Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1) (6 page)

“F
inally!” Dean remarked as he slammed through my door half an hour later.

I’d just finished finalizing and faxing the
original
Sure Romance contract. The one where a little quick talking had prevented Leslie’s ill-timed interruption from ruining my life and dragging the company over a swath of hot coals.
The one I was shoving down Martin’s throat whether he liked it or not.

Meanwhile, my stomach was working on chewing a sandwich-sized hole through itself.

“I swear that evil trampvestite is the bane of my existence.”

I raised a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow in amusement. If Cassie was the expert of parodies, Dean was the single-most talented nickname giver I’d ever encountered. No two people were alike and no name was deemed off-limits in the name of political correctness. Basically, Dean did the dirty work and I reaped the benefits.

“Trampvestite, huh?”

“Oh, yeah,” he confirmed, pointing to his fluttering eyes. “Fake lashes to here.” He held both hands out generously in front of his chest. “And fake tits out to there.”

I didn’t bother to conceal my laugh.

“She’s had me running all over this goddamn place this morning, putting out fires and sweating through a five-hundred-dollar shirt.”

“You know what will make you feel better?” I cooed.

His green eyes twinkled under the fluorescent lights. “Twenty million dollars and a private island with Brad Pitt?”

“A hot turkey sandwich.”

“Hmm,” he mumbled as he pretended to consider it. “I guess that’ll work.”

I slid the bottom drawer of my desk open with ease, yanked my purse out, and slammed it shut with a bang.

“Let’s go. Feed me. Regale me with all of your tales of woe.”

“She’s been annoying you too,” he argued as I slid my arm through his at the elbow.

“She has,” I agreed. “You just play a much more convincing victim than I do.”

A small blush stole through his cheeks, and he leaned down to smack a kiss on mine. Compliments always cheered him up.

“I’ve had more practice,” he comforted me. Not that I
needed
to be comforted. This was still all about Dean and giving him what he needed. I didn’t have a dick, but I could do drama.

“Ah, yes, the struggles of an attractive gay man.”

“They’re like wolves, Georgia! One innocent cherub like me in the club and they swarm like bees.”

“Wait. I’m confused. Are they wolves or bees?” I teased as he pushed the button for the elevator.

“Shut your crimson lip-stain-covered trap!”

Perfect.

A distraction of
cosmetic
proportions.

“You like the color?” I asked as I backed into the rear wall of the elevator, propping my chin up on a posed hand and pursing my lips.

“Hmm.” He pretended to inspect me, fluffing the hair on both sides of my head. Consideration turned into a quick smile, and a wink popped his left eye closed. “Love!”

“Thanks,” I offered with a return grin.

While Dean proceeded to gab about his recent rendezvous with a cute bartender, I couldn’t shake a question that’d been nagging me. I needed an answer.

TAPRoseNEXT (12:52PM): So, if that wasn’t your dick, whose dick was it? I think I want to know the answer to this, but there’s another part of me that’s a little afraid…

BAD_Ruck (12:53PM): Afraid I’ll reveal that I’ve got a stockpile of other dudes’ dicks on my phone?

Hells bells, that answer was
not
reassuring.

TAPRoseNEXT (12:54PM): …

TAPRoseNEXT (12:55PM): For real “…” is the only response I have to that.

Okay, seriously, if he didn’t respond in the next two minutes, my trigger finger was going straight for the block button.

TAPRoseNEXT (12:56PM): …! (If I could use shouty caps for ellipses, I’d be doing it RIGHT NOW)

BAD_Ruck (12:57PM): I don’t make a habit of collecting other dudes’ dick pics or taking my own. But I do have a friend (who’s a bit of a prick) who loves “gargoyle dicking” people as a prank.

TAPRoseNEXT (12:58PM): My friend (who’s pretty hilarious) referred to the dick in question as, “The Hunchcock of Notre Dame.”

BAD_Ruck (12:59PM): If I were the kind of guy who used text acronyms, I’d definitely be responding with LOL.

TAPRoseNEXT (1:00PM): Question: were you purposefully withholding important information to get me worked up?

We crossed Fifth Avenue, heading straight for my favorite family-owned deli. The sidewalks were bustling with energy, but
BAD_Ruck
had become quite the distraction. I only willed my eyes to look away from our message box to avoid being run over by a taxi or knocking over my fellow pedestrians.

Dean cleared his throat. “Excuse me? Are you even listening? Or am I rambling on about Sir Sucks-A-Lot for no reason?”

“Sir Sucks-A-Lot?”

“Jesus.” He sighed. “What in the hell are you doing? Are you texting someone?”

I shrugged. “Just checking work emails.” No way in hell would I give Dean any kind of ammunition regarding TapNext. I’d never live that down.

He stopped in the middle of the New York sidewalk traffic, nearly causing a woman with her dog to trip over the leash. “Work emails? You’re so full of it.”

Uh-huh.
I hid the screen of my phone. “What? I’ve got that big deal with Sure Romance I need nailed down by the end of the week…”

“You’re the worst liar. Seriously. It’s like you’re so bad at lying that I honestly wonder if you’re doing it on purpose.”

