Mister McHottie: A Billionaire Boss / Brother's Best Friend / Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy

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Mister McHottie: A Billionaire Boss / Brother's Best Friend / Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy Page 7

by Pippa Grant


  As is Parker’s.

  I mentioned I owe her big time, didn’t I?

  “I believe what Ms. Berger was trying to say,” Chase says, eyes dancing, lips fighting a gallant battle against a smile as his clapping subsides, “is that no one should be ashamed of their sexuality. I’d like to reiterate that there’s a line between comfort in your own sexuality and the harassment of others, which will obviously not be tolerated, but if the need arises, which I trust it won’t, I hope we can openly discuss any matters of a sexual nature openly and honestly.

  I open my mouth, and he holds a hand up.

  “Also, I believe she meant a nap room. Which we’ll be exploring as an option given scientific data to support the benefits of napping during work hours.”

  Gasps of delight go up through the room.

  The Dick just made himself a hero yet again. Him and his giant…chin dimple. Which is still glittering, just for the record.

  I’d be mad, but honestly, a nap room would rock. Plus, who cares about my sex life when we’ve just had management approve napping on the job?

  He points at Parker. “Ms. Elliott? A moment, please.”

  “I’m on team Sia,” she blurts.

  “Your loyalty is commendable.”

  I jerk my head, telling her to go with the Dick, and she stumbles after him. My brothers are still in town, after all.

  If he messes with my best friend, there will be hell to pay. And when I’m done with him, I’ll send Zeus and Ares over just for fun.

  The door shuts behind them. Everyone’s hyped up on the idea of nap rooms, and me and my sex room seem to be forgotten.

  Thank god.

  A sex room? I don’t know how I survived the elevator sex incident, but I am no doubt three heartbeats away from being called in by HR again. For something. Or everything.

  And I’m obviously not the only one who thinks so, because a message request pops up from Jett, Chase, CEO and Owner before he could even be to the elevators.

  A SEX ROOM?

  Forget the sex room. His profile is a cartoon sex god. He’s totally inflated his muscles, his dark hair never looks that shiny or perfectly styled, his chin dimple is dashingly rugged and glitter-free, and his avatar is fake tanning.

  Okay, I lied.

  I can’t forget the sex room. And now I’m picturing myself using it.

  With Chase.

  What? I type back. Like the world wouldn’t be a better place if some people didn’t get off on a regular basis?

  YOU CANNOT PUT A SEX ROOM IN THE WORKPLACE.

  I know why he’s yelling. It’s hardly an appropriate suggestion, but I’m in deep now, and I’m in it to win, damn it.

  Sex IS natural, I fire back. If we were as relaxed about sex as we are about eating, sleeping, and going to the bathroom, maybe there wouldn’t be such a stigma to it. Maybe if we talk about sex like we all have it—and we ALL do, and you know I’m right, don’t make me draw you a diagram or pull security footage—and don’t be all sanctimonious in pretending we don’t, then maybe there would be a few more women sitting in your executive office like equals.

  I wait, but he doesn’t reply.

  I tell myself it’s because he knows I’m right, and he has no logical, compelling arguments against sex rooms in the workplace leading to women’s equality in management.

  I also grab my phone and text Zeus. Do you think the Rangers could use someone new in their marketing or social media departments?

  Thirty minutes later, Zeus hasn’t replied, but a new message pops up from Chase.

  You have issues.

  Yes. Yes, I do. It’s because I grew up with you, I type back.

  And then I treat myself to a long lunch in the snack bar, where the cashier tosses two extra cookies on my tray and charges the whole thing to Chase.

  “I agree,” she tells me, even though I didn’t ask. “Sex rooms are the way to go.”

  I get a fist bump and one more cookie, and I wonder if I’ll be seeing her in counseling with HR too.

  11

  Chase

  For eight straight hours, I’ve had images of Bro’s sex room seared into my brain.

  And she’s in every last image.

  Her legs spread in invitation on a red velvet chaise. Bent over an ancient metal desk, offering me her ass. In one, there’s a Bro vending machine, and I keep putting dollars in so I can eat her like an ice cream cone. That one’s a little weird, I confess.

