Page 14 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)

ELLIOT

S ophie Kendall cleans up nice.

Of course, she’s gorgeous in her everyday athletic attire, in a body that’s so clearly active, but this is a whole different thing.

She’s in a black dress that clings to her body and swoops low between her breasts, and it’s been difficult for me to focus on anything except that brand-new patch of skin. A part of her that I’ve never seen before.

Without meaning to, I find myself imagining what it would be like to press my thumb there, to feel her warmth, the beating of her heart so close.

In fact, most of what she has on display is new to me, and I’m drinking in every inch.

And it’s not just the dress — it’s the hair, curled softly and pulled back from her face. It’s the red lipstick, the way her side profile shines when she turns her head and looks out at the city.

I’ve seen a million cityscapes. Been to a dozen rooftop bars objectively better than this one — and yet, for some reason, I’m starting to think that this might be my new favorite.

When Sophie laughs, throwing her head back and exposing her neck, I have to avert my eyes, the sight of her so happy strangely arousing.

“I can’t believe you’ve really never kicked a soccer ball,” she’s saying, leaning closer to me, blue eyes sparkling when they land on mine. “Not even like, in fourth grade?”

I think about seeing her on the practice field with Lena Athens, how she very purposefully did not kick the ball. But I won’t bring that up.

“In fourth grade,” I say, raising an eyebrow at her, “I was doing horseback riding as my athletic elective.”

“As your athletic elective,” she says, deepening her voice and laughing again before she takes another sip of her champagne. “Please tell me you boarded in the Alps, or something like that.”

“Unfortunately not,” I sigh, thinking of how nice it might have been to be away from my family as a kid. “Brandon and I didn’t board. We went to a private school down the road from our home in New York City.”

“Brandon?” Sophie tips her head, and I realize I’ve gotten too comfortable, accidentally letting the fact of my brother slip out like that. Without meaning to, I see the two of us as little kids, holding hands, walking to school in the mornings.

Other older brothers hated having their younger siblings around. Even back then, I loved it. I liked knowing that Brandon was the only other person in the world who understood what it was like to grow up with our parents, what it was like to exist in that exact microcosm of space and time.

“Yes,” I finally say, realizing I’ve let too much silence stretch out in the moment. “Brandon. My brother.”

“I didn’t know we were doing the standards,” Sophie laughs, and I realize the champagne has softened her up quite a bit, making her loose-limbed and smiley.

“The standards?” I ask, tilting my head at her.

“You know, standard questions.”

“I’m not familiar.”

“Like, favorite color?”

“Green,” I say, and she laughs.

“I wasn’t…” She stops, considers, then says. “Mine is blue. Well, then you should also know that I have a sister.”

“Is she also a soccer superstar?”

“No, she’s a journalism superstar.”

“So, what’s the next standard question, then?”

Sophie thinks, and I wonder why I care so much about this — specifically about hearing her answers. For a second, I think of the Australian girl from London — Abigail, was it? — and realize we never did anything like this.

“So you did horseback riding,” she says, settling her chin on her hands. “What other sports?”

“Tennis, mostly,” I say. “Though I did play rugby for a few years.”

She nods, like that makes sense, and I swear her eyes flit to the table, and if she could look through it she’d be staring at my legs.

We go on like that for the next hour or so, trading standard questions and learning the answers. I learn that she did ballet and soccer as a kid, and eventually had to choose one or the other. That explains her highlight clips, the way she moved in them.

She learns that my dad used to take me to the park when I was a kid, tell me to watch the different people, learn as much as I could about them. That observation would be the most useful skill for me when I was older.

I learn that she had a college boyfriend who cheated on her, but she didn’t care that much because soccer was her one true love. That, for some reason, actually manages to make me jealous.

Then, I tell her that I haven’t spoken to Brandon in over a year.

She gasps, bringing her hand to her chin. “A year ? What did he do?”

The question is confusing, and I realize it’s because she thinks he must have done something horrible for me to cut him off like that. I run my hand over the back of my neck.

“Well… nothing, really. We just don’t see eye-to-eye on things. Guess our paths just diverged, and we’re living different lives. He doesn’t really talk to our dad, either.”

