Page 67 of The Best Wrong Move

“I Googled him.”

“Oh.” My stomach lurches, thinking she’s found something indescribably awful. Not wanting the memory of last night to be tarnished by whatever it is, I close my eyes, bracing for the blow she’s about to deliver.

“He’s a fucking billionaire, Liv.”

My eyes shoot open.

“What? No, he lives in his brother’s house, which might make him look like one, but—”

“Is that what he told you?”

“No.” I search my memory for any indication that he’s as successful as Abby says. The companies. The fact that he’s not sure how many he owns.

“You said he has no idea how many rentals he actually has, right?”

“Oh, God.” I swallow hard, searching my memory for any other details that might dispel this little rumor she’s calling about. “That doesn’t mean he’s a billionaire. Someone can have a few rentals and not know the exact number . . .”And companies, I want to add.

“Liv, the internet doesn’t lie.”

I laugh until I realize she isn’t joining in. “I love you, dearly, and I mean this so kindly, but you’re out of your mind if you think this guy is walking around all casually like a closeted, self-made billionaire. He’s too young for that. And hot. He’s too young and hot for that.”

“You’re probably in shock, and I totally get that, but you need to get online and look for yourself.”

“You’re claiming the guy I’ve been seeing is a full-blown Mark Zuckerberg?”

“He’s not even in the same league as Mark Zuckerberg. He’s more like a bazillionaire who looks oddly similar to Jason Momoa. Why didn’t you send me a picture, by the way? I had to snoop on this guy online to see him for myself and — damn, Liv . . . I’m surprised you even come up for air if that’s who you’ve been spending time with.”

I smile into the phone, remembering the exact moment he sunk into me last night. The first and second time. Then I close my eyes as swirls of lust flow through me again. She’s not wrong. I’m not sure why I even left his house, other than to get a fresh change of clothes this morning. Otherwise, I’d be tempted to chain him to a bed for the rest of the day.

“Liv, are you still there? Or have you fainted from the news?”

I snap back to our conversation. “The internet lied to you, Abby.” I’m a little annoyed that we’re still on this whole kick. Google isn’t the most truthful place to research someone, especially if they’re tied to a family that tabloids would be interested in selling false headlines about. “Billionaires don’t couch surf at their brother’s house.”

“Are you forgetting what I do for a living?”

“You’ve addedprivate investigatorto your résumé now?” I ask, teasing her as I open cupboards, looking for the bag of bagels I was sure I still had in here somewhere. I’m starving after the workout I got last night.

“I don’t make mistakes when I’m looking into someone’s background. I’m meticulous about this kind of thing.”

“I haven’t told you about his family yet, which probably just makes him look like he’s uber rich too, just like his dad, and his brother, and his mom...”

“Right. His dad owned—”

“Paramour Studios. I know.”

“And his brother is—”

“Quinton Rockwell. Trust me, I know! I was going to tell you all this when I got home.”

Abby clears her throat, then silence. Like she’s waiting for me to pick up what she’s putting down.

The clock ticking on the wall grows louder as it all starts to sink in.

“Abby? You sure you’re not wrong about this?”

Silence.

I frown at my hand, still frozen on the cupboard knob.

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