Page 19 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)
SOPHIE
“ W ait—”
Olivia’s voice is fuzzy through the phone, her face slightly pixelated on the screen as she stares out at me, her eyebrows raised.
“Wait,” she starts again, shaking her head so her braids toss over her shoulders. “You slept with him?—?”
“Jesus, Liv,” I laugh, grabbing for the volume button. I’m alone in my apartment, but for some reason, I have the irrational fear that someone might hear what we’re saying.
Specifically that Elliot Altman might overhear.
Which makes absolutely no sense. He’s not here. He’s probably back at his hotel, juggling responsibilities and barely even thinking about what happened between us.
Definitely not thinking about it as much as I’ve been.
My mind flashes back to waking up in the hotel room. Hearing him in the shower, and the urge to go join him in there. The thing that held me back, this strange feeling in the air.
Like he wouldn’t want me in there with him.
So I got out of the bed, moving robotically, putting my clothes back on, feeling ridiculous in the dress from the night before. More than anything, I wished I had a pair of sweats to change into. Something more comfortable, something that didn’t scream walk of shame .
Then, the look on his face when he came out.
Telling Olivia about it, I made it sound like a joke. In that moment, it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt embarrassing, like I’d overstayed my welcome.
Like I’d clearly read into the situation more than Elliot wanted me to.
“I already told you, he said it was a mistake ,” I hiss, pulling the phone closer and glaring at my sister. Behind her face on my screen is the kitchen counter, which is a complete mess, covered with flour, sugar, and various sticky substances.
When I catch sight of myself in the little selfie screen, I realize I have a swipe of flour over my cheek and start to wipe at it, trying to get it off.
“Sure,” Olivia says, taking a noisy drink of her coffee, “but was it, like, in a tortured kind of way?”
“I have no idea what you’re saying right now.”
“You know, like,” — she puts the back of her wrist to her forehead, tipping her head back and adopting a transatlantic accent — “ This was a mistake !”
“No.” I can’t help but laugh, despite the knot forming in my stomach. “He didn’t say it like that.”
I’ve been back in Dallas for a week. On the flight home from Miami, I made sure to snag a spot next to Molly in the back of the plane, heart pounding like a schoolgirl when Elliot climbed onto the plane, looking impossibly good in his stupid suit.
How could I have made such a massive miscalculation?
Friendly colleagues .
“At least tell me how it was,” Olivia says, waggling her eyebrows at me. “I mean, just look at the guy. Please don’t tell me he was bad in bed.”
I feel my face heat, despite the fact that Olivia and I have debriefed each other on plenty of sex adventures. But this… this felt different. Less like Elliot and I were having sex, and more like we were starting something together.
The way he touched, me the way he looked at me — just remembering his dark eyes, the size of his pupils when he gazed down at my body — sends a shiver straight down my spine.
“Oh- kay ,” Olivia teases, shifting and leaning closer to the camera so her forehead looks huge. “So what is that look on your face? Mr. Altman was a treat?”
“Stop.” I’m laughing, but also mortified. Because for some reason, I don’t want to trivialize this, or joke about it. Despite the fact that Elliot made it clear he didn’t think we should continue doing it. “He said it was a mistake. That’s all that matters.”
“Yeah, but — do you think it was a mistake?”
I pause, swallowing.
Technically, professionally, I know it wasn’t a smart move. That Elliot might be my boss — or is he? — but either way, he’s definitely above me in the food chain, and I don’t like the way that would look if someone found out.
But that night, together in that bed… it didn’t feel like a mistake.
Olivia puts her hands in the air like I’m arresting her. “Okay, okay, fine. But tell me — did Mom even hint about what she’s making for dinner tonight?”
“No, she never, ever hints,” I laugh. “You’re just going to have to guess.”
I’d thought that my first time seeing Elliot would be awkward, given the new, strange thing between us. Given the fact that so much time has passed since Miami.
But Monday morning, a full week after our night together, he storms into my office with a frown on his face, bursting through any discomfort and plunging right back into our dynamic from before that night.