“I can’t imagine it,” Sophie says, shaking her head so a loose blond tendril rolls over her forehead. “Olivia and I talk at least once a week. She’s the first person I think to call when something happens — she’s my best friend.”

It twists at something in my chest, and I push it away. It’s not like I hate my brother. It just makes things easier with Dad to go along with his plan. Besides, Brandon divesting all this money is a wild move.

“I guess if I had to point at something, it’s the fact that Brandon is divesting. Dad hates it, says he’s getting rid of decades of hard work.”

Sophie squints. “Divesting?”

“Yeah.” I shift, realize this isn’t something most people understand — most people aren’t born into families like mine.

“So, when Brandon and I were born, we both had these trusts. Then our grandparents passed away, and our grandfather specifically left his money to us, skipping over our father. I’ve used my money for business, stuff like buying this team, investing. Brandon is choosing to give his away.”

“Hmm,” Sophie says, then a smile curls at her lips. “You really are rich rich, aren’t you?”

“Sophie Kendall,” I tease, leaning back in my chair. “Have you not searched me up?”

She raises her eyebrows, “No, why? Did you internet stalk me?”

Usually, in situations like this, I’m the one keeping my date on their toes, teasing them and backing them to a corner. Just like on the plane.

But right now, Sophie has me on my heels.

Because yes, of course I internet stalked her — first, the preliminary time, just briefly glancing over her details.

Then, later, after our first encounter, I spent time on it.

Watched her games, scrolled through her social media, reviewed her stats from her short-lived soccer career.

And then, when I came to the articles about her injury, I just couldn’t bring myself to read them. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t see the titles, all some variation of: Sophie Kendall suffers career-ending blow during championship game.

“Wow.” She sits back and crosses her arms, looking me up and down. “You did search me up. That is so embarrassing for you.”

“I think you’re lying,” I say, leaning forward. “I think you definitely did some digging on me.”

Her cheeks turn pink and I want to put a name to that color, figure out what it is and see it all the time.

“I didn’t—” she protests, when I start to laugh. “I didn’t . It so does not count if Olivia searches for you online and tells me about it.”

“And what did she tell you?”

The questions seems to sober her up a bit, and she sits a little taller in her chair, as though only now realizing she’s let her guard down. Slowly, holding my gaze, she says, “Well, she told me that you’re a bit of a playboy.”

“Really, who said that?”

“Nobody.” Sophie shrugs, looks out toward the city again. “Olivia just said there were plenty of pictures of you with… plenty of beautiful women.”

When she looks back at me, there’s no denying it — a clear, wide-eyed expression of jealousy. That she’s desperately trying to mask.

“I feel like you have more to say about that,” I venture.

She rolls her eyes, laughs. “Don’t you think it’s a bit cliché?”

“What — local man searching for the perfect woman, won’t settle for anything less than his soulmate?”

Sophie pauses with her glass halfway to her lips, shakes her head, and says, “Okay, now I see why you were able to get all those girls on your arm.”

The server’s voice breaks through the moment. “More champagne?”

Sophie and I spring apart, and I realize we’ve been leaning across the table toward one another. I nod, and the server fills our glasses happily, the bubbles rising up through the glass.

“Are you hungry?” I ask Sophie, and when she hesitates, I ask the server for a menu.

“Elliot,” Sophie warns, watching as the server hands the small menu to her. “This is not a date.”

“Who said it was?”

“Eating food makes it a date, I think.”

“Really, what rule book is that from?”

I want to ask her, more specifically, why this can’t be a date, but I keep that to myself. Sophie doesn’t answer — she’s too busy looking at the menu, practically drooling over the options.

“Consider it a business expense,” I say, grabbing the top of the menu and pulling it down slightly, catching her eyes. If she wants to keep this out of date territory, it’s far too late for that. But I won’t tell her if she doesn’t want to hear it. “Just a man feeding his all-star coach.”

“Okay,” she relents, putting the menu down and tucking her hair behind her ears. “But only because this flatbread looks way too good to pass up.”