Page 7 of Scoring the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys 3)
His eyes left mine, and his head bent to his phone. A few seconds later, my phone vibrated with another message from him.
Wes: Me neither. I can’t stop thinking about it.
Me: Same. But I can’t stop thinking about the fact that it probably wasn’t a good idea.
I held his eyes for a few more seconds before tipping my head to my phone and typing out another message.
Me: Was it a bad idea, Wes?
Wes: Yes.
His response was immediate—and annoyingly deflating—but another message came hot on its heels.
Wes: But I wouldn’t take it back for anything.
In an effort to ignore just how powerful the surge of relief his words provided felt, I defaulted to the best emotional defense mechanism four brothers had ever taught me—humor. Physically, my best defense mechanism was a left hook.
Me: Not even for a first-round draft pick and Green Bay’s quarterback?
He met my eyes and shook his head.
Wes: New England’s quarterback…maybe? But definitely not Green Bay’s.
Me: Asshole.
Wes: I’m kidding. I doubt he smells so much like peaches.
Peaches. God. One simple sign of perception should not have made my heart beat faster.
Wes: Would you take it back if you could?
Me: No.
Me: Well…maybe for a job offer with New England. I’ve always wanted to meet their quarterback.
Wes: Cheeky, Win.
Me: ;)
“Are you guys texting each other while you’re sitting right next to each other?” Quinn Bailey asked as his eyes moved between Wes and me.
I froze, but Wes responded with an easy grin. “Yep.”
Quinn smirked. “What are you talking about?”
My eyes widened slightly of their own accord, but once again, Wes stayed composed, answering with a smooth tone. I almost got upset by his ability to keep his cool, but I quickly reminded myself that he no doubt had more experience.
“I was telling Winnie that I’m tempted to take this trade with New England for a new quarterback.”
Quinn’s content face creased with annoyance.
“Yeah,” I chimed in, finally finding my stride. “I think it might actually be good for the team, Wes.”
Wes smirked and nodded his head. “You might be right.”
“What the fuck Dr. Double U?” Bailey questioned with a furrowed brow, aghast at my betrayal.
I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. “It’s nothing personal, Bailey.”
“Three touchdowns and three hundred yards isn’t enough for you guys?”
I shrugged. “I heard Smith threw three hundred and fifty yards last night against Buffalo.”
“Smith is a fucking pansy. He never leaves the pocket and had two interceptions last night.”
Wes laughed, and I grinned in response.
Quinn searched our expressions. “You guys were just fucking with me, weren’t you?”
I shrugged. “Maybe you’ll think twice the next time you think doing a synchronized towel dropping when I walk into the locker room is a good idea.”
Wes furrowed his brow. “Synchronized towel dropping?”
“Man, I’m beat.” Quinn faked a yawn. “I should probably settle back into my seat and take a nap. Good talk, guys,” he said before turning back around and strategically putting his earbuds in.
Wes: Next time they pull that kind of bullshit, tell me.
Me: If my memory serves me right, you pulled the same kind of bullshit on me last night after we showered.
Wes: If MY memory serves me right, you thoroughly enjoyed what happened after.
Yeah, I definitely did.
Me: It was okay.
Wes: Liar.
Me: Stop bothering me, Lancaster. I have work emails to catch up on.
Wes: Subtle subject change, Win.
Me: ;)
I made a show of acting like I was working, tapping dramatically on my laptop keyboard as I sent Georgia a quick response to her email about Mitchell’s PT schedule and when he could fit in a quick interview with ESPN this week.
I heard Wes chuckle softly beside me, melodically accompanying the ping of my phone—another message from him.
Wes: Emails to Georgia and Cassie about pregnancy-approved foods do not count as work emails.
Me: I’ll have you know that my email to Georgia was about Mitchell’s PT schedule.
Wes: Uh-huh. Whatever you say.
Me: You calling me a liar?
Wes: Pretty sure I already called you a liar…
Me: Fine. It wasn’t just okay. It was mind-blowing. How’s that for stroking your ego?
Wes: Oh, sweetheart, you can stroke me anytime you like. You should know that much by now.
