Page 18 of Kicking it with the Billionaire

I couldn’t help the frown on my face. “You’re leaving?”

He stood and furrowed his brow. “I assumed you’d want me to.”

“No. I was hoping you wouldn’t leave yet, actually.”

He pulled his shirt on. “Okay. What would you like to do then? More baseball?” His grin was wicked.

A small smile crossed my face. “Not necessarily. But it’s only like… two in the afternoon. We could go get a drink or a late lunch, if you wanted.” I realized how needy I sounded. “But if you need to leave or something, I get it.”

Dex sat on the edge of the bed and put his hand on my thigh. I felt very awkward sitting naked while he was fully clothed. “If you’re not busy this afternoon, I’d love to take you for a late lunch,” he said gently.

“Only if you’re sure.” I shrugged, trying to look as if I didn’t care.

He kissed me once more, with his hand tenderly cradling my jaw, and the butterflies were back. “I’m a hundred percent sure.”

Chapter Ten

Dex

For the second time that day, I drove with Bennett in the passenger seat, and for about the thousandth time that day, I thought about how I could absolutely dangerously get used tohavinghim in my passenger seat. We held hands as I drove us back toward the city center, Bennett chattering about his mom and sister, his work, and anything else he could think of.

“Have you ever seen live music?” I asked during a lull in the conversation.

“Like a concert?”

“Yeah. A band, maybe, or even something like a symphony.”

Bennett nodded. “Bands, yeah. A few times. Not a lot. Why do you ask?”

“I have tickets to see this band. I’ve never heard of them, but they’re supposed to be good. Young Spades?”

He laughed. “You’re kidding. I love that band. They’re great actually. How did you get tickets to a band you’ve never even heard of?”

“My—”

He held up a hand. “Don’t say your company got them.”

“I won’t say it.” I mimicked zipping my lips.

I wanted to tell him. I really did. It felt so right with him, the way everything between us flowed so naturally, and I wanted to come clean and tell him about who I was, but it didn’t feel like the right time. I was afraid—afraid he’d see me differently or treat me differently. I wanted to enjoy the fact that he seemed to really like me for who I was, not what I had.

“Seriously, whatdoyou do for work?” He fixed his dark gaze on me and waited for an answer.

I pulled the car into street parking near Fabled Fire, a restaurant I really enjoyed, and shrugged dismissively. “I told you, it’s boring. I crunch numbers all day.”

“Okay, but number cruncher isn’t a job title.”

“I’m an investment analyst.” It wasn’t far from the truth. Sort of. I had officially been an investment analyst at one point, and I still analyzed investments.

“What company do you work for?”

“Webber Holdings.” I said it without hesitation.

His brow furrowed. “I don’t know that company.”

“I wouldn’t think so. Really, only our clients know who we are.”

“And your competitors, probably.”