Page 102 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

Lizzie

I spendthe morning networking until I find a caterer who needs a temporary baker. A friend of a friend. I go out to meet him at his place in Little Italy. His kitchen is cramped, but usable.

I get out of there feeling like I’m starting at the foot of the mountain, rolling the boulder upward, doing the kinds of jobs I did out of culinary school. I’m a better, faster baker, and a better businessperson than I was all those years ago, but in some ways, it’s all actually worse, because I see the steps. I know what a long road it is.

Especially with an eighteen-month detour to Fargo.

I try not to think about all the things I’ll miss—Mia, of course. Our quiet block with the quirky little grocer on the corner. The gang from La Dolce Vina where we all used to work. Pizza from Carpone’s on 22nd. The street life. Biking the Central Park loop, the magic of the first snowfall in the city.

And somehow, Theo has crept onto that list.

Over the course of all those supposedly anonymous phone calls, we achieved a rare intimacy. If I had a Mount Rushmore for my life right now, he’d be one of the big faces.

But we can’t be anything. We shouldn’t even be fuck buddies.

Except I can’t stop thinking about the way he swept into our little apartment. The way my whole body hummed when he finally touched me, one finger on my arm. The heat of us. How we tell each other brave, real things, or at least I do, but I think he does, too. His lab coats. His mysterious hatred of being a hero. The spanking I haven’t gotten yet.

So the next morning when I’m lying in bed awake at the stupid hour of 4:29, I grab my phone and the little card with his handwriting, and I dial his number.

It’s just a phone call, right?

“Wake up, motherfucker,” I say when he answers.

“What was that?” he grumbles sternly.

“I’m sorry for the abrupt way I left breakfast,” I say.

“Fuck buddies don’t need apologies, haven’t you heard?”

“I feel like this one does.”

“I got into your business,” he says. “You hate that.”

“I do,” I say. “Were you awake already?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Were you waiting for my call?”

“Yup.”

“So what happens now? Do you have a home gym for your insanely punishing workout?”

“First I’m planning on taking a walk and watching the birds fall from the trees, stunned by my glory. And then the workout. What makes you think it’s insanely punishing?”

“You’re a bulletproof coffee-drinking workaholic with an unbelievably perfect body who sleeps four hours a night. Let’s call it an educated guess.”

He makes a little noise, something like a chuckle-groan, followed by rustling, like maybe he rolled over. I wish so hard I was there.

“Are you in your bedroom?” I ask.

“Yup.”

“What does it look like?”

“You ruled out home visits yesterday. Are we sure about home descriptions?”

“Pleeeeease.” I want to know. I want to picture him.

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