Page 32 of Dial B for Billionaire

I shouldn’t still want this.

But I do.

I shouldn’t stillacheto understand what we could’ve been.

But I do.

I lift my glass and drain what’s left. Signal the server. “Another. And water.”

Caleb arches a brow. “Settling in?”

“Monitoring an active variable.”

“Spoken like a man who’s absolutely not about to spiral.”

I ignore him. My focus is already fixed on her.

Because the woman I’m supposed to distrust—the oneI’ve spent a month trying to delete from my system—is twenty feet away.

And I still want to know what would’ve happened… if she'd given me the right number.

Even now.

Even though wanting her might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.

LAYLA

“To survival!” I’ve barely made it two steps from the bar when Serena bails me up and claims her shot glass, almost spilling the tequila as she raises it over her head.

“To survival!” Audrey and I echo, clinking our glasses before tipping the clear liquid down our throats.

The tequila burns a path of liquid courage straight to my belly. I quickly bite into the lime wedge, my face scrunching at the tartness.

“God, I needed that,” I say, shaking off the tequila shiver.

“One more!” Serena pushes through the crowd and signals the bartender.

“No way,” I protest, but I'm already laughing, my stress melting under the tequila's warm glow and the gleaming Chicago skyline. Thirty-something stories up, the city stretches before us in a glittering tapestry of light and promise.

“Yes way,” Serena insists. “Corporate raiders don't get to ruin our Saturday nights.”

I cringe at the mention. “We're not talking about work, remember?”

“Then let's dance!” Audrey suggests, surprising us both. Usually the reserved one, she's already loose-limbed and flushed from one shot.

“Who are you and what have you done with Audrey Thornton?” I tease.

“I'm on vacation from being sensible,” she says with uncharacteristic boldness. “For exactly twelve hours. Then I have to figure out how to squeeze five months of development into ten days.”

I wince. “Sorry about that.”

She gives me a little grin and a shrug. “Anything for my bestie. But we’re not talking about work, remember?”

The second round arrives. We down our shots with exaggerated ceremony, and then Serena grabs both our hands, pulling us toward the rooftop's makeshift dance floor where the band plays something with a pulsing beat that vibrates through the wooden deck beneath our heels.

The emerald dress Serena insisted I wear clings to my curves as I move, making me feel powerful, desirable, and dangerously confident. For the first time since the meeting, I'm not thinking about acquisition documents or Bennett Mercer's cold stare across the boardroom table.

Until a strange prickle crawls up my spine.

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