Me: I’m rolling my eyes at you.
Wes: No you’re not. I can see you and you’re smiling.
Me: Don’t you have work to do???
Wes: ;)
Lord Almighty, he wasn’t making this easy.
Quiet, reserved Wes Lancaster was showing me a different side of himself. A side that was charming and playful and so goddamn endearing. And it was that side of him I found myself wanting more of. Which I feared was bad. Very, very bad.
Jesus. I had to focus on something else.
I tapped the trackpad and opened up an email from Cassie.
To: Winnie Winslow
From: Cassie Kelly
Subject: You can thank me later…
Don’t worry, Win. I’ve got you covered for Brooks Media’s big Halloween bash this weekend. Your costume has been ordered, and you’re going to look fuck-hot as Harley Quinn.
<3 Cass
I sighed and rested my head against the seat. I had a feeling I probably needed to get my ass into the gym a few times this week before I felt confident enough to strut around in whatever costume—or lack thereof—Cassie had bought me.
I’ve got forty bucks on the fact that there are probably booty shorts and a crop top in my future.
Any takers?
Yeah, I wouldn’t have thought I was a sucker either, but look at me now.
“The restaurant called,” my assistant, Ainsley, said into the empty space of my car—through Bluetooth as opposed to magic—as I took the exit for the stadium. It was first thing in the morning, pre-six a.m., in fact, so I knew she had to mean the call from the restaurant came in last night.
She’d probably sent an email that had gone unanswered thanks to the fog I’d been in since we’d gotten back from Miami two days ago.
Miami. Yeah, I’ll talk about that in a minute.
Leaving emails unanswered wasn’t at all like me, but she didn’t mention it. Ainsley knew she wasn’t my mother or my lover, and demanding to know why I’d done something differently or out of the ordinary wouldn’t be welcome.
I know. I can hear Thatch’s voice calling me a prick right along with you, but it’s not some sexist, macho, authoritative agenda. I’m a private person, and my track record for decision-making is mostly blemish-free. I feel like both earn me the right to keep my reasoning to myself.
“Vandals broke the sign out front again, and it’s already being replaced, a critic and an inspector came within thirty minutes of one another so Marco had a meltdown after they left, and Amanda’s concerned that the turnover is statistically higher than it should be,” she said, listing off the problems one by one so that I could address them individually.
I rubbed at the skin between my eyes and waited for the light in front of me to turn green as I considered everything she’d said.
“As long as the sign is getting fixed right now, I consider that a nonissue,” I said. That’s what I got for naming a restaurant BAD anyway. Thatch and Kline were constantly mocking the choice, but I couldn’t deny that it brought the place attention. It was different, unique, and even though it had a somewhat negative connotation, I’d found people were willing to overlook the negative if it came with shock value.
“Marco has meltdowns every time something goes awry, but he always has them after he’s already solved the problem,” I went on, moving on to the delicate sensibilities of my staff. “Send him one of those Edible Arrangement baskets. He loves the fucking things.”
Marco was one of the best chefs in New York—arguably, in the entire country—and the key to mending his finicky soul was chocolate-covered fruit from a chain company. Go figure. It’d taken me a while to figure it out, but once I had, the knowledge felt like gold.
“Okay,” she answered efficiently, waiting for me to go on instead of clogging the line with mindless chatter. Yet another reason I appreciated having her as my assistant.
“And the turnover is ridiculous because we’re five blocks from Broadway. Every Barbara Streisand, Taye Diggs, and Hugh Jackman wannabe in the tri-state area is or has been employed by us.”
She was quiet, quieter than I expected, so I asked, “What?”
“Sorry,” she said, quickly composing herself.
Still, I wanted to know. “Ains, what?”
She sighed. “I just had no idea you had such extensive knowledge of the history of Broadway cast members.”
I rolled my eyes as the light finally turned, and I accelerated toward the stadium, stark and statuesque in the open in front of me.
Roughly twenty million people in the tri-state area, and my stadium sat in the middle of a field. The irony was astonishing.
“Yeah, well. You learn something new every day.” I was certainly learning all sorts of unexpected things about myself these days.