Page 22 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)

ELLIOT

A ll night, I dream about Sophie Kendall.

When we finished in her office, I wanted to take her home with me. Get something to eat — but it was late, and Sophie was already moving toward her car, waving to me, acting like it wasn’t a big deal.

But I wanted it to last longer. I want to have more time with her, not just be limited to hotel rooms and office quickies.

When I wake up, just a minute before my alarm, I know one thing with complete certainty: I don’t want to just have fun with Sophie Kendall.

I have to talk to her, to take back what I said. Figure out a way to make this work. I’ve never seen a woman for more than a few weeks at a time before, but I’ve also never met a woman like Sophie Kendall.

But I can’t talk to her about it today. Because the San Francisco Fahrenheit arrived in Dallas last night, and the game today determines whether or not the Bolts will be heading to the playoffs.

When I open the wardrobe to grab my outfit for today, I skip the suit and pull on a jersey — a Dallas Bolts jersey with no number on the back. For a moment, I’d thought about adding Sophie’s old number to it, but decided against it.

I dress, jump on a quick video call with Skylar, take a few more meetings, then make my way to the car to head to the stadium.

The win today will be huge for the Bolts. It won’t matter for Clark one way or another — San Francisco has already secured their spot — but it would still be nice to beat them.

When I arrive, fans are already milling about, smoke pumping from the concession stand, the smell of barbecue floating through the air.

“Sir.” I turn to find Skylar waiting for me just after the ticket-taker, wearing a jersey with one of the goalie’s numbers on it and a sparkling tattoo on her cheek. “Did you want to go over the?—”

“Not now,” I say, waving my hand and shaking my head. “Come on, let’s go find our seats.”

Skylar doesn’t argue, looking even more excited than I am, and we climb through the stands together, finding Rhett and Steven right where I saw them last time.

“Suit and tie!” Rhett says, standing and clapping his hand into mine, doing that bro-hug thing where you get pulled in for a half-hug. “You made it! And without the business attire.”

“Big one today.” I sit down, situate myself on the bench. Below, down on the field, players from both teams are milling around.

And there’s Sophie — blond hair glowing in the sunlight, her orange Dallas hat bright. I watch her as she moves confidently across the field, talking to each player, patting Lena Athens on the back.

Then, suddenly, a shade passes over me, blocking out the sun for a moment.

I look up to ask if someone needs to get through, only to find Clark Eddings staring down at me. As always, he looks startlingly British and infuriatingly annoying — his black hair thick with gel, his jaw round and almost baby-like.

“Altman,” he says, those round vowels grating against my ears as he scans me up and down. “You’re looking… chummy.”

“And you’re looking constipated, as usual,” I fire back, unable to stop the grin from spreading over my face when Rhett and Steven start to laugh behind me. A line stolen from Sophie, and a great line to use against Eddings.

“Whoa,” Rhett says. “Suit-on-suit crime.”

Clark rolls his eyes, grimaces, and climbs the risers, finding a spot somewhere behind us.

To my surprise, I forget completely about him, getting engrossed in the game, watching as Rhett, Steven and Skylar laugh and cheer, following the action.

We boo at yellow cards and gasp at shots on our goal, stand for the big moments.

Somehow, Dallas gets a one-point lead and holds onto it.

Then, in the final minutes of the game, Ava McNabb launches her body across the goal, making a fantastic save in the nick of time, keeping the game from going into overtime.

We’re cheering, dancing, chanting, and when Clark Eddings finds me again after the game, I realize I don’t care.

When I bought the team, I could only think about the look on his face when my team beat his, but now I find that the victory stands on its own. In fact, him being here doesn’t make it sweeter — it’s just a great game with the addition of a guy I don’t really like that much.

“Well,” Eddings starts, but I find I don’t have the energy to banter with him. Especially if I’m going to the after-party.

I surprise him by reaching forward, clasping his hand, and saying, “ Good game, man!” before turning and walking with Skylar down onto the field, to congratulate Sophie for her win.

My alarm goes off the next morning and I push out of bed, walk to the bathroom, filled with a renewed purpose. No more of this back-and-forth. No more talk about mistakes, or what we should and shouldn’t do.

It’s been two days since the night in Sophie’s office, and I know what I want. Yesterday was so busy with the game that I couldn’t find a moment alone with her, but now, with a week before the next one, I can talk to her.

The bathroom is quiet, nothing but the sound of the water hitting the tile when I turn on the shower. It steams up immediately, filling the room with the scent of my body wash.

I think about my plan. I’m going to drive to the practice facilities, walk into Sophie’s office, tell her that I want her.

I think about Sophie while I go through the motions, brushing my teeth, running product through my hair. When I select my suit, I think about her eyes traveling over my body, taking it in on the plane back from Miami.

I can always tell when she’s looking at me, admiring me.

Her voice plays through my head, You’re deceptively strong.

I’m in the car, battling the Dallas traffic to get to the practice facilities, when my phone rings. I press the button to answer and my father’s voice comes through the speakers.

“Still in Dallas, Elliot?”

He asks it the way another parent might say, Are you still planning on dropping out of Harvard ?

“Did you see the game last night, Dad?” I ask, glancing at my rear-view mirror and sliding into an empty spot. Either traffic around here has loosened up a bit, or I’m getting better at managing it.

“Uh, no,” he says, and I can see the expression on his face. Dismay that I would even ask that question.

“You should watch the replay,” I say, flicking on my turn signal. “It was pretty spectacular. We’re in the playoffs now, heading to the championship. If you watch the game, there’s this moment when Ava McNabb gets an incredible save, and the whole team just goes nuts.”

There’s a long moment of silence, then my dad says, in his most paternal tone, “I’m worried about you, son.”

