Page 39 of The Billionaires

The Mohawk guy orders me to dress for the event so that his work isn’t ruined later.

The crew barely give me privacy as I put on my new digs, and then it turns out one of them is merely here to make sure I look good in my outfit and to adjust what’s needed.

When I finally sit in the kitchen chair designated as “my spot,” the motley crew descends on me like vultures on roadkill.

The medieval torture—sorry, makeover—goes on for a decade before my doorbell rings.

“Oh, no,” Mohawk guy says. “We’re out of time.”

The disco ball lady examines my face the way I would a pot of fungus-gnat-infested soil. “I guess this will have to do.”

I open the door, and my breath hitches as I take in Lucius. He looks extra hot, and I can’t figure out why. I mean, the last time I saw him, he was also dressed in a bespoke suit with a tie, was clean-shaven, and so on.

“Did you get a haircut?” I blurt.

Mohawk gasps and rounds on Lucius. “You saw someone else?”

Lucius frowns. “No haircut. I merely put some gel in.”

Mohawk looks shocked. I guess grooming his hair is not in Lucius’s usual repertoire.

Lucius hands Mohawk and the rest of the gang enough cash to open a salon. “That will be all.”

Clutching the money, the makeover team skedaddles.

Lucius lifts a small, turquoise-colored shopping bag he’s holding. “I got you a little something.”

At first glance, my brain thinks the bag says “tip any & co.” But no, it’s all one word before the &, and the P is an F. An epiphany strikes. That’s “Tiffany & Co.,” as in?—

“I hope it goes with your outfit.” Lucius reaches into the bag and pulls out a box that’s the same turquoise color as the bag.

I gape as he opens the lid, revealing a necklace littered with enough of a girl’s best friends to form a small town. “You got me jewelry?”

He takes the bling out. “Score one for your powers of observation.”

Rendered speechless, I just stand there as he steps behind me and drapes the necklace around my neck.

Holy saguaro. His fingers brush my neck, sending zingers of pleasure to my nipples and beyond. “There you go,” he murmurs, his breath warm on the top of my head. “Now you look the part.”

Shaken, I step away from his proximity, face the mirror attached to the front door, and check myself out.

Yep. If the part I am playing is that of a billionaire’s girlfriend, Lucius and his team deserve an Oscar for costume design.

“We should go,” Lucius says. “But first, give me a tour of your place.”

A tour? I turn around and examine my tiny studio apartment. Does he think there are hidden rooms or something? Or that it’s a TARDIS situation where something is roomier than it looks?

With a snort, I gesture to my left. “That’s the kitchen.” I point at my Murphy bed that doubles as a couch when not in use. “That’s the bedroom and the living room. And last, but by no means least, my cactus.” I smile at El Duderino. “End of tour.”

“Oh.” He glances at the only other door in my place. “That doesn’t lead to more rooms?”

“Only if you consider a bathroom a room,” I say. “And yes, I splurged so my toilet isn’t just sitting in the middle of everything.”

He walks over to the bathroom door and peeks inside.

Crap. Did I leave any unmentionables lying around? Given how unruffled he looks when he closes the door, probably not.

“Let’s go,” he says and strides for the front door.

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