Dominance.
I gulped.
He wasn’t looking where he was going, typing on his phone as he shuffled into his condo, making for his room. I was directly in his way, and discombobulated by his sudden presence and the overwhelming glory of his half-naked perfection. I was frozen in place.
Move, Autumn.
No dice. Dumb legs were stuck, frozen solid. All I could do was stare—I’d never been this close to a man built like him—he’d graced the covers of a variety of magazines multiple times; I’d seen the magazines and drooled over him. I might even have one somewhere with a spread on him, in his boxing gear, fists taped, sweat-sheened in a boxing ring, looking brutal and godlike.
Here he was, live and in person.
He bumped into me, startled and nearly dropped his phone. “Holy shit!” he barked, stumbling backward. “Autumn? Damn girl, you scared the hell out of me.”
“I. Um.”
He blinked down at me. “Why did you…umm…I didn’t see you there, my bad. I was texting my agent…”
Clearly wondering why I didn’t move out of the way.
So was I.
“Hi.”
He just stared at me. “Hey.” A smirk that was confused frown—a very complicated expression, indeed. “You…um, you good?”
“Me? Yeah. Dandy. Just…just dandy.”
He waited. I waited. He slid his earbuds out of his ear and put them in the tic-tac case, stuffed them and his phone into different pockets.
“I feel like I’m missing something.” His eyes paused on my hair, and a faint smile lit his lips.
“No, I’m just…” I wiggled a foot. Twitched a finger. Nope, still feeling paralyzed by…idiocy, by whatever latent drugs still coursed in my system, and by an overload of Seven hotness. “Not dandy. Not at all. Can you give me coffee?”
He chuckled. “Yeah. That I can do.” He breezed past me toward his kitchen, to a complicated-looking machine. “Espresso, Americano, or latte?”
I was still standing where I’d been. “Um. Coffee?”
He laughed. “Girl, you are not a morning person, are you?” He came back to me, pressed a hand to my back, and I had a flash of something like that but less pleasant percolating up from my hazy, foggy memories of last night. I blinked it away, let him guide me to the island, where he pulled out a stool and made sure I was stable on it. “Okay…you good?”
I wiggled my butt on the stool. “I won’t fall off. Probably.”
He returned to the machine. “Wait, we talked about coffee. You said you like yours with a little cream. So how about a latte—I make a mean latte.”
“You make lattes?”
He grinned at me over his shoulder as he pushed buttons and did things with a handle and a noisy grinder and who knows what else, and then I heard and smelled coffee. “I have a few hidden talents. This being one of them.”
“How?”
There was a screaming sound as he steamed almond milk, turning to a bubbling noise, and then a low rumble.
He shrugged. “I just sort of…developed an interest. It started with good coffee, and then when I started to fight more in Europe, it turned to espresso, since finding good drip coffee over there is tricky. Mostly, if you ask for coffee, they’ll ask you what kind. At some point, I stopped drinking regular boring-ass normal coffee entirely and switched to espresso exclusively. Which is tricky when you want coffee first thing in the morning, right? I don’t wanna have to go to a damn coffee place just to get my morning hit of caffeine, so what do you do? Buy an espresso machine and learn to use it.”
“What other hidden talents do you have?”
He smirked at me over his shoulder. “You might have to find that out as you go. Where’s the fun if I just told you?”
“Guess that makes sense.”
He used a spoon to hold back foam, and then let it dollop on top, giving it an artful little swirl. He set the mug in front of me. No fancy designs in the foam, just golden-brown milk and a twisting pile of thick, dense foam.
I admired it. “Damn. Again, my bad, probably, but I would never in a million years have thought you would be the kind of guy to make lattes.”
He grinned. “You could be forgiven for that assumption. I don’t make little flowers or hearts or none of that shit with the foam, but I guarantee it’ll taste pretty damn good.”
I took a sip, and a sigh of delight was pulled out of me. “Can I just hire you to come to my house every morning and make me one of these? For real—so good.”