Traffic gets thicker, more cars pulling onto the highway. I’ve been on these roads enough to know that it’s only going to get worse, but hopefully I’ll get off before it gets too congested.

I swallow. “Worried?”

“It sounds to me like you’re making business decisions with… emotions. You know my opinion on that. The moment you let your feelings get involved with where you put your money…”

My mind finishes his adage automatically: “… you join the losing side.”

“I think you just have to see it, Dad. Then you’ll?—”

“Gerald Blake told me that you’ve completely blown off that private equity opportunity. And I’ve heard from countless others that you’re not showing up to meetings, rescheduling them into oblivion.”

My stomach swoops, like I’m a kid getting caught for skipping school. “My priorities have shifted, and I’m putting together a team to handle those responsibilities for me?—”

He makes a noncommittal noise, cutting me off.

“Elliot, I can see that this is turning into something of a hobby for you, but framing it like a business decision? The margins are so slim, and think about all the time you’ve already poured into it.

You’ve been in Dallas for months. Fitz & Eddings is way up in the market, and if we’re honest, your shares could be doing better… ”

For a second, he gets me. Pulls me back into the mindset I’ve had for years, the way of thinking that got me to where I am. Ten years ago, I took my trust-fund money, my inheritance from Gramps, and ran with it, turning it into something much bigger than myself.

I focused everything on investing, turning that money into more money, and it was intoxicating. Funding startups and reaping the rewards. Staring my own companies, one after the other, and selling them off to the bigger fish once they garnered support.

But some of the shine has worn off from living that life.

Dad starts talking about interest rates and the Fed. I listen to him, hmming in agreement, but the reality is that I haven’t been paying as much attention to it as normal. I haven’t been thinking about my portfolio, or checking in on my other investments.

I make a note to go through my emails from Skylar, to check in with her on the construction progress for the manufacturing plant, ask about the changes to the distribution system for the software company I invested in last quarter.

“Gotta go, son,” Dad says, ending the call, and I sigh into the cabin of my car, trying to let the tension out from my shoulders.

Keeping your feelings out of business separates you from the losers.

I think about Sophie, about the way things feel with her. So easy. Like time doesn’t exist when we’re together.

Maybe I’m falling right into the trap. Putting my feelings before the business.

But at what point do I make the swap? Do I dedicate my entire life to my money? Keep my foot on the throttle, only focusing on profits until the day I die?

Or do I take a chance on a woman who feels like something more?

Maybe Dad is right — that I’m viewing the Bolts as something more like a hobby than a business, but maybe it’s time I got to have a hobby. That I used all this money on something special.

Then again, the idea of wasting money feels sour, toxic.

The margins are so slim. Think about all the time you’ve poured into it.

The team can make me money, but not enough to justify the expense, the time suck. My dad is right about that, and I hate knowing he is. From the time I was old enough to start making my own business decisions, he’s had his eye on me, watching my every move.

I don’t want to end up like Brandon.

Just as I’m thinking it, another call comes through the car’s speakers. I’m only five minutes away from the practice facility, from telling Sophie exactly what I want, and my brain feels scrambled.

I answer, and the voice comes through the speaker. “Hello, is this Mr. Elliot Altman?”

“That’s me,” I say, exiting the highway and heading toward soccer complex. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning, Mr. Altman. This is Andrea Williams, from the Schultz-Dennings Attorney’s Office. I’m calling on behalf of a client of mine. As I understand it, and just to confirm, you’re currently the owner of the Dallas Bolts?”

“Yes,” I start, brow furrowing as I try to figure out where this is going. A lawsuit? I’m pretty used to those by now, but most attorneys don’t call me straight away. Usually, lawsuits are served to the business, and I hear about it through the regular legal updating meetings.

When you own as many entities as I do, lawsuits are just part of the territory.

“Perfect. Well, I am calling you today with an offer to purchase the team.”

My mouth goes dry. The practice facility appears on the horizon, and I turn, pulling into the lot of a coffee shop, my mind racing.

This must be Clark Eddings. Realizing my team has a chance of beating his — realizing Dallas is in the playoffs. I grip the wheel, adjusting my position in my seat, thinking.

Would he really try to buy the team out from under me, just to protect his image? Of course he would.

On one hand, I don’t want to sell the team. I’m invested in its success now.

But, on the other, if I sell the team, there are no more questions about ethics between Sophie and me. No examining if the relationship crosses lines, or if I’m technically her boss.

If I wasn’t so tangled up in the team, maybe she would feel less hesitant about me. Maybe she would want something more than fun.

“All right,” I say, keeping my voice even, noncommittal. “What’s the starting offer?”

When the person on the other end of the lines rattles off the number, sounding nonchalant about it, I have to bite my tongue to keep my mouth from falling open.

Objectively, it’s not a large number. Not compared to the money I have. But compared to what I spent on the team — it’s nearly five times as much.

Has the valuation really changed that much? Even without winning the championship? Just going to the playoffs was enough?

“Mr. Altman? Are you still on the line?”

“Yes.” I clear my throat. “I’m here. Let me speak with my team and get back to you. Can I give you some contact information to send over the offer?”

“That would be perfect. Thank you.”

I list off several emails, including Skylar’s and that of my lawyer, then end the call, sitting in the car, stunned. The air conditioning blows gently, and goosebumps erupt over my skin, reminding me of that day with Sophie, outside the chili hut.

Usually, I’m not a man who struggles with making decisions. When there’s plenty of information, the path is typically obvious to me. I can decide what I want and go for it, never look back to wonder if I did the right thing.

But right now, sitting in this car, the words of the attorney still echoing through my mind, I have no idea what I’m going to do.