Page 32 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

“‘Do you know who this is?’Did you seriously just ask that?”

“Do I need to ask it again?” he rumbles.

I hold the phone with both hands. The volume is just up enough that I can hear. I kind of do want him to ask it again. Partly because his voice is really grumbly and sexy this morning and partly because I have no idea whether wake-up-call people know who they’re calling. Do they get little profiles of their clients? Special wake-up dossiers?

“Well?”

“You think I don’t know who I’m calling?” I say, making a snap decision. “This is a wake-up-call service. I know exactly who I’m calling—Theo Drummond, CEO of Vossameer. I know everything I need to know about you. Thing one: You’re a man who can’t seem to operate the modern wake-up technologies specifically created for wake-up functions, so you have to hire somebody to do it for you. And then you act like a total jackalope and tell her how to do her job.”

My heart bangs. Did I really just call him a jackalope? I wait for his reply. Nothing.

Was jackalope a bridge too far?

“Is there anything else I need to know?” I ask. “Because that kind of says it all, don’t you think?”

He does his hot warning grumble, and my belly melts. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

I lie back down and pull the covers to my chest, imagining Mr. Drummond in his own bed, somewhere across town.

He probably has a kingly king-size bed with thick wooden posts on all four sides. Grand arched windows with amazing views. Would he sleep in pajamas? No, I decide. He’d sleep in the nude; he’d see pajamas as a useless convention.

I imagine him nude in a nest of tangled sheets, muscular chest bathed in moonlight. One trunk-like thigh sticking out the side.

My blood races to imagine it. I turn to my side, and my nipples tingle from the brush of fabric, being that they have become keenly sensitive little pellets of need. “Well,” I say hoarsely, “now that you’re awake, let’s see what the temperature is.”

“Don’t bother,” he rumbles.

“But isn’t that how I’m supposed to wrap up our call?”

“It’s not as if you have any idea of the temperature.”

“I can tell you what I think it is, though. Accuracy is so overrated, don’t you think?” I add, just to needle him. I have to stop smiling, or he’ll hear it in my voice. I shouldn’t be having fun. “Now, let me take a look here…”

“Wait,” he says.

“What? You’re awake.” I set the phone on the bed, just inches from my face. I curl onto my side, looking at it like a live thing. What am I doing? “This marks the official end of my duties,” I tease. “You think I don’t have other clients waiting for my amazing wake-up service?”

It’s a little evil, reminding him of his question.

“So this really is how you wake people up…”

I decide his tone this morning is less of a rumble and more of a velvety crinkle. Soft, yet substantial.

“That’s for me to know and you to never find out, Theo.” I decide I get to call him Theo. I like calling him Theo.

Judging by his silence, he’s not a fan.

“Just tell me,” he says finally. “Is this your technique with multiple clients? It’s not a difficult question.”

“Hmm,” I say, imagining his stern expression. No doubt he’s reached stern-face DEFCON one, red-alert status.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Operator Seven.”

He grumbles his disappointment. “Fine. One more question.”

“Oh, I suppose,” I say breezily.

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