Page 363 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Gio

"I wish my nickname didn’t make me sound like a burger." I scowl down at Mira’s face on my phone.

She’s at the gym but picked up my call. "You have any idea why he decided on Mac?" She sounds a little out of breath. She’s on the treadmill, not going too fast, so she can speak to me.

"Because I look like a Big Mac?" I glance down at my waist. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten that cheese-toasties for lunch. But damn, if the Brits haven’t mastered the art of a toasted sandwich.

And the cheddar here tastes heavenly. As for the pickles they slid in between the loaves…

They are to die for. I wasn’t able to stop myself from devouring it on my lunch break.

Then, I decided to take a walk through the park near the rink—before I go back to my desk.

I sink down on the park bench and scowl at Mira. "So, I do look like a Big Mac?"

"Jesus, Gio, you’re the most svelte, most stylishly dressed woman I know."

I blush a little. "My insecurities are showing, eh?”

Her features soften. "I’m always trying to go on a diet, too. And I guess being surrounded by all those fit men doesn’t help, either."

"I’ve always been like this, though. I’m not sure where it comes from," I lie. I know exactly where my obsession with my weight comes from, but somehow, I’m not sure I want to share it. Not even with the woman who’s fast becoming my best friend.

"Have you thought of going to therapy about it?"

I shake my head. "I don’t need therapy. I’ll be fine."

"Hmm." She purses her lips.

"No, not another hmm. Your hmms are scary, Mira."

She laughs. "Sorry, it’s a habit I can’t seem to get rid of.

Seriously though, Gio, you are fabulous.

I wish I had a figure like you. I wish I could dress like you.

Not a hair out of place, perfect make-up…

" She looks at me with something like admiration.

"You look like you stepped out of the pages of Vanity Fair. "

"Is it too much? I still dress like I’m in L.A.

. London, I’ve realized, is a little more low-key, I think.

" I glance around and take in the people strolling in the park. On the bench next to me is a man in a suit, eating his sandwich and reading his newspaper. On the grass is a woman who’s taken off her jacket and her ballet pumps.

She’s reading a paperback, and her handbag is next to her.

Definitely someone who’s come out on her lunch break.

And she’s not exactly dressed up—more smart casual than glamour smart—which is my go-to look.

I glance down at my Gucci outfit, my Balenciaga bag and my Louboutins. "Yeah, it’s too much."

"You’re you, Gio. It’s what makes you, you. How you dress, how you walk, how you talk—"

"I might have overdone it this morning." I wince.

"Rick didn’t seem to think so, from what you said."

My eyes follow a woman who’s walking a dog. A little girl jumps around next to her. She stops to pat the dog, runs up the incline, then back down.

"He confused me this morning," I admit.

"You mean, because he backed up the nickname you gave the defenseman?"

"That was surprising." I stare at the little girl bouncing along after the dog. The mother pulls out a phone and types away on it while following at a distance. "I thought he’d bite my head off, but he backed me up."

"So that’s good, right? He’s trying to make an effort to get along with you." She takes a sip from the bottle of water, then places it back in the receptacle next to the phone on the treadmill.

"Or maybe, he’s trying to lull me into a sense of calm, then lower the boom on me."

She laughs. "You don’t like this guy, do you?"

"I have no feelings toward him either way."

She guffaws.

I scowl at her. "Now what?"

"You sound a lot like our dear friend Penny, right before she fell head-over-heels for Knight."

"Knight had feelings for her. From the get-go, it was obvious the two of them had eyes only for each other. Unlike Rick—"

"Unlike Rick, who’s trying his best not to show it?"

I narrow my gaze on her. "You must be mistaken. We hate each other. In fact, we've never been able to stand each other, even when I was the PR manager for Declan and Rick was his bodyguard."

"You know what they say about the boy in the playground who pulls at your braids? He's the one who likes you the most."

"This is not a playground. This"—I wave at the scene around me—"is real life. And I don’t wear braids or wear my hair down for a reason."

"Okay." She reaches for her bottle of water and takes a sip.

