Page 103 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

“There are three arched windows in front of me that face west. I can see the moon right now. Building tops. Lights. Long gray curtains on either side.”

“Gray walls?”

“White walls,” he says. “Dark wood floor. Most of my art is photography. Architectural photography. But some of it is shapes that the wind makes in sand.”

“Really?”

“Sand. Is that surprising? The photographer is from Yemen. She photographs sand. It’s beautiful.”

“It’s just funny, because sand seems so non-linear.”

“Maybe it comforts me to trap it in a square frame, control freak that I am.”

I snort.

“What are you doing this afternoon?”

“I don’t know how I feel about that as a transition,” I say.

“Tell me.”

Heat steals over me. “Maybe I’m calling wake-up clients who are less assholey than you.”

He growls, and shivers slide over me. He loves when I’m being impudent, and so do I. It’s probably all sorts of wrong, but I don’t care.

“I don’t know. Errands and things.”

“Keep the afternoon open,” he says in the rumbly tone I’ve come to love. “Just keep it open.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to teach you and your smart mouth a lesson.”

I swallow past my dry mouth. And then he’s gone. Before I can even OMG him.

Later that morning, at a far more decent hour, a courier delivers an envelope with the logo of the Rowell Hotel. Inside is a key card and one of Theo’s business cards with a room number and 2:15 p.m. scribbled in his crisp penmanship, underlined twice.

The underlines are such a nice Theo touch. I bring the card to my nose and inhale, picking up the faintest traces of a sweet-sharp scent. Like melon and pepper.

I tell myself I shouldn’t go. I don’t like Theo telling me what to do…except maybe I might like it when it’s in a room at a fabulous luxury hotel.

The Rowell is dripping with luxury, as it turns out, from the chandeliers up top to the lusciously thick rugs underfoot.

I ride a deluxe elevator up to the top floor and find the room empty. There’s a note on the bed with just one word:Strip.

I sit down and check my phone instead. Because Operator Seven doesn’t follow rules. Operator Seven has worn one of the sack dresses. Operator Seven is so impudent, it’s not even funny.

Theo comes in without knocking. He takes one look at me and shakes his head, stripping off his overcoat with brutal efficiency. His stern manner makes me quiver deep inside.

I hold up the note. “If I recall, I quit Vossameer. You are no longer the boss of me, Drummond.”

He rakes me up and down with his gaze. No humor, no lightness. Only hunger. I’m trembling so excitedly, it’s a wonder I don’t rocket right out the window.

I stand and rip up the note, let the pieces flutter to the posh carpet.

“Damn,” he says.

I shiver as he stalks over, skin too tight on my body. He takes my hair in his fist and uses it to spin me around and push me face-first to the wall. He presses the bulk of his weight to me.

---