Page 16 of Billionaire Devil

Clearly, it wouldn’t be safe for the good people on the interstate if I was to attempt to drive this morning. Maybe if I spend the day recovering and finishing up my packing—and getting Sloane to relay my fervent apology to her boss—I could get up super early tomorrow and make up for some of the lost time on the road.

I couldn’t have known I’d be nursing a monumentalhangover and would need to spend the day over a toilet bowl rather than driving my ancient but hopefully-trusty Toyota Corolla across Pennsylvania.

But, hey, shit happens. At least I did have a tiny bit offunfor the first time in a long time.

Maybe a little too much.

Okay, way too much.

I decide to surrender to feeling like death warmed up and just sleep for a few hours. But first I really need to brush my teeth and drink several enormous glasses of water.

Carefully lugging myself out of bed, it takes a few seconds for my equilibrium to settle into place.Tequila, I’m swearing you off for good. Never, ever again.

I plug in my phone, limp to the bathroom, take two Tylenol and drink four glasses of water. Then I brush my teeth for five solid minutes and wipe the make-up from around my eyes. I leave my bird’s nest hair as is. That can wait.

Just as I get settled back into bed where I can feel sorry for myself and nurse my regrets, there’s a knock at my door. It’s got to be Sloane coming to beg for forgiveness for the obscene amount of tequila and champagne she allowed me to consume last night. No one else even knows where I live.

But Sloane went back to the city last night.

Maybe she decided to come and check on me to see if I’m still alive.

“We’re no longer friends after those shots,” I groan.

The knock comes again, more persistently this time. My girl is really pounding.

“Damn it, Sloane,” I mutter. “Okay, fine.”

I climb out of bed. Wearing nothing but a skimpy pink bralette and matching boy shorts, I shuffle to the door. I pull the door open, ready to give Sloane my most pathetically hungover and in-pain face, when I freeze.

It’s not Sloane.

Holy shit.

It’s…Colton Maddox.

Oh…no.

He’s standing there on the other side of the door, looking like…well, like a ludicrously handsome and slightly windswept ultra-hot billionaire…and not even remotely hungover. How is that possible?

Not only does henotlook like he’s about to die, he’s even more beautiful than I remember him being last night. Admittedly, my memory is hazy, but I distinctly recall the butterflies in my stomach that worked their way down to…well, a little lower than my stomach…when he stood next to me at the bar as I marveled at his to-die-for rugged good looks. Which don’t even compare to the way the blindingly bright sun is lovingly showcasing him right now.

Wow.

Was his hair this…sexily tousled last night? It’s dark and wavy, like he’s overdue for a haircut. It gives him this rakish, panty-melting, gorgeous look.

Really, Lila?

Yes, really. Absolutely panty-melting.

He had this effect on me last night too. And I’m not typically the kind of girl whose panties…well,melt. I’m usually too distracted by work and money or lack thereof and trying to establish myself and whatnot to notice a guy’s five o’clock shadow and wonder what it would feel like to touch my fingers to the roughed-up surface of his square jaw.

Orto feel a sort of tingling up my spine just from the sound of his deep, rasped voice.

Now, he’s wearing jeans and a white polo shirt that’s snug around the sculpted muscles of his shoulders and which shows off his tan, accentuating the dark hair and the white teeth. The whole thing is way too colorful and just…roguishly ideal, like he just stepped off a Ralph Lauren photo shoot after a perfect day of living the high life out on his private island.

As for the eyes? I’m sure he had them last night, but I donotremember them being this startlingly blue in a way that makes you think of the glittering ocean and hot summer and the best days of your life. They’re sparkling with mischief, and his lopsided grin is...ridiculously gorgeous. And darkly intrigued, as though the sight of my hungover state is amusing to him.

“Hey,” he drawls, as his eyes rove over my thin and practically non-existent clothing, if it could even be called that.

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