Page 6 of My Big, Fat, Accidental Billionaire Husband

Even if said life is usually just me, Netflix, and a pint of ice cream.

His eyebrow raises slightly, and I realize I’ve been more defensive than the situation warrants.

“I was joking,” he says, his lips curving into a half-smile. “I’m well aware that even the most dedicated employees occasionally escape their desks.”

One of his friends, a tall, sandy-haired man with the kind of grin that screams trouble, steps forward. “Dom, aren’t you going to introduce us to your... damp new friend?”

That’s when I realize I spilled half my drink all over myself when I fell. That white linen shirt Dom gave me? It’s got a nice blue stain forming down the middle.

“Oh my god,” I say. “I’m so sorry about your shirt!”

Dom shakes his head. “I’ve got others.” He gestures toward the newcomer. “Leo Maxwell, Tatiana Cole. Tatiana, this is Leo, a walking HR complaint who happens to be one of my oldest friends.”

Leo clutches his chest dramatically. “You wound me. I prefer ‘enthusiastic socializer.’” He gestures to the other men. “That’s Sam and our groom-to-be, Marco. He’s getting married here tomorrow. Vegas baby.”

My friends have edged closer, obviously expecting their own introduction. I’m not quite sure this is the best idea, but to hell with it. I meant what I said earlier.

I’m allowed to have a personal life. To have fun.

“And these are my friends,” I say. “Sabrina, Jess, and Amara. We’re celebrating Amara’s promotion.”

“Congratulations,” Dom says to Amara, who practically glows under his attention.

“Let me buy you ladies a drink,” Leo declares. “To celebrate both Amara’s promotion and the most entertaining collision I’ve ever witnessed in Vegas. And that’s saying something!”

“Oh, that’s not neces—” I begin, but Jess cuts me off.

“We accept! But Tatiana really needs to fix her wardrobe situation first...”

Dom’s gaze drops briefly to the shirt around me, and something flickers in his eyes... something that makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with embarrassment.

“Our cabana has a changing area,” he offers. “You’re welcome to use it.”

Before I can think of a professional way to decline, we’re being ushered toward a private cabana that’s approximately the size of my entire apartment. Inside, the music is slightly muted, and a private bar is stocked with top-shelf everything.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Dom points to a door at the back. “Take your time.”

Sabrina follows me in, producing a safety pin from her bag like a magician. I reluctantly remove Dom’s shirt, bringing the loose bikini top along with it. Sabrina helps me position the latter across my chest.

“Never leave home without emergency supplies,” she says, working on my bikini top. “So, Dominic Rossi, huh? I think he likes you.”

“He’s my boss’s friend,” I remind her, though the protest sounds weak even to my ears. “Professional boundaries.”

“Professional boundaries went out the window when you flashed him your goods,” she laughs. “Besides, we’re in Vegas. Boundaries are optional here.”

Once my bikini is secured (albeit precariously), I grab a bunch of wet towels and begin cleaning off the blue liquid that’s smeared all over my chest.

When we finally emerge, shots have materialized on the cabana’s center table, and Leo is holding court.

“There she is!” he exclaims. “Our blue cocktail assassin returns. Just in time for the first round.”

Dom approaches, and I hold out his shirt. “Thank you for the emergency coverage.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Keep it. Blue isn’t really my color anyway.”

“I should pay for—”

“If you finish that sentence I might be offended,” he interrupts. “I have plenty of shirts, Tatiana.”

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