“Sorry, these services are not for hire.” He gave me a sly look. “It’s also not a skill I advertise. I might lose points on my kick-ass-and-take-names card if it gets out that I’m a wizard with a steam wand.”
I laughed, wiped foam off my upper lip. “I dunno, I feel like not many people would dare try to take points away from you. You might beat them up out of principle.”
He nodded seriously. “I do take myself very seriously.”
I held a neutral expression. “See, I feel like you’re being sarcastic, because somehow I don’t think that’s true.”
He broke a smile. “You got me there.” He waved a hand, turned back to the machine and pulled himself a pair of shots. “People take me seriously, and I let ’em, because fuck the majority of humans and their opinions of me and everything else. But do I take myself seriously? Not really. I’m serious about what I do, being in peak condition, my job at ESPN, all that. But do I take myself seriously, like, I’m such a big deal, I’m hot shit, everybody bow to my glory? Nah. Fuck that silly ass nonsense.”
He poured the double shot of espresso into a tiny mug and sipped from it—the mug was so small he had to pinch it gingerly between thumb and forefinger, and it was a comical sight.
He saw me grinning, and narrowed his eyes at me. “You laughin’ at my tiny espresso mug?”
“A little, yes. Your hands are so big, and that mug is so small.”
He chuckled. “It’s what you drink espresso out of.” A shrug. “Plus, two little shots in a regular mug is just stupid.”
“Thank you,” I said. “The latte is delicious.”
He nodded. “You hungry?” My stomach growled at that precise moment, and he answered his own question. “Guess that’s a yes. Next question—you like omelets?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Weird-ass motherfuckers, that’s who.” He took a sip, moved to the fridge. “Plain cheese all right? I keep it simple, for myself.”
“However you want to make it. I’m not picky.”
He eyed me. “I guess I figured you would be picky about what you eat. Wrong assumption, huh?”
“I mean, it’s a fair one. This is LA, after all. But no, I’m not generally too picky. I do watch what I eat, but if I’m in the mood, I’m gonna eat a damn cheeseburger. And if I’m in a real fuck-it kind of mood, the fries too. But on the whole, I tend to eat pretty healthy. Which I guess is not the same as being picky.”
“No, that’s not picky.”
I laughed. “I take it you’ve dated some pretty picky chicks, huh?”
He guffawed. “One girl, not gonna say who but you’d know the name—she was the pickiest fuckin’ human being conceivable. I offered to make her an omelet one morning. Now, I’m pretty willing to do what you want, generally. You ask for ham and green onions or some shit, if I got it, I’ll do it. It’s easy. But this girl? Man, she had me tripping.” His voice took on a mocking, whining, simpering tone as he cracked eggs into two different bowls. “‘Seven, are your eggs organic, free-range, and antibiotic-free? Seven, is that turkey humanely raised, organic, and antibiotic- and hormone-free? Seven, where did you get that cheese? I only eat ethically sourced, handmade, small-batch cheeses. Seven, this isn’t tap water is it? I only drink distilled, artesian water, and it cannot be in a single-use plastic container. You know this about me, Seven.’”
I couldn’t help cackling. “You’re making that up.”
He stopped cracking eggs and stared at me. “
Wanna bet?”
“You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped and then scrolled for a few seconds. “Here it is.” He eyed me. “I’m not a name-dropper, and I don’t brag about who I’ve dated. That’s not what this is, okay? But you don’t believe me, so…”
He slid the phone across the counter to me, and I took it, flipped it around, and pressed play on the video. It was him, taking a surreptitious selfie video. He was shirtless and was making a wincing face as a woman in the background ranted and whined.
He tilted the camera and zoomed in, and I did indeed recognize her. Anyone would—high-profile movie star who’d done a turn in several streaming service original limited-run shows, and a few big-screen movies as well. Blonde, buxom, beautiful, and a household name.
She was going on and on, saying a lot of the things Seven had said, verbatim. And his whining tone wasn’t far off.