“Sophie,” he says, bracing his hands on my desk and staring me down. “I thought we had agreed to work together.”
I stare right back up at him, heart beating double-time, eyes skipping around his too-handsome face.
“We did,” I finally manage.
“Then why ,” he asks, slapping a folder down on the table, “are you rejecting every single trainer my people send over?”
“Oh.” I sit back in my chair, cross my arms, and frown at him. “Because they’re all ridiculous.”
“ Care to share why, or are you just being difficult on purpose?”
He’s breathing hard, but there’s no hard edge in his voice. Smiling slowly, I lean forward, tap my finger on the folder, and say, “Because all of these trainers are babies! They’re barely out of school. Get us someone with a little experience.”
“Trainers with experience cost more money,” he throws back. “And, in case you forgot, this place is allergic to making money.”
“Fine.” I shrug. “Then don’t hire more. I said before that I think Molly is enough.”
Now he’s frowning, and in the brief silence, something unexpected happens — his stomach growls, loud enough that the sound of it rises above the grinding of my old air conditioner.
His cheeks splash with color, and I can’t stop myself from laughing.
“Really, Altman?” I lean back in my chair, shaking my head at him. “All this because you’re hangry ?”
“I am not—” He pauses, saying the word like it’s dirty, “… hangry .”
“Did you eat lunch?”
“No, but?—”
I slide the folder back over to him. “Come back to me when you’re not ripping my head off due to hunger. Why wouldn’t you eat lunch?”
“Because there’s no good food in this city, for one.”
I freeze, turning to look at him slowly, my eyes wide with shock and horror. When he laughs, I shake my head, realizing he doesn’t understand the gravity of what he’s just said to me.
“Ex cuse me,” I ask, eyebrows already to my hairline. “I’m not going to ask you to repeat it, because I’m not sure you’ll survive if I hear you say that again?—”
He laughs as he says, “Sophie, please . It’s not like anyone is talking about the food scene here. Coming here, after being in New York? It’s like going to a gas station to do your grocery shopping.”
“Come on.” I stand from my chair, grab my keys, hitch my bag up on my back and turn toward the door, waving for him to follow me.
“What do you mean, come on ? We have things to get done?—”
“I can’t have you telling lies like that, Elliot. We need to educate you on the very vibrant Dallas food scene before you get yourself in trouble.”
I pause at the door, and he freezes, watching me. Then, I add, “Come on. Let’s get lunch. As friendly colleagues.”
Deep down, something inside me turns over. The knowledge that I’m doing all this to spend more time with him. It’s a bad idea, especially with the seed of feeling in my chest, the risk that more time with him might make it sprout.
He thought what we did together was a mistake, and yet, he’s following me down the hallway. He’s slipped his phone into his pocket, not looking at is as we turn the corner and head for the door.
“What?” he laughs. “Someone gonna trample me with a steer?”
I glare at him, but when we break out into the bright sunshine, he trails after me through the parking lot, giving my car a once-over before shifting his gaze to me.
“Are you sure this thing is road-safe?”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say, jumping up into the driver’s seat.
For a second, I think he might not come. That he might make an excuse, turn around, and go back into the building.
But Elliot climbs into the passenger seat, and my stomach settles down.
His door doesn’t close on the first try, or on the second.
“You have to close it like you’re pissed at it,” I tell him, and when he gives me a look, I lean over his body, grab the handle, and give it a solid tug so it latches.
That, of course, leaves me stretched out over his body, and when I look up at him through my hair, he’s staring down at me with an unreadable expression on his face. The second pulls taut, and I watch him swallow.
Pushing back quickly, I brush my hands down my shirt, feel stupid for doing that, then reach over and start the car.
“We’ll start with chili,” I decide, and when I glance over at Elliot, his eyebrows are raised.
“ Start with chili?”
“You heard me, Altman.”
As I pull out of the practice facility’s lot, I can’t keep the smile from my face.