Page 46 of Billionaire Grump

Fuck reality.

I’m sick to death of reality.

My soul feels parched and needy for some of that escapism she was talking about. With her. I want to feast on her and bask in her glow like I’ve never wanted anything.

I murmur some expected reply to Ethan. He’s a guy I’ve met a few times at Leah and Blake’s dinner parties in the city. He’s a broker who works for Blake’s company, probably four or five years younger than me. Leah once described him as a “manwhore.” I didn’t give it much thought at the time, but I sure don’t like the fucking sound of it now. He sips his champagne, watching Ivy, like everyone else at this party is doing. Not appearing to have his own date.

“Ivy Laine, huh?” he says. “How the hell did you score her?”

I glare at him, furious that he’s distracting me from the little goddess on stage. I don’t even know how to reply to that. What I feel like doing is strangling the little punk with his own tie. I can hardly tell him the truth. I scored her by paying her a quarter of a million dollars to pretend to like me. And now I’m drowning in a brand new obsession that’s digging into me with razor-sharp, lust-spiked claws because she’s addictive in every sense of the word and I’m already dreading Sunday afternoon, when I potentially have to watch her walk away and disappear from my life only to be preyed on by douchebags like you. Which feels strangely, insanely unbearable.

I have two days to convince her.

Convince her of what, you asshole? You’ve known the girl for a total of two hours. What the fuck are you planning to do?

I don’t know.

I have no idea.

But something. Definitely something.

Ivy finishes her song, strumming her last chord to enthusiastic applause. Leah is close to the stage, clapping happily with Blake by her side. Ethan whistles loudly and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to punch the little fucker in the face.

I have no idea where this caveman tendency is coming from but I’m feeling it hard.

Ivy takes a bow. “Thank you so much.” She picks up her half-full glass of champagne from where it’s sitting on a nearby amp and she raises it. “To love. To Leah and Blake and a lifetime of wedded bliss and beautiful happiness.”

Everyone raises their glasses and I tip back the rest of my Moët.

The band takes the stage as Ivy steps off. She’s accosted by an excited Leah and stops to get hugged before making her way back toward our table.

Ethan watches her approach. “Damn,” he comments. “You lucky bastard. How long have you two been together? Are you exclusive?”

I seriously can’t handle this.

At least my fury is calming my lust by a single degree.

I stand, buttoning my jacket. I pluck his named place card from the table, crumpling it and tucking it into the pocket of his lapel. “In the interest of not making a scene by rearranging your face at Blake and Leah’s rehearsal dinner, I’m going to ask this politely once and once only. Do not even think of going anywhere near her. Don’t talk to her. Don’t even fucking look at her. She’s mine. I’m therefore not responsible for how fucking ballistic I go if you don’t fuck off immediately. We both know I can get you fired with a single conversation. I can also make sure you never get hired in the state of New York again. Third, I can easily pummel you into next week if I choose to. The only way I want to see you for the rest of the evening is from a long fucking distance. And to answer your question, yes, we are exclusive. Very. Fucking. Exclusive. Am I making myself clear enough?”

What are you even doing right now?

But my common sense is no match for the enraged yeti who’s taken up residence in my subconscious. All he wants to do is claim Ivy Laine and keep her entirely to himself.

I don’t understand it but I’m going with it tonight because it’s the only thing I’m capable of.

He stares at me. “Jesus, dude.” But he gets the message loud and clear. Maybe it’s because my fists are clenched and the rage is practically beaming itself out of my eyes. “Fine. Fine.” He stands up from his chair, noticing that I’m a good six inches taller than he is and outweigh him by a significant margin.

He holds his palms up and wanders into the now-lively crowd to try his luck elsewhere.

“Thank you to Ivy Laine,” Margot says, into the microphone. The shrillness of her voice mostly takes care of my hard-on. “I’d now like to welcome to the stage The Sailors, the Hamptons very own local and much-loved band! Please help yourself to more drinks at the bar and the delectable hors d’oeuvres, which our wonderful waitstaff has just begun to pass around. Dinner will be served at eight o’clock.”

Ivy stops to sign an autograph. The candlelight catches the red and gold hues of her dark hair. Her olive skin is so flawless and smooth-looking, she doesn’t look real. She laughs at something the woman says to her and she looks so gorgeous, not only does my cock spring back to instant rock-hard life, but my chest aches with an acute kind of longing that’s new to me.

Damn, she’s pretty.

I shove my fists into my pockets and watch her walk back to me. She sees me and smiles, at my intensity maybe. I offer her my arm. “Come for a walk with me.”

“Where are we going?”