“This doesn’t taste organic and hormone-free, Seven,” she said, poking at the omelet, tugging pieces of turkey out and examining them closely. “And this cheese tastes like Big Industry cheese. I told you where to get the cheese I like best.” It went on and on, dissecting and complaining about literally every aspect of what he’d given her.
Then she noticed he was recording. “Are you filming me? What the fuck, Seven? If you post that, I swear to god I’ll make sure you’re blacklisted so hard you won’t even be able to buy a fucking camcorder.”
“Relax, babe, I won’t post it. It’d serve you right, though.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re an ungrateful, complaining-ass bitch, that’s what.”
The recording cut off halfway through an enraged howl of indignation.
I slid the phone back to him with eyes wide. “I stand corrected.” A rueful laugh. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch her movies the same way, now.”
“Me neither. She was like that about just about everything. Not fuckin’ worth it, man.”
“I think most guys would put up with that for a shot at a night with her.”
He chuckled. “That’s what I thought, too. And shit, I got that shot, I took it, and I said no thanks to a second night. Not sure I’d redo the first, if I had the chance, honestly. Being selfish, entitled, obnoxious, and rude pretty much kills it for me, no matter how fuckin’ hot the chick is.”
I found that strangely reassuring. “So, if you had to pick between one hour with a decent-looking, average girl with a great personality, and a week with a superhot famous girl who was rude and annoying…”
He didn’t hesitate. “One hour with the average chick, no question.”
“Really?”
“For sure.” He shrugged. “I mean, gotta be real, here. I’ve been crazy fuckin’ lucky. I’ve dated some pretty rock-star chicks, as has been extensively reported in the tabloids. I’ve also knocked around with my share of normal girls—normal meaning not famous or in the public eye. And at the end of the day, people are just people. The hottest, most famous woman in the world still has morning breath, still has to pee in the middle of the night, puts her pants on one leg at a time, still has bad moods and bad days. And it don’t matter if she’s hot as hell and famous all day long, if she’s selfish and annoying, it turns me off. And just because a girl ain’t famous don’t mean she’s not cool and sexy. And another thing, a lot of the famous chicks with famously good looks? Most folks wouldn’t recognize ’em without fifty grand worth of glam squad attention. First thing in the morning, hair messy, no makeup, wearing sweatpants, she’s just a regular chick.”
I found these insights fascinating. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”
He shrugged again. “Sure. I’ve dated a lot of different people. And lately I’ve just been…I dunno, trying to figure out what I’m really, truly, deep down attracted to. As a younger guy ruled by…well, something other than my big brain, let’s just say, I went after the hot and famous ones. And being who I was, televised matches and endorsements and magazine covers and all that, I’d get ’em. I guess looking like I do doesn’t hurt. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten away from that. I’ve tried to find people to date based on who they are, not just what they look like and social status.”
“But?”
He sighed. “But…when most people know who you are and your general net worth, it can just be easier to stick to people who are in a similar position. They understand, and you can generally trust that she’s not into you for the fifteen minutes of fame she thinks you can get her, or the shiny presents she assumes you’ll buy her.”
I’d barely noticed the fact that he was cooking while talking, and then suddenly he was setting a plate in front of me, a perfect, fluffy, half-moon omelet oozing gooey orange cheese.
“Wow, Seven, this looks delicious. I wasn’t even aware of how hungry I was until you put that in front of me.”
He brought his around and sat beside me, handed me a fork. We dug in, and there was a companionable silence between us as we ate. Like the latte, the omelet was simple and delicious, no-frills, nothing fancy, and all the better for it.
Finishing at the same time, he took my plate and fork and put them in the sink with his.
He sat beside me again, this time turned on the stool to face me. “I think we should talk about last night.”
I sighed. “Yeah.”
“Who was that fuckstick?”
“Charles Barrington the Third, Esquire.”
He snorted. “Yeesh. And you voluntarily went out with him?”
