The Billionaire Game(3)

Not that I could entirely blame them. I mean, Dove was a supermodel, with all the slender limbs, blinding Colgate-white smile, and camera-ready hair that word implied. And this new man of hers…

Well, hot damn.

Jet black curls spilled across his forehead over cat-green eyes with lashes that a million girls would have killed for, and an honest-to-God chiseled jawline complemented the slope of his powerful shoulders. He was muscled but lithe, the sleeves of his T-shirt stretched tight, the hem of it lifting to reveal sculpted abs that were made for running your fingers down. His bronze skin dimpled in his right cheek when he smiled.

And I believe I mentioned the state of his back pockets, hellooooo, yes I would like a side of that meat, ring it up and wrap it for delivery, please.

Not that I was susceptible to such mind-numbing hotness.

The model somehow managed to detach her mouth from Asher in a process only slightly less complicated than a NASA liftoff. “Kate, I’m so delighted we could finally make this work with your schedule!”

“Yeah, the day job keeps me jumping,” I said, fetching the changing screen for her. “Thanks for being so understanding.”

Asher reached out to help me with the heavy changing screen, holding it steady while I guided it into place.

“Thanks.”

“Not at all,” he said, flashing me a dazzling smile. He was looking at me as if I were the only woman in the world. That is, if I were the type to fall for that kind of thing. Which I wasn’t.

I tore my gaze away from that searingly hot mouth as Dove squealed from the other side of the screen. “You liking so far?” I asked.

And then I heard another gasp- this one from Asher.

“Is that an original copy of Graham’s Magazine? With The Murders in Rue Morgue?” he whispered.

There was awe in his voice as he lifted the magazine from my shelf, reverently handling it in its plastic archival sleeve. Holy shit. His cool demeanor had most definitely left the building, and I felt myself flush with pride as I started to answer him, but then Dove peeked over the top of the changing screen, light dancing in her eyes.

“Oh my gosh. Her stuff is sooooo amazing, honeybun,” she gushed. “Most of the time you have to sacrifice comfort for sexiness, but Kate knows just what materials and cuts to use to keep that from happening. I can actually breathe when I wear her designs!”

“As long as I can’t,” Asher said drolly, setting the magazine back on the shelf, and Dove giggled as she ducked her head back down. I felt my back rankle, and tried to tell myself I was being irrational. Of course he was going to flirt with his girlfriend. That was what his girlfriend was for. The way he had looked at me before was just…chivalry, or something. And of course he’d been impressed by the original copy of Graham’s; who wouldn’t be?

I glanced over just in time to see his tongue steal out for a second to lick his lips—and then our eyes met and I momentarily forgot how to breathe.

Wow, Katie. Calm your rockets. You’re reading way too much into this. You’re reading so much into this it could be a Russian novel.

I cleared my throat. “So you’re still going with just two teddies and a brassiere?” I asked Dove, only partly to clarify the order, mostly to clear my head. “Can I persuade you to kick it old school with a peignoir?”

“I don’t know…” Dove dithered. She peeped over the top of the changing screen again. “Honey, what do you think?”

“What’s the difference?” he said dismissively, shrugging. “As long as they’re sheer and short, they’re basically the same thing.” Ah, there it was. The typical too-hot-for-his-own-good male personality in its natural state.

I felt a twinge of disappoint. Damn, but it had been too much to think a guy existed who was hot and also not an asshole.

Adding insult to injury, my body apparently didn’t care that this guy was a jerk, or that he had a girlfriend. It was too busy noticing how the muscles in his shoulders rippled when he shrugged, and sending memos to all the blood in my body to hop the fast lane to my pussy.

I sternly reminded myself that it shouldn’t matter to me whether his manners were straight off the Jersey Shore or if he was a perfect gentleman—he was Dove’s problem, not mine. I snapped the measuring tape with a little more vehemence than was strictly necessary—other than for my mental health, for which it was crucial—and retreated behind the screen, starting in on the important work of making sure that Dove hadn’t shed too many pounds since her last photoshoot to fit into her previous measurements. You can’t be too careful with models.