Page 2 of Coffee Break with the Billionaire

The Atlantic Ocean looks a little different here than what I’m used to around Long Island. Angrier, and more gray than blue.

But it’s the houses I focus on.“They look like Lego,” I tell him.

“It’s the prettiest place in Laandia. I hope you like it.”

“Of course I will because you’re here.” I put my arms around him, leaning up for a kiss.

It’s the eve of my twenty-second birthday and at this moment, I think this is all I’ll ever need.

Chapter one

Fenella

Ineed better shoes.

The man who designed these shoes was a sadist. And it has to be a man because a woman would not do this to other women—squashing baby toes beyond recognition, adding no padding in the sole and even less grip on the bottom, which causes me to skid along the damp pavement as I dash across the street.

A taxi screeches to a halt as I cross against the light, resulting in a long, drawn-out honk from a Maserati sliding by. The driver shouts something incomprehensible out the window, along with finger gestures. I ignore them and continue to cross because cars will stop for me because I’m Fenella Carrington and things always happen for me.

Except for this. This can’t be happening to me.

The music from Bubbles nightclub chases after me, adding to the sounds of the Las Vegas Strip. This truly is a city that never sleeps because it’s lit up to be as bright as day and it’s very loud, so the only way to sleep in one of the hotel rooms is to take the penthouse, giving youthe right amount of distance from the street, or use a sleep mask/earplug combination.

Fortunately, I have access to all of the above.

“Fenella—wait!”

The voice of my boyfriend/fiancé/ex-everything calls after me. Tiger Brannon is a singer and can project his voice over the white noise of the city. I consider that to be his only talent at this moment.

“For what?” Forgetting I’m in the middle of a busy street after midnight, I whirl around to face Tiger, who is panting after me.

You’d think a rock star would have better cardio, but in reality, Tiger is in horrible shape, skinny to the point of scrawny with no visible muscle tone. He’s the lead singer for Opium and a fairly boring one at that. He never moves, just clutches the microphone like my friend Gigi when you give her a bottle of Dom Perignon and wails into it.

He is no prince.

Yes, I dated a prince, and unfortunately, every other man I’ve dated since has been found lacking in comparison. It’s not that I want Prince Gunnar back—it’s been years, and I pride myself in never going back, only forward—but Gunnar was one of the good ones.

“What should I be waiting for?” I shout at Tiger. Okay, it’s more of a shriek than a shout, but I’m an emotional womanand this has been a very bad night.

Three hours ago, I had been in Los Angeles, enjoying sushi with my friends Coral and Rupert when I got the Google Alert that Tiger was at Bubbles, the nightclub owned by my friend, and fellow billionaire, Mase Stirling. The last time I spoke to Tiger, he had been finishing up a show in Dallas, Texas and moving on to the next stop on his tour.

I am not Travis; I would not follow Taylor from show to show. I do like to go once in a while, but Opium is not Taylor Swift. They may have an amazing music video, starring me and two of my model friends, but in my opinion, the band doesn’t have the stamina to last, nor have they garnered the celebrity fans to make every concert a must-see event.

But I pride myself on being a good girlfriend. I sprang into action when I found out Tiger was in Las Vegas instead of the Midwest. From the sushi place, I made a few calls and quickly had the Carrington jet fueled and ready to whisk me away to Vegas. Rupert and Coral refused to come with me, even going so far as to point out how Tiger never told me he was less than two hours away by plane, but I still insisted on surprising him.

Bad idea all around. I do wish I could have convinced at least Coral to come because I could really use a squad with me. I’m alone out here for this.

Except for the groups of photographerstherein front of Bubbles, and overthereby the casino. They always seem to be around for times like this.

“For you to make out with other women?” I hold up three fingers. “In one night? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

There are a lot of things I’m only now finding out about Tiger.

Google Alerts followed me from LA; by the time I landed, a handful of photos had shown up on the Internet ofmyboyfriend having some close contact with other women. According to Instagram, two were random fans who happened to be in the right place at the right time to get close to Tiger, but I recognized Luna Birch in the last picture. She’s part of a group that follows the band across the country from show to show. Tiger and the band laugh at the group in private, but in the picture splashed across social media, Tiger is too busy exploring Luna's tonsils with his tongue to be laughing.

Because the world knows I’m with Tiger, I got tagged in all the pictures.

Nice of people to want to share the infidelities of my fiancé.

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