I groaned. “He called me about the ad.”
“I figured. You coulda said not interested.”
“I should have. I almost did. My boss and best friend talked me into it, even though when he called me, it was his secretary on the line asking me to please hold for Charles Barrington the Third, Esquire.”
“Wait, hold on. Let me get this straight—he called you, but it wasn’t him, it was his secretary, and she introduced him like that?”
“Yup. And it gets worse, way worse.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure he drugged you and was planning on raping you, so yeah, I’d say so.”
I shuddered. “Let’s not go there yet, ’kay?”
“Okay, but you gotta go there. Doesn’t have to be with me, but you can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”
“No shit.” I sighed. “He had rules. For going out on a date with him.”
He snorted, incredulous. “Fuck no. Rules? He asks you out and then gives you rules? Who the fuck does he think he is, other than a tool with a fake ass name?”
“Who does he think he is? He thinks he’s Charles Barrington the Third, Esquire. One of the five richest men on the planet, heir to one of the largest multi-generational fortunes in history, CEO of Barrington Consolidated Industries, and at the very top of any list of most eligible bachelors.”
“Oh.” He chuckled. “I guess he can kinda get away with who he thinks he is, in that case.”
“Right.”
“Doesn’t excuse him giving you rules, though. I mean, shit. What were the rules?”
“No strong perfumes or lotions, proper formal evening attire only, in solid primary colors, preferably blue or green, and no heels over two inches, if you’re taller than five-six. So, don’t stand any taller than five-eight.”
He just stared at me. “Please, please tell me you’re making this shit up.”
“I wish I was.”
“And yet you still went out with his ass?”
“Ohmygod,” I snorted, at his statement. “Yes, I did. But with reason. He was coming here from New York to finish up a business acquisition, and also to buy a beach house for his parents…and another for himself. The intimation was, go on the date, impress him, and he’d buy them from me. And I need the sales.”
“You can’t possibly need it that bad.”
I wince
d. “That night we went out, I, um, I overslept a showing. I’m in deep shit with my boss, and I feel like a rookie piece of shit. It was my own fault, but still. You left, I felt like an idiot, and kept drinking to make myself feel better. Or to forget feeling like an idiot—only to make myself feel more like an idiot. Rejected and an unprofessional failure.”
He stood up, wiped his hand down his face and then backward through his hair, pivoting in place. “Shit, Autumn. We should talk about that, too, clearly.”
“Nothing to talk about. I was a drunken mess. I threw myself at you like a desperate floozy because I’m a pathetic lush, and you declined—rightfully and deservedly. If I’d gone out with a guy who got as drunk as I did and threw himself at me, I would’ve done the same thing.”
He turned back to me. “You weren’t any of that, Autumn. You weren’t acting desperate, you aren’t a lush or a floozy, and you aren’t pathetic. And I wasn’t rejecting you, I was protecting you.”
“From?”
He stood facing me, gazing steadily and evenly down at me. “Yourself, and me.”
I quit breathing. “Explain.”
He shook his head. “Hold on. I will, but we gotta go over last night.”
I groaned, stood up, walked to the sliding glass door leading to his balcony. “I figured, I could stomach his ridiculous antics for one date, if it got me a sale. Please understand, I had no intention of sleeping with him. I’m not that girl. I’ve never used sex to get ahead personally or professionally. Leveraged my looks, sure. A low-cut top if I know a client is a guy, lean over here and there during a showing, give my ass a little shimmy while he’s following me up the stairs. But sex? Never. It was a date.” I gestured at my dress, which I was obviously still wearing. “This is not a seduction dress. It’s a classy dress. No one could possibly fault me for ‘asking for it’ or whatever.”
“Any male who uses that as an excuse deserves to be taken out behind the garage and beaten into a shit-stain.” He was fierce, ferocious, and not kidding. “And I’ve done exactly that to assholes on more than one occasion.” He softened. “You looked classy, elegant, and beautiful. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club Book 2) Page 9