  It’s possible I have a problem. I can’t decide if I need to do her again and get her out of my system, or attempt to offer an olive branch and let my mother introduce me to that nice fifty-year-old woman she met on her cruise who would make a much better daughter-in-law than Ambrosia May what the hell are you thinking Berger.

  That’s what Mom always calls her. And my mother’s a fucking saint. She doesn’t cuss.

  Ever.

  I’m trying to think about my mother and not Bro Berger when I arrive at Yankee Stadium.

  Unfortunately, she’s the first thing I see.

  Bro, that is. My mother’s still on her cruise.

  Ambrosia’s sandwiched between her brothers, a little speck between two boulders, but I see her first. She’s doing what she always did when we were growing up—she’s laughing.

  She was always laughing with her brothers. Maybe not always—she didn’t like it when they strung her craft beads on their used dental floss. Or when we used her flowery hair things as fishing bait. Or when Ares would fart on her dolls’ heads.

  But when her brothers weren’t terrorizing her, or when she wasn’t putting itch cream in their jock straps or honey on their field hockey sticks—all those mosquitoes in the summer, and Ares and Zeus always scratching down their pants and getting honey on their nuts… I still have nightmares for them.

  Point is, she never smiled at me. She never laughed with me. She had this perfect little life, smart parents with good jobs, a big house, and two brothers who’d pummel you first and ask questions later if they thought you looked at her wrong. But she was always too good for me, and she thought her brothers were too.

  She was probably right.

  But look at me now, baby.

  She catches my eye, and her smile drops off.

  That’s Bro Berger for you. Still too good for the riffraff from the wrong side of the tracks.

  A billion fucking dollars in my bank account, and she’s the only person in the world who sees me.

  Zeus lifts a hand and waves to me. “Hurry up, dude. Beer’s waiting.”

  “Why is he here?” Bro asks.

  “I got bored.” Zeus grins at her. “You gonna give us a show?”

  “I’m giving you spiders for Christmas,” she hisses. “Except I’m going to send them in October when you’re not expecting them.”

  The woman knows how to terrorize her brothers, and don’t let anyone tell you differently.

  We’re escorted in through the players’ entrance. Fucker didn’t get four seats, he got a private suite, which is good since Bro brought three friends. And my fat bank account is still new enough that I might buy grocery stores, business suits worth more than my hometown, and small pharmaceutical firms doing experimental research in combating the effects of pesticides and factory chemicals, but being treated like royalty still gives me a thrill.

  Bro takes a seat in the two short rows of stadium seats at one end of the room, which would be comfortably-sized if we were all buddies, but are definitely too small for the seven of us. Her friends take the seats around her after grabbing snacks and drinks from the trays and buckets set out on the bar along the back wall.

  I know Parker from Crunchy—she has two masters degrees, one in business administration and the other in marketing, fifteen years of experience, and she’s been stuck in a worker bee job for years.

  Not because she wasn’t applying for promotions, but because she kept getting passed over.

  I’m fixing that.

  The other two women, I don’t kn
ow at all, but the one who reminds me of Snow White with long hair is vaguely familiar. The shorter one with the spiky hair and librarian glasses strikes me as the terrifying sort, and not in the good way.

  Zeus hands me a beer and straddles a chair. “She’s avoiding you, man. What’d you do?”

  Ares is behind me. He crushes a full beer can with his bare fist. Beer drizzles into my hair and down my neck. I jerk out of the seat. I could probably take him down with a well-aimed glass bottle, but at least when we were kids, there were only three places where his body was actually vulnerable, and two of them I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.

  “Hey, you’re wasting good beer,” Zeus says. “Knock it off and drink it like you have opposable thumbs.”

  Ares is twisting the can in his hands, grinning. “I did it.”

  Zeus does a double-take. “Oh, hey. You did.” The brothers share a fist bump. “And that was one of the steel cans.”

  “That was so fucking cool,” the spiky-haired one with Bro says.

