Page 26 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

He’s silent of course.

“I think not,” I say.

“That’s not the point.”

“Oh, it’s totally the point. I’m amazing, and you are lucky to have me.” I’m committing, like Mia said. What do I have to lose? “However,” I continue, “due to your back talk and poor attitude, I’m thinking about firingyou.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a bad client. The worst.”

I can feel the stunned silence through the phone. The slight tenor of his breath. A strange mix of anger and fear and weird swirls through me.

Finally he speaks. “Are you telling me there are people out there whopreferthis kind of wake-up call? This is just what you do?”

Every molecule in me goes still, because I’m thinking about what he said—he didn’t complain yesterday because he had to have his question answered. I lasted one day. Can I last another? “What doyouthink?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you. Are there other people you speak to like this? Are there people out there who prefer a rude wake-up call?”

“That’s funny, I thought you were the expert here.”

“Answer the question.”

There’s something wildly sexy about his demanding attitude. In a flash I imagine him in the bed with me, demanding wrong things. And I would be all, buzz off! And then he’d make me do them, and it would be so hot.

And then I blot that mad thought from my mind. Because hello!! It’s Mr. Drummond!

“Well?” he grumbles.

He really seems eager to know. Well, he’s a scientist, isn’t he? Famous for his curiosity. His puzzle-solving abilities.

Can I last yet another day? And then another?

Coyly, I say, “I don’tknowif youdeservean answer. What with your attitude.”

“Excuse me?” he rumbles.

“You heard me.” I steel myself. Am I really going to do this? Yes.

I suck in a breath and glance out the window. It looks cold. I can see little droplets reflected in the orange light from the Royale Hotel looming above our building.

I say, “The current temperature at JFK is thirty-seven degrees with periods of light rain forecasted throughout the day.” With that, I stab my finger onto the red hang-up button.

Gone.

I sit cross-legged on my bed, pulse racing, cradling my phone with both hands, cool and heavy, screen perfectly black and a little smudgy. Quiet for the moment.

Suddenly it vibrates. A huge smile takes over my entire face as I hit send to voicemail. And wait.

Beep.

The voicemail icon shows up.

My pulse whooshes in my ears. I click to hear the message. It’s short—just two seconds. The sound of a man sucking in a breath, then letting it out. It sounds like frustration. Vulnerability. Heat.

I listen to it a few times more. Even in the one frustrated breath, you can catch the deep timbre of his voice. It feels strange, this little message. Like a little gift. Something of his that’s all mine.

I listen to it again, squeezing my legs together, feeling happy and thrilled and turned on.

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