“I’m not lying,” I said, fighting a smile.

Dean pointed to my mouth. “Says the girl who’s notorious for smiling or giggling nervously whenever she’s lying.”

Shit.
I covered my mouth.

“Honey, you are too much,” he teased, placing his hand at the small of my back. “Now, let’s get your lying ass inside that deli so I can fight the starvation that’s threatening to take place.”

“This place is insane,” Dean whispered in my ear as we stepped in the door.

The restaurant was packed. Every table was filled, and the line to order reached the door. But I didn’t care. My nostrils had already been seduced by the delicious aromas of freshly baked breads and soups. I’d wait two hours if I had to.

“I know,” I agreed. “But it’s like this all the time.” My eyes scanned the tables for any open seats. “It looks like that woman in the corner is about to get up.”

“Perfect. You grab it. I’ll order,” Dean suggested. “The usual?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Like you even have to ask.”

“Chicken salad. Lettuce. Light mayo. Hold the onion and tomato.”

I nodded. “I swear if you didn’t have an aversion to vaginas, I’d beg you to be my husband.”

He smirked. “Plenty of women are beards to their fabulously gay husbands.”

“Yeah, but we’d fight too much over our clothing budget. You’d shop us out of food and rent money.”

“I bet you wouldn’t be complaining too much when your curvy little ass was decked out in designer duds.”

Laughing, I held up both hands. “Fine. You’ve convinced me. If I reach the age of thirty-five and neither of us is married, I’ll be your beard.”

“Fabulous.” He winked. “Now go snatch a table while I grab the food.”

Since Dean was a diva from way back, I did as I was told. I pretended to mosey around the joint, casually stopping to look at the memorabilia on the walls, but in reality, I was watching some woman with a red turtleneck and Crocs like a hawk. By the time she gathered her trash and was getting ready to hop to her feet, I had strategically placed myself a few feet away from her table, carefully planning my descent onto her chair.

The second Turtleneck’s butt cheeks left the seat, I slid into her place with the finesse of a gazelle. Well, in my head, I looked like a gazelle. The guy whose head I nearly took off with my purse probably would’ve called it more
bull in china shop
, but whatever. Tomato. Tomahto.

My phone pinged inside the front pocket of my purse.

BAD_Ruck (1:12PM) Question: Is now the time to confess you’re pretty adorable when you get worked up?

TAPRoseNEXT (1:13PM) Egging me on for your own amusement? That’s not very gentlemanly of you.

BAD_Ruck (1:14PM) I can assure you, I’m a gentleman in all the ways that count.

TAPRoseNEXT (1:15PM) Are you flirting with me?

BAD_Ruck (1:16PM) If I am, is it working?

TAPRoseNEXT (1:17PM) A lady never kisses (or flirts) and tells.

BAD_Ruck (1:18PM) Neither does a gentleman.

TAPRoseNEXT (1:19PM): I think you might be BAD news.

BAD_Ruck (1:20PM): BAD in the best kind of way, sweetheart.

TAPRoseNEXT (1:21PM): You’re definitely flirting with me, Ruck.

BAD_Ruck (1:22PM): You’ve got a keen eye, Rose.

“I’m convinced. You’re sexting someone.”

I glanced up from my phone, meeting Dean’s knowing look. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you think I’m sexting someone?”

“The fact that you’re smiling like a loon and haven’t noticed I’ve been sitting here for a good five minutes with our food.”

He had a point. I was too wrapped up in
BAD_Ruck
’s responses to notice anything else. I couldn’t deny, the man intrigued me. But I also couldn’t deny that if I didn’t set my phone down and give Dean my undivided attention, it might be grounds for a full-on catfight.

TAPRoseNEXT (1:23PM): I’ve got a growling stomach and an impatient friend who’s staring at me from across the table. Rain check (on the flirting)?

I set my phone on the table, eyeing the goodness set before me. The aroma of chicken salad and greasy French fries called my name. “This looks like heaven ready to explode in my mouth.”

“That’s what Neil said last night when he was taking off my navy Gucci dress slacks.”

My hands stopped at the halfway point of sandwich-thrusting into my mouth.

“Simply stating ‘my pants’ would have been sufficient. And who the hell is Neil?”

“Sir Sucks-A-Lot,” Dean said, taking a bite of his Greek salad. “And honey, those weren’t just any pants. They were Gucci’s twill blended wool. And they make my ass look fabulous.”

“I guess that explains why Neil was taking off your pants in the first place.”

Dean grinned. “Truer words have never been spoken.”

A jolting bump forced the sandwich to fall from my hands and land half open on the kitschy diner table.
What in the ever-loving hell?
If Turtleneck was coming back for her seat, it was about to go down.

“Excuse me,” was muttered over a man’s shoulder as his dress-slack-covered ass—fantastic ass, mind you—moved past my chair and toward the doors. His face was too buried in his phone to realize he had just barreled through my lunchtime fun.

“Jesus,”
I grumbled. “Does everyone in New York have to be so pushy? I mean, how hard is it to watch where you’re going instead of knocking into everyone?”

Dean tilted his head to the side, eyes focused toward the front of the restaurant. “I think that was Mr. Brooks.”