My Billionaire Fling by Maci Dillon
SOPHIA
Jetlag is a bitch.
My paperwork ends in me falling asleep in a pile of mess on the bed.
I’m thankful to Henry for banging on my door after a few missed calls to wake me up. Gabe had him contact me a half-hour before leaving in case this exact thing happened. I failed to disable the silent mode on my phone after the meeting with Bree, and with no intention of falling asleep, didn’t set the alarm.
A quick shower and rush job on my makeup leaves little time to style my hair, so I go with a messy-bun to complete my urban street look. My oversized sunglasses will help to mask the tell-tale signs of my afternoon nap.
I hope.
Henry appears to be impressed with my timing when I meet him downstairs. “Yes, sir,” he speaks into his phone. “Miss Evans is on her way.”
I roll my eyes at the idea of him checking up on me. I’m a grown-ass woman, and fuck, I’m older than he is. Only by six years, but in man-years, that’s a lot of maturity.
Feeling very Carrie Bradshaw on her way to meet Mr. Big, I chuckle to myself. Why have I never been to New York before?
“Henry,” I call from the back seat. “I’d love to do some shopping tomorrow. Will you be free to chauffer me?” I don’t expect the old guy to accompany me from store to store, but I’ll be needing somewhere to keep my purchases safe and manageable. And I’m going to need a new suitcase to fly it all home.
Excited about hitting the boutiques tomorrow, I’m oblivious that we’re stationary, and Henry is waiting on me to get out. “Oh, my bad. Thank you so much.” He silently nods as I step out onto the curb, and follow the direction of his gaze to find Gabe walking my way.
“Enjoy your nap?”
“Yes, I did. Thanks for asking,” I grin and take his hand, allowing him to lead the way inside.
“What’s your cocktail of choice?” he asks as we make our way to the bar. “A margarita, or pretty much anything that contains tequila.” His top lip curls in a half-smirk, and his eyes linger on my face. “What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. I respect a woman who knows what she wants, is all.”
If I were a man, I’d be thinking, here’s a woman who won’t be able to resist me with a gut full of tequila. And he’d be right.
Not that I need tequila to fall into bed with him. But last time, dinner and drinks turned into a night of naked fun, and I’m expecting much of the same tonight.
“A jug of margaritas, three glasses, and a round of tequila shots, please. Top shelf.”
Yep, he’s definitely thinking like a man.
“Ben, this is Sophia,” Gabe introduces us, and I offer my hand to greet him.
“Lovely to meet you, Ben. How do you two know each other?”
He takes my hand and pulls me closer to kiss my cheek.
Oh yes, a real ladies’ man, indeed.
This blue-eyed, blond, six-foot hunk of muscle is a woman pleaser in the evenings and a heartbreaker in the mornings. Mark my words, I see the type daily.
“Ben and I met at college our first year. He started out as a business major and switched to sports management when he realized he had a shot at being the best damn linebacker Columbia had ever seen.”
“You play football?”
A painful expression crosses his face as he rubs at his shoulder. “Not since college, no.”
Sensing this is an uncomfortable topic of conversation, I point to the shots in the center of the table. “Let’s do it.”
They both laugh, and Gabe passes one to Ben and me.
“Ben was drafted, and in a pre-season game, was stretchered off after an explosive defensive tackle.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I offer meaningfully, sprinkling salt on my wrist in preparation for my tequila.
“Yeah, reconstructive surgery with complications that followed put me out of the game. Now I run a sports shop and commentate college games for Columbia.”
“Not a bad gig, at least you’re still involved in what you love.”
He raises his glass. “Cheers.”
All three of us sink our shots like pros and move on from football and broken dreams.
An hour later, the after-work crowd filters in, and we’re cramming the space between where we sit outside and the bar. Thank fuck for table service. Music from the jukebox fills the area, and Ben and I are deep in conversation about what makes the perfect first date. Gabe is silently watching the both of us, his eyes never wandering far from me.
A few hours pass, and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut about shopping tomorrow. Sharing a giant plate of chicken nachos with an extra side of jalapeños did little to help ward off the effects of the shots and numerous jugs of margaritas.
I predict my morning will include Advil and a greasy room-service breakfast. “It’s the city that never sleeps, so you’ll have plenty of time to shop after you’ve recovered,” Gabe assures me as we wrap up the night, and he settles the monstrous bill.
I briefly recall making our way to Henry on the street and waving goodbye to Ben. Now, I’m waking up as we pull into my hotel. With my head resting on Gabe’s shoulder, I swipe the corner of my mouth with my hand, and he laughs hysterically.
“You were snoring when you weren’t talking in your sleep. Drool is the least of your concern.”
Slapping at him playfully, I groan at the throbbing pain in my head. When Gabe lifts me from the back seat and throws me over his shoulder, I struggle to avoid losing the contents of my stomach all over him.
“Give me five minutes. I’ll tuck her in and be right back.” He must be talking to Henry, but he’s not going anywhere.
“I’ll need more than five minutes from you, mister.”
“Yeah, and I’ll give you every minute you deserve when you’re not so drunk.”
Laughing at my hair falling past his ass as he carries me, my buttocks in the air past God-knows-who in the lobby, I groan. “I’m not drunk, I’m plastered.”
Gabe chuckles, his shoulders jumping about beneath my stomach.
And that’s where my night ends. The next thing I know, I’m waking up in bed.
Alone.
And hungover as fuck.
