Billionaires Dollar Series

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

I tiptoe back into the elevator to avoid the sound of my heels against the stone floor. Everything inside me feels hot with embarrassment.

The elevator requires no keycard to reach the bottom floor. It barrels down, and my self-esteem with it, even though I know I have no reason to feel upset. Did I think he’d been celibate the entire time since he’d met me? No, because I hadn’t thought about it at all. Hadn’t even crossed my mind.

I give the doorman and receptionist a little wave on the way out and ignore the surprise in their eyes.

“Good evening, miss,” Gordon says, his voice growing in strength as I hurry past. “Would you like us to call you a cab?”

“No thank you!” I half run out of the stupidly fancy building.

My smile falters the second I’m back out in the warm evening air. Once I reach my car, I take a few deep breaths in the driver’s seat. It’s okay, I tell myself. I was reckless. I learned a lesson. And I’m never going down that particular path again.

I drive home on autopilot, my mind running over the interaction over and over again. The idea that he would get rid of one female guest to make room for me… would we pass one another in the hallway?

Hi, and bye?

Unease rolls around in my stomach. There’s a reason I haven’t had a proper boyfriend since college. I don’t do this. I’m not good at it.

Especially not when the dating game involves casual sex and hook-ups.

My phone rings, vibrating inside my bag, but I ignore it and focus on the road.

“You tried, Skye,” I tell myself out loud. “Maybe being reckless just isn’t for you.”

My phone rings again.

I ignore it again.

When I’ve parked and closed my apartment door behind me-back to my familiar, homely chaos, away from brutalist glass and severe furniture-my phone rings a third time. This time I look at the screen.

Cole Porter.

I press decline.

A message appears nearly immediately after.

Cole Porter: Answer your damn phone, Skye.

I don’t. Another text appears.Property © of NôvelDrama.Org.

Cole Porter: Didn’t think you’d chicken out like that.

Oh, hell no.

With my hands nearly shaking from anger, I find his contact information and press dial. He answers on the first ring.

“Chicken out?”

He scoffs. “Knew that would get to you.”

“Glad I’m so predictable,” I say, “but I didn’t chicken out. You were clearly busy, and I didn’t want to be rude and force your guest to leave.”

“You’re right,” he says. “I did have a guest.”

It’s something I knew already, but it still hurts, irrational as it is. “See?”

“My sister.”

“And while I very much appreciated you showing up unannounced, it did present somewhat of a dilemma.”

“Of course.” My heart sinks, both with embarrassment and relief. Way to be reckless, Skye. “I’m so sorry.”

“An apology? From Skye Holland?”

“I’m capable of it. God, Cole…”

He continues as if I didn’t speak. “Now, you never gave me back the thermometer. I thought that was why you showed up.”

I sink down onto my couch. “It was just a pretext.”

“Yeah, well, I’m here on the same one.” There’s a knock on my front door. “Let me in, Holland. I want my thermometer back.”

I open the door and there he is, face set in determined lines.

“You followed me home?”

“What about your sister?”

“She understood.” Cole steps past me into the apartment, closing the door behind me. There’s a fierce purpose to his movements. “I told you to wait, Skye.”

“I thought you had a woman over!” My voice mirrors his, and I throw my hands up in frustration. “One you’re not related to, I mean.”

“And that would have bothered you?”

“Yes!” The question sinks in and I shake my head. “No. I mean, of course you’re allowed to see women. However many you want. It’s not like you need my permission or anything.”

“Good to know.” He takes a step closer and I react in kind, taking a step back. “But you were still bothered by the idea?”

He’s goading me to admit it, and damn him, but the words flow out of me of their own accord. “Yes. I didn’t want to meet her. Or take her place. ”

“Take her place, huh? Tell my again why you came over.”

“Thermometer,” I say, putting as much haughtiness as I can in the word. Wanting him wouldn’t be so damn hard to admit if he didn’t draw it out like this-if he didn’t make me spell it out.

His mouth twitches. “Dressed like this? Not likely.”