Billionaires Dollar Series

He raises a finger, warning in his eyes. Whatever he’s about to say, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want my ex dragged into whatever psychoanalyst babble he’s going to attempt.

To my surprise, he doesn’t. “Enjoy,” Nick says, “but you guys are heading toward a deadline. Don’t forget she’s eventually going to cut contact with you completely.”

My whiskey tastes sour. “Oh, I won’t.”

Our evening doesn’t run long. There was a time when Nick and I would’ve been out till late, both of us chasing shots and skirts, but that’s over a decade gone.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I won’t dry your tears on Saturday when you lose,” he says.

I repeat the gesture. “Tennis is a gentleman’s sport, but I’ll make an exception for you.”Content rights belong to NôvelDrama.Org.

Nick’s answering smile tells me that I’m going to have to fight for victory-just the way I like it. Nothing feels good when it’s unearned.

Maybe it’s the whiskey, or the text she sent me, but I dial Skye’s number as soon as I’m alone.

“Cole?”

“Hey,” I say. “I have a dartboard at home.”

Her voice is half-amused, half-annoyed. “Why am I not surprised?”

“You need to practice aim.”

“Rude,” she says. “You’re right, but still.”

“Are you busy? If not, come over and practice.”

A pause. “Is this a booty call, Porter?”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “Casual sex usually involves some form of planning, yeah. It doesn’t just happen spontaneously.”

There’s silence on the other line. It’s the first time we’ve spoken since the evening at hers, two days ago. We’d agreed to it then-she was the one who set the strict guidelines-but perhaps she’s changed her mind. Backed out of the whole thing. For all of her refreshing feistiness and attitude, she’s surprisingly innocent at heart.

“I’ll come over,” she says. “Give me half an hour.”

“I’ll send a car.”

She snorts. “Under no circumstances will you do that. I’ll drive myself.”

I find myself smiling a long time after I’ve hung up, thinking about her soft voice laced with steel as she refused my offer. Independent Skye Holland in action, indeed.

Forty-five minutes later the bell of the elevator rings out in my hallway, and there she is in all her glory.

“You’re late,” I call.

“Only by fifteen minutes.” The sound of boots being unzipped, a jacket tossed to the ground. “It’s a school night. I can’t stay late.”

“Are you telling me to hurry?”

“A master never hurries.” I grab a bottle out of the wine cooler and open it with an easy move. Skye walks into my kitchen on bare feet, wearing a short-sleeved sundress. Her brown hair is loose over her shoulders and gleaming. I’ve always thought she’s pretty, but under the dimmed lights, her face is arresting. Dainty nose. Sparkling eyes. Temptingly curved mouth.

I clear my throat. “Wine?”

“Yes, please.” She takes a sip, looking up at me through dark lashes. It’s a brazen look-confident in its ability to seduce.

“I’m glad you came over.”

“I told you I would.”

I lean back against the counter, sweeping my eyes over her form, stopping at her neck, her cleavage, her hips. It’s completely inappropriate, which is the point. She shifts her feet from under my scrutiny. “Well,” I say finally. “I had my doubts.”

“Yeah. Is this the first casual relationship you’ve had?”

She ignores me pointedly, walking around the concrete kitchen island. “Do you ever cook here?”

“Sometimes. You’re evading the question.”

Skye sits down on one of the high chairs and looks around. I wonder what she thinks of my place-of the stark, minimalist design. It’s a world away from her apartment, with its knickknacks and lack of bookcases and complete hominess.

“You must hate my place,” she says, as if she’s realizing the same difference.

“Not at all.” If anything, it reminds me of my old apartment. Of the house I grew up in. Of family and warmth.

“What instructions did you give your interior designer? Luxury Buddhism?”

I chuckle. “I didn’t give any. The place was furnished when I bought it.” Not to mention I’d been in a rush, not wanting to stay one more night in the place I’d lived with my ex.

I put my glass down and walk around the counter to where she’s sitting. Her dress has ridden up and I put a hand on her thigh, smoothing over soft skin. “Is this the first time you’ve had an arrangement like ours? Explicitly casual?”

Her lips open, invitingly full, even as her brown eyes shutter. “Perhaps,” she says. “I don’t usually sleep with men I’m also trying to win a business deal against.”

“Oh, you don’t?”

“No. You’re kind of my first in that regard.”

I put a hand over my heart. “Honored.”

“You should be.” She pulls away from me, sliding off the chair and continuing her perusal of my kitchen. I sit back, watching as she stops at my stove, my microwave. At the fridge.

“You don’t have any fridge magnets,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a home without any.”

I put a hand over my mouth to hide my smile. “Well-spotted.”

“How come?”

“Well, how does anyone get theirs?”

“Hmm.” She runs a hand over the handle and open the fridge. It winks emptily back at her. A few bottles of juice, some fruit. There’s rarely food in it. I’m just not home enough.