when his new intern was around. Most days, he was doing everything he could to push her off on someone else.

But my dating Kline equaled us getting to know each other on a more personal level. If one date turned into more, then eventually, he would know
other
things about me. Things I wouldn’t normally want my boss to know.

TAPRoseNEXT (2:27PM): Can I be frank with you?

BAD_Ruck (2:28PM): I guess. I’m surprisingly partial to Rose.

TAPRoseNEXT (2:28PM): I said frank, not Frank, Ruck.

BAD_Ruck (2:29PM): Have you ever not been frank with me?

I laughed, startling the pen out of the crossword woman’s hands.

“Sorry.” I cringed, leaning forward and picking it up from the aisle.

“No worries, honey.” She took the pen from my outstretched hand. “Two words for puppy amuser?” she asked, grinning.

“Chew toy,” I answered.

“Aha! You’re right! Thank you!” And that was that. She dove right back into her crossword, tuning the rest of the world out.

I replayed past convos with Ruck in my head. I tended to be pretty open and honest with him, maybe a bit too much. The other night I had kept him up until one in the morning discussing why most men thought anal sex was a good idea.

He’d ended the conversation with, “I’m not going to speak on behalf of all men, because let’s face it, there are some real morons in my gender. But for me, when I really want a woman, I want to claim every part of her.”

See what I mean? He gives damn good convo.

That response made me instantly jealous of the woman Ruck had set his sights on. Even I couldn’t ignore the sexiness of Ruck going caveman and wanting to claim every part of her, whoever she was.
Lucky bitch.