Page 16 of Dirty Filthy Billionaire: Part 1

“I’m fine.”

“I am not above kicking this guy’s ass,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s serious or not, but a small giggle escapes my lips. “I mean, sure, he’s probably way stronger than I am. He likely has a personal trainer and all. And if I do get a good shot in he’ll sue the hell out of me, taking me for the tens of dollars in my account. Word will get out that pretty boy Weston Bridges’ perfect face has been scarred by a mailroom hooligan. The world will hate me, my chance of a career will be over, and I will have less than a penny to my name. But it will be worth it just to make you feel safe.”

“I feel safe, Brody,” I say. “I promise. And promise me that you will not be storming up to the sixty-fifth floor of the Prerogative building tomorrow for an old-fashioned fist fight.”

He slumps, but he also calms down. “If you’re sure you’re okay.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “But yeah, it was pretty crazy. I was like, is this normal, a big boss guy like him taking me out as a test for the job?”

“No, it’s not normal, and he’s a creep for trying.”

I murmur agreement even as thoughts of Weston kissing me against the brick wall flutter through my mind. How will I sleep tonight when I can still feel his finger inside me? I’m still wet from it all. The truth is, that kiss—and everything else that happened out there—was the hottest, sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me. I know that’s not saying a lot, considering my lack of experience, but still. It was hot.

I’m sure I’ll never see Weston Bridges again in my life, but I’ll admit only to myself that I’m pretty bummed about that. I’d sleep on the streets for a week for one more kiss from him. That’s how epic it was.

“I’m going to make you some soup,” Brody says, giving my leg a pat before standing up. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say.

“No, I do,” he says. “I know it’s hot in here, even with the windows opened and fan blowing, but this is my mother’s secret recipe, guaranteed to turn any frown upside down.”

He goes to our sparsely stacked pantry and takes out a red and white can of soup. I laugh.

“Great chef, your mom,” I say.

We end up staying up a bit longer, watching the late shows together and getting in some good laughs. I feel better, but the whole time all I can think of is Weston—Weston and the job I really wanted. But both are gone now, and I guess I just have to move on. Tomorrow I begin the hunt for work yet again.

---