Page 72 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

I get out of there and email Sasha with the plans. I tell her I’ll pick her up at 6:30. I’m about to tell her where we’re going, but I decide to leave it as a surprise. She’ll probably call me an asshole when she finds out how I secured our table.

I smile at the thought. I’ve never felt so connected to a woman. Though it’s Operator Seven I’m feeling connected to, not Sasha. I need to work on changing that.

I head home and grab a little time in my study, updating computer models, but I’m incredibly distracted. I answer emails until it’s time to get dressed, dithering over what tie to put with my black-and-gray-checked bespoke suit. I’d typically go with a black tie, but this is Seven. I grab a yellow tie with pineapples on it, fix my cuffs, and head down to the street where the limo is waiting. I give Sasha’s address.

I’ve never been one to get overly excited about the possibility of fucking, maybe because the opportunities are always so plentiful.

But you’d think I’d be excited by the chance to finally be with Seven, considering how many times I’ve imagined it. I close my eyes and picture getting an earful of her snark before pressing her to the wall and tasting her lips, her neck, enjoying the sound of her moans as I get her off.

It’s still the faceless woman on the phone I’m imagining. Still her husky voice, even if it is an app.

Damn.

I grab the bottle of scotch from the backseat bar and pour myself two fingers.

Eventually we arrive at Sasha’s building, an ultra-contemporary high-rise near Astor Place. I double-check the address. I’d imagined Seven in a prewar place. Something with heft and history. An ornate elevator that only works half the time. I suppose it’s possible the ceilings in there have crown moldings, but they wouldn’t be historic.

Sasha’s grinning as she crosses the sidewalk. I get out and open the door for her.

“The jackalope has arrived!” she declares.

I manage a smile. I should hardly be put off—she’s called me worse, but it’s always been…different, somehow. “You look lovely,” I say.

She raises an eyebrow. “So do you, Mr. Drummond.”

“I’m back to Mr. Drummond?”

She stares blankly at me, then shrugs. “Oh, that whole thing…” She waves, as if to dismiss an unruly subject. “I say we start from square one.”

I smile politely, though I really don’t know what she means. “Ready?”

“Sure am.”

I take her hand and help her into the back of the car, and get in after her. I offer her a drink and tell her we’re going to the Blue Stag Club. “Have you heard of it?”

“Heard of it? Of course!” she says. “I thought they were booked out for months.”

“They were. I did an in-person visit to get a table. I was…persuasive.”

She beams at me. “It’s perfect.”

I gaze out the window, disheartened. I hoped she’d be less…something out of the office environment. More how she is on the phone.

“Gorgeous,” she says as we walk into the Blue Stag. I take her coat and hand it off, and we’re led to our table.

She doesn’t seem to notice the baby goat picture. Maybe it’s for the best. It’ll be a good thing to draw her attention to later during a lull in the conversation.

The waiter brings our drinks—a scotch for me and a dry martini for her.

“You’re so full of surprises,” I say.

“What do you mean?” She pulls out the stick and slips an olive between her lips.

“I wouldn’t have guessed a dry martini.”

She tilts her head and smiles. Her smile is pretty. She’s pretty. I have to give her a chance. “Why not?”

“I would’ve guessed something sweeter.”

---