Page 47 of Billionaire Grump
“Over to the water. It’s a nice view.” I’ll use any excuse but the truth is, I want to be alone with her, without the curious gaze of a hundred or so people watching her every move.
She slides her arm through mine. The light scent of her citrus-spice perfume makes me practically fucking dizzy.
How can I be so hopelessly addicted to this edgy little stranger?
I feel like I just tasted a brand new drug that I’ll burn my entire world to the ground to get more of.
I need to calm the fuck down.
We walk in silence for a minute, past the fountain, to the covered pergola that looks out over the water. Pendant lights hang from the rafters and the moon is low, painting the ocean water with its shimmering white trail. Most importantly, there’s no one else over here.
I’ve spent enough time in the Hamptons to be familiar with its scenery. The view of the hotel, the expansive garden, lawns and the ocean, with sailboats and yachts anchored offshore, could be enough to make even a die-hard skeptic like me appreciate the view. But I’m not looking at the view. I’m too captivated by my gorgeous little date—so much that I’m really starting to hate that it’s technically a fake one.
“This place is something else,” she comments, still holding my arm. “I have to hand it to Blake and Leah. And Margot. They really know how to throw a party. The whole thing is beautiful. I’m sure tomorrow will be even more over the top.”
“I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry again for making you late. They acted like that was way out of character for you.”
It’s true. Punctuality is just another one of those things that was drilled into me as I was being groomed for my role by my father, who absolutely would not tolerate waiting for people. Especially his sons. And especially his oldest son. “Diligent oldest child here.”
“I’m the oldest too.” She already mentioned she has a younger brother. She doesn’t elaborate and I don’t ask her to. I don’t want her to withdraw from me.
“For you, I didn’t mind waiting,” I hear myself saying, trying like hell to ignore my raging urge to kiss her again and to distract myself from how hard and hot my cock is.
And how addicted to my fake date I already am.
12
I’m not sure I entirely believe that he didn’t mind waiting for me, but now that we’re alone together, the hardness of his personality has once again shifted, revealing the playfulness he seems to save just for me.
Which is sort of crazy, considering we only just met.
“Cleo said you were talented, but that description doesn’t come close to doing you justice,” he says. “You’re crazy good.”
“Thanks.” It’s a nice thing to say. And not quite articulated in a way I might have expected from such a high-powered CEO. It makes him sound…like someone I could almost relate to.
“I mean that,” he says with sincerity. “Do you have a record deal? A recording contract?”
I slide my arm from his and lean my hip up against the railing of the gazebo, looking out over the spectacular view. “No. I’ve had a few offers, but the thought of someone else controlling me and my music doesn’t really appeal to me. Plus the timing wasn’t right. And the offers weren’t what I was looking for.”
“I might be able to help you, if you wanted to pursue something like that.”
I suppose he’d have all the connections in the world. But it’s hardly the time and place to talk about recording contracts, especially since I don’t expect our “relationship” to last longer than around two o’clock on Sunday afternoon. “I’m good. But thanks.”
“Really, Ivy. You’re something special.”
Now he’s just telling me what I want to hear. I elbow him lightly. “Thanks, Maddox.”
“You’re welcome, Jones.”
How about that, me and the hot billionaire have our own little inside joke. “What do your friends call you? Al? Alex? Xander?” I give him a slow once-over. “I think Alfonse kind of suits you.”
His laughter is low and sexy as hell as he leans against the railing next to me. Close to me. He’s so much bigger than I am, I get the vague sense of being dominated, and it’s surprisingly…not unpleasant. That tiny pulse that got way out of control when I sat on his lap starts its warm, secret rhythm again. “My brothers call me Alex. Everyone else calls me Alexander.”
“Even your friends?”
His smile lingers—and wow, he really is dazzling when he smiles. “Yeah. My father called me Alexander. And everyone I work with, which is most of the people I see most days, call me either Alexander or Mr. Maddox.”