  “Don’t encourage him.” Bro points at Ares with the death finger that her mother used to use. “If you sleep with any of my friends, so help me, I will rub ghost chilis all over your mouth guard, smear Icy Hot in your cup, and I’ll call ESPN and tell them you still wet the bed.”

  That, too, is classic Bro. And now my dick is sword fighting my zipper. I know what she can do when she channels that passion.

  “What if he pours beer on Chase again?” Zeus asks with a smirk.

  “Why would I care?”

  “Sia,” Snow White chides in a whisper.

  “He’s the numero uno dick-o,” Bro whispers back.

  “I know, but still…”

  Her other friend, the scary one, points at me. “Hey, you’ve got some glitter right here.” She pulls her eyelid over her eye.

  Parker ducks her head over a bag of peanuts. Snow claps her hand over her mouth, but I still hear giggles.

  Bro, on the other hand, is watching me like she knows what’s up in my pants.

  “You make her scrub the toilets at work or something?” Zeus says. “Man, she hates toilet duty.”

  Good to know. “We had a disagreement about employee motivation factors.” Getting into details go could one of two ways. Either Zeus and Ares toss me out the front of the suite for saying sex room in relation to their sister, or the NHL gets a new idea in their suggestion box.

  Possibly both.

  “You do what she says if you want to keep her.” There’s three hundred fifty pounds of unpredictable Viking telling me to let his sister have a sex room at work. One day we’ll look back on this and laugh. Or my dick is going to split the zipper in my jeans as it votes in favor of Bro’s idea.

  Zeus’s eyes narrow. “I’m serious, dude. She asked us to find her a job with the Rangers.”

  “The fuck she did,” I say before I realize which head I’m talking with.

  “Free world, dickhead,” Bro says, earning another poke from Snow. “They’d take my suggestions seriously.”

  “Fine.” I’m sweating like a Canadian in Florida. I have got to get a grip on this throbbing in my nuts. Even if I’d prefer she get a grip on my nuts. Fucking Zeus and his You like my sister, don’t you? “Send it through HR.”

  Parker, who I belatedly remember knows exactly what we’re talking about, chokes on a peanut. We all hop up and fight over who’s going to give her the Heimlich, and for once, my dick gets the memo that something honest-to-god serious is going on and gives me some breathing room.

  Zeus grabs me by the collar and dangles me to get me out of the way. “I got this,” he says.

  Ares grunts and digs an elbow into his ribs, tripping over the seats.

  “Stop it,” Bro shrieks. “You two yahoos will put her breastbone through her spine before you get the peanut out.”

  “I like breasts,” Ares says.

  Parker’s coughing and sputtering. Snow gives her a good hard whack, and peanut chunks fly across the box.

  “Water,” Parker rasps. She points at the Berger twins. “No touchy. Nooo touchy.”

  Bro shoves a bottle in her hand, Zeus signals Ares to sit, and I ease back into my seat, being careful with my tender balls.

  I definitely have a problem.

  Once everyone’s certain Parker isn’t going to choke again, the game’s about to start. We stand for the National Anthem, and the scary one—Eloise, I’ve learned—whoops and hollers for every last one of the Yankees as they’re introduced, even the batting manager. “He is so hot,” she says.

  The first batter goes up, and Zeus pokes me with an elbow that would probably earn him a trip to the penalty box if he were on the ice. “Hey, man, you remember that time we buried all of Ambrosia’s troll dolls with just their hair sticking up and threatened to run over them with Dad’s old push lawnmower?”

  Bro’s eyes take on a nuclear glow, and I have to shift in my seat to accommodate my once-again growing lightning rod. “Sure,” I say to Zeus.

  “Pink one was scary,” Ares grunts.

  “Not like that unicorn on her school binder.” Zeus shudders. “The one with the rainbow horn? Something wrong with its eyes.”

  “There wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t put devil eye stickers over the real eyes,” Bro says. “You possessed my unicorn.”

  “No, it was freaky before it got possessed. I wouldn’t touch that thing.” He slugs Ares. “That you?”

  “No way. Scary horse bad.”

