Billionaires Dollar Series

“Hmm. Perhaps a pillow fight?”Còntens bel0ngs to Nô(v)elDr/a/ma.Org

“I have an advantage in the first game, you in the second. Sounds fair.”

“The fairest.” I slip my hands in my pockets, still without a shirt. “I’m going away for a few days, by the way.”

“You are?” She sways closer and I reach out, running a strand of her hair between my fingers.

“Yes, for business. I’ll be back by Tuesday.”

“Going to conquer more of the world?” Her eyes, flecked with hazel, look just like they had in the hotel bar that first night. Teasing and confident, with no trace of dislike. The way I prefer.

“What do you think I do for a living?” I slide my hands around her waist. “I don’t think I want to correct you on it; I sound much more powerful in your imagination.”

She chuckles, hands wrapping around my neck. “And egomaniacal.”

“That’s another very good word.”

“My vocabulary turns you on, huh?”

I tip her head back and press a series of slow, shivery kisses to her lips. “Most definitely.”

She kisses me back-soft, warm, inviting. “Then take a thesaurus with you.”

I fill my hands with her ass. “Not nearly as appealing as you. All hard angles, no curves.”

“Thanks for comparing me favorably to a book.” She slides her arms down my chest, my arms, ending the kiss with a smile.

“I know it’s the highest compliment in your book.”

“More true than you know.”

I lean against the wall and watch as she presses the button for the elevator. She looks respectable again-cute, in her boots and dress-but nothing can hide the just-fuckedness of her long hair, gorgeous and wild.

“Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone,” I say.

She steps into the elevator and gives me a crooked smile, the one I like the most. “Don’t worry, Porter. I still hate you.”

The elevator doors close and shutter, sending her barreling down from me one floor at a time. “I know,” I say out loud, “but we’ll work on that.”

Monday morning starts with a bang.

Chloe accidentally slams the front door to the bookshop on her way in, an expensive handbag dangling on her arm. She pushes auburn hair back and gives Karli and me a winning smile.

“Hey! So sorry I’m late!”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. We’ve had a fair bit of traffic coming through, so there’s no rush.” Karli grabs the financial ledgers from behind the counter. “We’ll have to go through the books in the storage room. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Chloe’s smile goes from professional to warm when she sees me. “Skye! You’re finally here when I’m here!”

I hug her. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Oh, likewise. It’s been far too long.” She leans back, running eyes over me assessingly in a way that reminds me why we’re friendly, but not friends. She’s always been a tad too critical. “You look good.”

“Thanks. So do you.”

“We’ll have to catch up after Karli and I have spoken. I want to know everything that’s new with you.”

She follows Karli into the storage room, chatting about numbers. We’d been lucky to get an accountant on such short notice, and I’d never heard a bad word about Chloe’s professional qualifications.

All the same, we’d need someone brilliant to sort through our expenses and newfound income to find a way to win the bet. I’d understood enough about bookkeeping to realize that looking profitable and being profitable weren’t necessarily the same thing. If we could reschedule some payments, cut down on expenses… well.

I sit by the register while Karli is gone, using the time between customers to work on our Instagram profile.

It’s really grown since Cole mocked it for only having twenty-seven followers. We’re up to nearly four hundred and counting, and we had the hundreds of articles I’d read on how-to-grow-your-Instagram to thank for that. Organic engagement. Outreach. Consistent posting. Hashtags.

Oh well. If Between the Pages fails, perhaps I have a future as the world’s least experienced social media consultant?

Two teenage girls come in around noon, giggling to one another. They straighten when they see me. “Hi there! Can I help you with anything?”

One of them steps forward. “Hi. Yes, please. We’re looking for, like, a book made out of hearts? As a window in a shelf?”

“No,” the other one says, “a heart made out of books.”

Excitement rushes through me. “Yes, we have that! It’s right down here…” I lead the way to the wall in between the reading room and contemporary fiction.

The first girl clears her throat. “Is it okay if we take pictures of it?”

“Of course! And,” I add, because I’ve learned something from all those articles, “don’t forget to tag us if you post it online.”

Both girls give me a smile. “We will.”

It’s a small thing-maybe a silly thing-but it makes me stupidly happy to see the bookheart working as I’d hoped. It’s part of the mystical charm of this place. What booklover could resist?

I return to the register and smile at the excited shrieks from the back, one of the girls instructing the other how to pose. Why hadn’t I made it earlier? It makes me want to text Cole. Take that, Porter. Profitability, here we come.

Or, perhaps more accurately, Thanks for helping me make it. It’s working.

I don’t send him either of them. He’s been gone for two days, which is no time at all, but it feels like an eternity. I’d gone twenty-six years without really good sex, and now that I’ve had it, I’m determined to keep having it.

I look over at the bookshelf of political classics. Machiavelli. Sun Tzu. Clausewitz. All of them dealt with power and enemies, with manipulation and subterfuge. I doubt they’d approve of sleeping with your enemy.

My eyes drift lower, to literary classics that are more daring. Protagonists who did crazy things-lived on the road, fought Greek gods, braved insurmountable odds.

I chose messy, I think. I wanted life experience. This is it. It’s exhilarating and difficult in equal measure.

And dangerous, especially as I sometimes have to remind myself of why we can’t last, of who he is-the person trying to turn Eleanor’s legacy into a shiny new hotel with plush carpeting and chandeliers. This is a mess entirely of my own making.

After work I treat myself to a bit of self-care. I close the fourteen internet tabs on my computer titled everything from How to save a small business to Create tote bags for your company! I pour myself a bath. I light candles. I turn on gravelly jazz, the old-school kind that makes me feel like I’m in a speakeasy wearing a bedazzled dress without a care in the world. For tonight, it’s exactly what I need.