Her Billionaires_ Boxed Set(8)

It’s only seven minutes Laura, it’s only seven minutes Laura, she said to herself. The seconds ticked on until her smart phone clicked over and now it was eight minutes. It’s only eight minutes Laura, it’s only eight minutes Laura, it’s only eight minutes. A thin bead of sweat burst under her lip, and on her cheeks, and in that valley between her breasts in a way that only the cold irrational anxiety of dating could bring out in her.

Oh, fuck this, she said to herself. I don’t think I can do this anymore, even Mr. Hotty Hot Hot Firefighter isn’t worth this. I’m just gonna go home and have a date with Ben and Jerry, that’s my comfort zone, right there baby. Maybe the most dependable men on Earth because this, this is bullsh—

Zzzz, the phone buzzed suddenly. She had it on vibrate and she startled and it fell out of her hands, clattering to the ground.

“Shit,” she shouted, reaching down, scrambling after it and hoping that the screen hadn’t broken. Luckily, she had a protective case on it, and grabbed it and slid her finger across the screen to answer the call.

“Hello? Hello?” she said, trying desperately to keep her eagerness out of her voice.

“Hello,” a deep man’s baritone greeted her, with a friendliness that he had no right to offer her right now— yet she was so glad he did. “Uh,” he hesitated, “is this Laura?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” she answered brightly, her voice a little too high-pitched, her anxiety a little too intense right now, but she trudged on.

“Oh, yeah, really?” The voice stammered. “Yeah, this is Dylan. I am so sorry,” he said, and she hoped that the sincerity was true. Hoped it was true, needed it to be true with a part of her that knew...that knew that there was no way of knowing.

“I’m so sorry. I’m running late. I am walking down Twelfth Avenue right now, and, in fact, I can see the entrance to the restaurant and, wait a minute, ooh, I don’t know.” A low wolf whistle. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make it.”

“What? What? What did you say?”

“Yeah, there is this gorgeous woman just standing out there and, and I don’t know, I mean, I think, let’s see, she’s wearing a fuzzy sweater and a damn fine gray pencil skirt and heels that make her legs go on forever. And, I don’t know, you know, Laura, I may have to date her tonight instead of you.”

She nearly dropped her phone again. Oh, my God, her brain burned, her internal voice screaming like a rat stuck in a cage with Napalm all over it and lit on fire.

And then she got it, calming down instantly. Oh, oh, he was complimenting her. He was joking. He liked her. Who was this guy?

Now she could see him. Deep breaths, Laura, she told herself. He was joking around. Being playful. Not mean. He was a block and a half away, walking toward her with a swagger, with a confidence she didn’t see in many men. One hand in his pocket, just marching down the street like he had all the time in the world. And boy, were his eyes eating her up. She could feel it from a block and a half, a block and a quarter away.

And she was giving it right back.

Her heart was beating a million times a minute from the fear about his joke, and the anxiety that the joke had triggered. But now—but now it was like the electrons were playing between them. Molecules were flying millions and millions of miles a second between the two of them. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do when they actually stood two feet from each other, because she was ready to take him right there, right then on the street, public indecency be damned.

Pretty soon, just seconds later, he was down to a block, half a block, and he took his hand out of his pocket, giving her a wave. Then she realized that he had been talking to her the entire time and she had no idea what he was saying.



“Laura? Laura? Hello, hello—are you there? I can see you and you’re just standing there. I am waving at you right now... Laura, have I mistaken you for a human being or are you a really hot store mannequin?” He heard her laugh. Aha. Keep going, Dylan told himself. Recover from the terrible joke.

“Or part of some performance art thing like that guys like me don’t understand? Were you Andy Warhol’s protégé? Or is this some sort of flash mob set-up and nineteen naked members of the Pirate Party are about to appear and don Mickey Mouse masks in some geopolitical protest?” She suddenly folded and bent over laughing. He breathed a sigh of relief. Sweet!

That was it—she was forcing him to use every remaining brain cell in his body to process basic bodily functions as every red blood cell rushed to his groin. He couldn’t stop raking her body with his eyes. He couldn’t stop eating her with his retinas. She was some kind of Dylan magnet. Her entire appearance was luscious and her eyes—as he got closer he saw the kindness, the sweetness in them and there was a beauty, a full body, full-fledged gorgeousness about her that made him hard instantly.