  Bro’s looking a little possessed herself, and my balls are aching again. Pretty sure I can’t solve this problem with a quick trip to the bathroom either. As long as she’s within a quarter mile radius, and pissed off over anything, I’m going to be worse off than if I were force-fed a handful of little blue pills and tossed in a sultan’s harem.

  “Your handiwork?” she says to me, and now I’m thinking of her handiwork. Her hands. On my cock. Squeezing. Stroking. Guiding it to her mouth—

  “You would’ve known if it was me,” I say.

  It was definitely me. And I would’ve hit the kitten posters in her room with them too if I’d known it bothered her.

  For the first time in my life, I wonder if I was a shithead.

  Always proudly claimed hellion. Never considered shithead. It’s enlightening. Not sure how I feel about this.

  Ares crushes another beer can.

  While I move yet one more seat closer to the women, Eloise abandons Bro to claim the seat beside Ares. “Can you do two at once?” she asks.

  “With my eyes shut,” he says.

  “Hold on.” Zeus lifts his phone. “Let me get this on camera. Fellas ain’t gonna believe this shit without proof.”

  I move one more seat down, but I’m grinning.

  Because damn. I’ve missed these nimrods. “They don’t change, do they?” I say to Bro.

  “Nope. But they hit harder now.”

  Just like old times.

  I chuckle to myself, steal a handful of her popcorn, and settle in to watch some baseball.

  12

  Ambrosia

  Chase Jett just smiled at me. It’s not enough that he tortured me through childhood. It’s not enough that he has enough money to buy a jet to fly to his personal Caribbean island and build his own private Disney World on it. It’s not enough that I’ve been wondering how deep I could shove my tongue into his chin dimple.

  When he smiles, fairies sing and the sun shoots glitter on its light beams and magical, happy, non-possessed unicorns fart rainbows across the sky.

  I’ve never seen him smile—excluding all the times he did his evil overlord laugh whenever he’d get one up on me—and I don’t like it.

  And no, I don’t want to discuss if it’s his smile I don’t like, or the fact that I’ve never seen it.

  I also don’t like that he’s wormed his way into the seat beside me, with his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his wide shoulders edging into my personal bubble, with a swell in his crotch that�
�s making me unfortunately horny. Just a little. Like a subtle swelling in my breasts that are making my barely tight nipples strain sort of-kind of loosely-painfully against my lace bra. Like a barely noticeable, pulsating, volcanic throb between my legs. Like a whisper of a hint that I might possibly desperately need to straddle him and rub my aching, swollen clit all over his long, thick shaft and—

  Yeah. I’m just a little horny. Barely noticeable over—wait. When did Willow start talking to him?

  “I get diversification,” she’s saying, “but a grocery store?”

  “Everybody eats,” Chase says.

  “Not organic, free-range, fair trade, yada yada pricey pricey food.”

  He smiles that ridiculously handsome smile at her, and I can’t decide if I want to slug him or mount him. His teeth are straight and perfect, like he must’ve gotten braces in the last ten years. The chin dimple makes his full lips seem manly and rugged, even with the glitter still stuck in there, and his eyes are crinkling like he’s hiding a sense of humor in his blackened soul.

  Which will only come out a muddy gray in my mind, because even I can’t find the evil in this smile.

  “I grew up on canned baloney.” He winks at her. “Call it a billionaire’s eccentricity if you want, but I have plans. Ten years from now, Crunchy’s going to be the place even low-income families can go to get fewer pesticides and hormones in their food supply.”

  The crowd suddenly groans, and we all leap to our feet as a ball sails out of the park. Those of us from Minnesota, anyway, so basically me, my brothers, and Chase. Home run for the visitors.

  “Yeah, baby,” Zeus yells. Ares is doing his war cry, a deafening howl that sounds like a flock of chickens being murdered. Huh. Maybe he could stop by my apartment about three AM and demonstrate for Hogzilla. And why hasn’t this ever occurred to me before?

  Oh, right.

  Because I don’t want to get kicked out of my building. Finding an affordable place in the city is akin to finding a new job when you have a criminal record and a current listing as a smokin’ hot do me now mama on BillionaireBangers.com.

 

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