Page 7 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)

SOPHIE

I ’m fast asleep when Olivia calls me at the crack of dawn.

“Hello, yes,” I mumble, groggy and stupid with exhaustion. Outside my window, the sun has barely crested the horizon, gentle pinks streaking through the sky. “Thank you for never missing one of our calls, sister-sister.”

“Up and at ’em, Coach!” Olivia chirps happily, and I just know that she’s already out and about, walking around, a coffee in hand. Thank goodness we’re not living together anymore — I need to feel sufficiently miserable in the mornings in order to function.

I swing my legs out of the bed. “Did you see the game last night?”

“Of course I did. I’m insulted that you think I’d miss it.”

“Maybe you were busy with important journalism stuff.”

“I’m a fashion journalist, Soph. It’s not exactly like I’ll need to cover breaking news. Besides, do you know how much it cost me to add women’s soccer to my TV plan? No way am I missing a single game.”

I laugh, fumbling my way through the dark, feeling into the bathroom. When I stub my toe on the vanity, Olivia sighs on the other end of the line.

“Just turn the lights on, for heaven’s sake.”

“It’s like five more minutes of sleep, Ol. I’m not giving that up.”

“How does it feel like five more minutes of sleep when you’re on the phone with me?”

“That’s a great question — could you lower your voice?”

Olivia hangs up, and when she calls back a minute later, as I’m putting toothpaste on my brush, I answer, “You bitch.”

She cackles through the phone. “Did you ask mom about dinner tonight?”

“You know she’s not going to tell me.”

“Drat. I need to know how disappointed I’m going to be.”

“You could always come home.”

“Right. The nice, cheap round-trip flight from LA to Dallas, just for Sunday dinner.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Olivia is quiet for a moment, and I use the opportunity to spit out my toothpaste and rinse my mouth.

“You know, you could mute me when you do that.”

“You never mute me,” I say. “Even when you’re on the toilet.”

“Whatever. So, you lost the game. Does that mean fancy pants gets to have his way with you?”

I’m alone in my bathroom, and it’s pitch black in here, and still my cheeks heat. “Olivia?—”

“Oh my God . You’re totally blushing, aren’t you?”

“Shut up. No, it does not mean that. It means he’s going to totally ruin the team. Ruin everything — didn’t I tell you he wants to fire Molly?”

“You know I don’t agree with firing Molly.” Olivia is quiet for a moment, then says, quickly and quietly, “But maybe it’s not a bad idea to bring another trainer on.”

“Traitor.”

“I’m not a traitor! I just think that when a hottie billionaire comes and takes over your place of work, you should take full advantage of that. In more ways than one!”

“He’s not that good-looking.”

Olivia sucks in an offended breath. “Are we looking at the same man? Are all the images and videos of him online doctored? Are we not talking about the way-over-six-foot, built snack with the dark hair and bedroom eyes?”

My entire body is burning up now, my skin weirdly prickling. I run my hands over my arms and try to shake the feeling away.

“Oh my God , Olivia. Please. You are practically talking about my boss right now.”

“He’s not your boss. I looked it up online to make sure it would be ethical if you went for it, and just?—”

I pause with my leggings pulled halfway up my legs, the phone pinched between my shoulder and cheek.

“Olivia. This guy is a grade-A jerk, okay? Even if I was physically attracted to him — which I’m not — there’s no way I could get over his huge ego. He’d probably just stare at himself in the mirror the whole time, anyway?—”

“So, you have thought about it.”

“You’re insufferable. I’m going to hang up.”

“You can’t hang up until I know you’re doing the thing!”

I freeze, the idea of it pricking at the back of my neck. That’s the purpose of this call — why Olivia calls me on Sunday mornings. Because Sunday mornings are the days that I suck it up and get over myself.

They’re the days that I kick a soccer ball around. On Sunday mornings, I follow my therapist’s advice and reconnect with my sport physically. I do the thing I was doing the day I got hurt.

I open the closet door slowly, so Olivia can hear the squeaks. When I pick up the soccer ball, it’s practically burning through my hands. As if in response to it, the thought that I might actually kick it around myself, my hip twinges painfully.

Sucking in a breath, I say, “Got it. I’m doing the thing, Ol.”

“So proud of you!” she chirps, and I hear the definite sound of iced coffee moving through her straw. My sister is actually doing the thing, having moved across the country and going after her dream. “First, a little soccer ball action, then some other balls?—”

“I’m hanging up now.”

I hang up, then call her back, and she’s laughing.

“That’s my move,” she says, then, “Love you, Soph.”

“You too,” I say, doing everything I can to keep my voice light.

When we end the call, I drop the soccer back into my closet. It doesn’t even bounce — it’s too flat for that. The second I close the door, the fluttering in my chest calms down, settling.

It’s fine. Olivia and my parents think that I’m getting better. My sister even has the crazy idea that I could join a rec team around here.

I’m just in after-party mode. It’s what everybody says — if you can’t do, teach.

If you go down during the championship match and hurt your body so bad you can never come back to the game you love, slither into the consolatory role of coach.

But what they don’t know is that I’ll be perfectly fine, perfectly content going the rest of my life without ever kicking another soccer ball. It’s fine.

And despite Olivia’s best efforts, I’m going to get through this day without thinking about the man who’s already planning my downfall.

I finish my run, shower, dress. At the farmers market, I pick up eggs and veggies.

Then I have dinner with my parents, Olivia propped up on Facetime.

My mom makes roast, and Olivia practically cries over her fast-food burger.

We have chocolate cake and my dad talks to me about the season, the feeling he has that this year, against all odds, we’re definitely going to beat Miami.

When I get home and climb into bed, I’m almost, almost able to forget about the fact that I’ll be meeting with Elliot Altman tomorrow.

Almost.