Page 18 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)

ELLIOT

W hen I wake up the next morning, it’s with Sophie’s body pressed to mine.

The room is warm, the golden Miami sunlight streaming in through the window, and I hold my breath, staring at the woman on the pillow next to me. Her honey blond hair spills out in tendrils, and my fingers itch to run through it, feel it again like I did last night.

In fact, I want to feel every part of her like I did last night. I want to feel more of her, find new and different ways to touch her.

Then, my eyes shift to the alarm clock on the bedside table, and a jolt of awareness rolls through me.

It’s past eight in the morning.

Just as suddenly as they came, the warm feelings rush away, replaced with a sense of urgency. I’m no stranger to having a woman in my hotel room, but I’ve never let it interfere with my schedule.

The countless mornings flash through my mind — waking up even before my alarm, like I always did, rising up out of the warm bed, leaving a half-naked woman there. Working on my laptop until she eventually stirred, sitting up and smiling at me.

Of course, I’d order room service, feed her, offer her a shower before she went.

But now, I’ve somehow managed not only to not wake up before the alarm, but to sleep through it completely. Three hours of the day, of my life, are gone.

I had emails to respond to, a whole list of tasks on my never-ending list to complete before eight. That means everything else is pushed back.

My heart skips as I bolt up from the bed and cross the room to the bathroom. I bite my tongue, trying to hold back the faint sense of frustration pushing against my skin. What is it about Sophie Kendall that turns everything in my life, in my body, on its head?

There’s a reason I make a point not to get attached.

I brush my teeth, step into the shower, like if I move fast enough, I might be able to gain back some of the time I lost sleeping in this morning. Three hours I spent, unconscious, body pressed against hers.

A counterargument emerges in my head — I could just get back in bed with her. Push my tasks off to tomorrow. Enjoy this morning.

I push the urge away. I don’t have the luxury of cuddling in the mornings.

It’s part of the reason I’ve never kept any of those other women around. They wouldn’t understand the time dedication necessary for me to do my work, to maintain my life.

I’ll just have to skip my workout this morning. It’s the only way to get the time back.

Working out is part of what keeps me sane, settling my brain and making it easier for me to get through the day. But I just can’t spare the time today, unless I can somehow figure out a way to go through emails, make decisions while bench pressing.

When I open the door, movements jerky with tension, I find Sophie sitting on the edge of the bed, a strange expression on her face.

I take her in, reading her quickly. Disappointment. Trepidation.

Even though I wish I didn’t notice, she’s even more beautiful this morning than she was last night. Her dress is rumpled and her hair is mussed, but she looks well-rested, her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright.

Her hair looks finger-combed, and there are lines on her arm from the sheets, and all I want is to pick her up, get those legs around my waist, bring her back into that bed with me.

“Hey,” she says, and I realize that she’s pulling on her shoes. The high-heeled shoes from last night, black and strappy.

Leaving.

“Hey,” I return, feeling something cold wrap around my brain. An insistence that I protect myself in this moment.

I should offer for her to get in the shower. I should offer to run to her room, get her some clothes so she doesn’t have to walk through the hotel in last night’s outfit. Order some room service for breakfast. But the words get stuck in my throat, and I just stare at her instead.

“Sorry,” she chokes out, flashing me a thin smile. Then, she shakes her head and says, “I, uh— Elliot, I’ve been thinking, and?—”

“I agree.” I step into the room, nod my head too.

Sophie is already on her way out, and if I can read her like I think I can, she’s regretting last night. She’s said it before — the club is her number-one priority. Her life’s work.

And being with me, in any sort of intimate capacity, isn’t going to be what’s best for the club.

Though I’m not technically her boss, she probably feels the same way I do about any sort of distraction.

The way that I felt this morning… the way I felt around her last night — it’s clear that Sophie is going to be something more than my usual flings.

Clear that it’s going to be much more difficult to keep my head focused if I try to keep this going with her.

Sophie pauses, then says, “You… you do?”

For a flicker of a moment, I think that I might have read her wrong, because the look on her face — it’s more like confusion than certainty.

“Sure,” I cross my arms, lean against the wall, nodding. “I realize that last night was a mistake. For what it’s worth, I never should have invited you up to my room.”

Her eyes widen, and she looks down at her shoes quickly. “Oh, right. Yeah. Not very professional of us.”

Silence falls in the room, and there’s a part of me — shoved far to the back of my head — that’s demanding I take that back. It’s a lie. There’s no part of me that regrets doing what we did last night.

But she’s right. It’s not very professional of us. And I know I have to give her an out. Have to show her that it doesn’t matter to me, one way or another, whether she stays or goes this morning.

“It would be best for us to remain friendly colleagues, right?”

I have to show her that none of this will affect the club, which is probably her main worry. The reason she looks so nervous right now. The thing on her mind as she stares at me with that strange, unsure glint in her eye.

“Right. So, we should probably keep this just between us?”

“Of course.”

Sophie stands, coughs, grabs her phone from the side table, her eyes cast down at the floor as she scoots past me.

“I’ll, uh?—”

“See you on the plane,” I say, smiling, but it feels strange on my face. Shaped the wrong way, like I woke up this morning and forgot how to make expressions.

When the door shuts behind her, something dark settles into my chest, a sort of dread, an understanding that I’ve just made a huge mistake. I ignore the voice in my head telling me to go after her and turn, grabbing my phone.

There are already dozens of notifications on the screen. People who want to have meetings, calendar invites, changes, emails, adjustments, updates on the changes in the stock market, texts from Skylar.

Even if I’d wanted to lay in bed with Sophie this morning, I don’t have the time.

As I settle in at the desk in my room, working methodically through each message, email, and update, I tell myself that it’s for the best. That I’ve made the most logical, strategically sound decision in turning her away.

That Sophie was already thinking of last night as a mistake, and all I did was agree with her.