"Okay? That’s it." I look at her with suspicion. "You’re not going to try to convince me otherwise?"

"Nah, you know best what it's like when the two of you are together."

"We’re not together."

"I mean, when you’re interacting. I’m sure it really is dislike on both your parts. Besides, you only have to deal with him at work, right? And you’ll have a lot to do with settling into your new room and all that."

"About that…" I wriggle around, trying to find a more comfortable seat on the park bench. "There’s been a small hitch."

"A hitch?" She frowns.

"When I checked in, there was no room for me. Some admin mix-up. So, I’m having to share the suite with Rick."

"Wait. Hold on." She slaps at the settings and comes to a complete standstill. "You’re sharing a room with the man you hate?"

"It would seem that way, yes."

"You’re sharing a room with the hot captain of the most exciting hockey team in the country?"

"It’s a master-suite,” I clarify.

"How many bedrooms does it have?"

"One," I mutter under my breath.

"Did you say one?" Her eyes widen.

"He’s going to sleep on the couch.”

"Have you seen the size of that man? He’s got to be at least six feet three inches."

"Six-six, actually." I redden. Why do I know his exact height? Oh yeah, because it’s my job, that’s why.

Her lips twitch, then she schools her features into an expression of disbelief. "And he’s going to sleep on the couch?"

"It pulls out into a bed." I bite the inside of my cheek. I have no idea if it does or not. I should feel bad about lying to my friend, but—I’m not sure how to explain that the prospect of being in such close proximity to that rat’s ass of a man fills me with both trepidation and a strange excitement.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m pissed at the entire situation.

In fact, I’m sure Rick is having a laugh at my expense, and I definitely do not want to have anything to do with him.

Ideally, I don’t want to work with him, but given the circumstances, I can either keep complaining or I can suck it up and make the best of it.

And no one knows how to make the most of a bad situation the way I do.

"So he’s going to be on the couch, and you’re going to be in his bed?"

"Technically, it’s now my bed,” I fib.

She stares at me.

"It’s only because all of the other rooms in that house are taken, and only until they figure out a solution."

"And when will that be?"

I scowl. "I didn’t get a timeline, which I would have pushed for, except Mr. Grumpface and the admin manager seemed to gang up against me, and that was not a great experience. Also, she only had eyes for him. I doubt she registered that I wasn’t happy with having to share a room with him.”

"Were you jealous they seemed to be in agreement against you?"

"What? Of course not." I flip my hair over my shoulder.

"Hmm." She makes that irritating noise again.

I throw up my hand. "Fine, okay, maybe I was a teeny-tiny bit. She looked at him like he was a god who'd come to her rescue, and he seemed only too pleased about it."

"Definitely jealous—" She holds up her hand as I try to cut in. "But I’m not one to judge. I don’t have time for anyone except my book boyfriends, and here, you get yourself into a forced-proximity, one-bed situation with a gorgeous hunk of a man who—"

"Watch what you say next," I warn.

"—whose dishiness I haven’t noticed at all. Not at all," she inserts smoothly.

"Good answer. Also, it’s not a one-bed situation. He did say he’d take the couch.”

She scoffs. "We all know how that one goes. You’re going to have a nightmare, and he’s going to slip into bed and calm you, and then you’ll wake up with him wrapped around you, and—"

"Stop, right there. I don’t get nightmares… Although, keep up the scenarios you’re painting and I might. I don’t want anything to do with his alphaholeness, at all."

"Ooh, you called him an alphahole."

"Because he is, and that was not a compliment."

"Alphahole?" A voice drawls. I glance to the side to find said alphahole prowling toward me.

“Is that him?" Mira asks excitedly.

"Uh, no, it's a homeless person. I took his bench and now I need to leave—"

"But—" Mira begins.

"Okay, gotta go." I disconnect before she can say anything else.

Mr. Growly-ass slides onto the bench next to me. The man eating his sandwich must have left some time ago.

I begin to rise, when he curls his lip. "You running scared?"