Page 55 of Sexting the Billionaire

"He knows Zara saw me." I bite my lip, unsure how to respond.

"Tell him the truth—that you're being thoroughly debriefed about your night of passion."

"I am not saying that." I type a response, keeping it deliberately light:

No interrogation, just good timing. I'm being forced to consume mimosas while pretending I didn't just have the best night of my life.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself. Three dots appear immediately, then:Only the best? I must be losing my touch. Perhaps a refresher course is needed.

Heat rises to my face, which Olivia—naturally—notices.

"I know that look," she says, pointing an accusing finger at me. "You're sexting at brunch? While I'm sitting right here? I'm simultaneously appalled and impressed."

"I'm not sexting," I insist, though whatever I was about to type back definitely veered in that direction. "We're just... bantering."

"Mm-hmm. Horizontal bantering, I bet."

"I promise to keep all future bantering strictly vertical when you're present," I say solemnly.

"Don't make promises you can't keep." She stands, gathering her things. "Just promise me one thing—you'll be smart about this. And not just the obvious stuff like protection. I mean emotionally smart."

"I will," I say, touched by her concern beneath the teasing. "This is just a temporary... thing. A post-Camden palate cleanser. Nothing serious."

"If you say so." She doesn't look convinced. "Just remember, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' when appropriate."

"Duly noted." I stand as well, grabbing my purse.

"Oh, and Cassie?" Olivia loops her arm through mine as we head for the door. "While I have serious concerns about the wisdom of your choices, I have to admit—you look happier than I've seen you in months. Maybe years."

"Do I?" I'm genuinely surprised.

"You're practically glowing. It's annoying, actually."

I laugh, bumping her shoulder with mine. "Thanks for not judging. Too much."

"What are friends for?" She grins. "Besides, if you're jumping into the fire, you might as well bring marshmallows to roast."

As we step outside, my phone buzzes again. I don't need to check it to know it's Roman, but I do anyway, my smile widening at his message:

Dinner at my place tonight? I promise to make it worth missing your Sunday night face mask ritual.

"Marshmallows indeed," I murmur to myself, already composing my reply.

I might be playing with fire, but right now, the flames feel an awful lot like flying.

13

ROMAN

"Pass the wine," Cassie demands, stretched across my couch like she owns it, her bare feet propped on my ridiculously expensive coffee table.

My shirt—the one she's commandeered—rides up her thighs with the movement.

Five weeks into our "arrangement," and somehow she's transformed from the carefully composed Creative Director who nervously entered my penthouse that first night into this creature of casual confidence who raids my fridge and criticizes my movie choices.

I find it disturbingly appealing.

"What's the magic word?" I ask, holding the bottle just out of reach.

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