Page 12 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad

"Like we did?" Amelie snorts. "But trust me, when you know…you know."

"That’s how it was for you and Weston, huh?" I ask.

"I met him and I had this sinking feeling…" She presses a hand to her stomach. "I was hot and cold all at once, know what I mean?"

"Isn't that normal in London weather?" I say dryly.

She laughs, "Oh, trust me, it’s a completely different sensation." She looks me up and down, "Is that how you felt when you saw Damian?"

"Nope," I lie, then chug down the rest of my margarita, cough, and place the now-empty, soup-dish proportioned glass back on the counter.

"Prove it," Isla challenges.

"What?"

"Show us that whatever is between the two of you didn’t affect you."

"What are you talking about?" I half laugh.

"You heard me, girlfriend." She taps a finger on her chin. "Demonstrate that he doesn’t make your knees go weak and your pussy all moist."

"Isla," I scold. "Mind your, uh, p’s and q’s."

Isla chokes on her drink.

Amelie slow blinks, "Keep up the bad jokes and you’ll have won all of us over in no time."

"All of whom?"

She makes a circular motion with her fingers, "The collective."

"Is there a collective?"

"Given you’ve already caught Daddy D’s eye, I’d say you are on your way to becoming one of us," Victoria adds.

"Daddy D?" I frown, "Why do you call him that?" That's not how the media refers to him, at least.

Summer, Victoria and Amelie exchange glances. Then Summer pipes up, "It's because he's the oldest of the Seven."

"He's not that old." I scoff, "He's what, thirty-two?" That's what his Wikipedia page indicates. What? So, I sneaked a peak, or two, at it.

"He's closer to thirty-five," Amelie offers.

Isla wrinkles her nose. "Though you have to admit, the years sit well on him. Imagine you could be bratty with him," she waggles her eyebrows, "and Daddy D would be only too happy to dole out the punishments, huh? Bet you’d enjoy that too."

I throw up my hands, "Seriously, you guys need to stop with the trying to get us together." Speaking of, I turn back to where Damian and Sinclair are arm-wrestling.

Damian's neck ripples with tendons. He leans in, jaw clenched. The biceps of his arm bulge and he growls deep in his throat. A shiver runs down my spine; moisture laces my core.

Gosh, the rock star going all caveman-like is bloody hot. And somehow, so different from what I expected him to be. His social media used to be about him on stage performing, or recording in his studio, or else on the red carpet, accompanying one celebrity or another. There isn’t much more of his personal life in the scene I am looking at right now. So why does it feel so intimate? I am merely a stranger who ran into him by chance. Providence. Kismet. Whatever you want to call it.And what are you going to do about it, huh? You going to take fate into your own hands and do something with it?

Damian’s shoulders stretch the width of his T-shirt. A vein throbs at his temple, then he smashes Sinclair’s fist into the surface of the island. "I won," he fist-pumps in the air.

Sinclair straightens in his suit, which seems to have been tailor-made for him. There is so much designer wear in the room—the kind you don’t normally see on catwalks because they are created exclusively for the kind of men that these Seven are.

"Where are the others?" I frown.

"Others?" Isla enquires.