Page 89 of Dial B for Billionaire

She stands there in my Harvard t-shirt, hair messed from sleep, eyes widening with surprise. The apartment air conditioning rolls out, carrying the scent of her shampoo and something that's purely Layla.

“Bennett?” Her voice is warm despite the sleep fog. “What are you doing here?”

I drink in the sight of her, barefoot, soft, real. “I wanted to see you.”

Her lips curve into that smile that ruins me. “It's almost three in the morning.”

“Is it too late?” The uncertainty in my voice would horrify my board of directors.

She steps aside, holding the door open wider. “Never.”

And then she’s on me. Legs around my waist, arms around my neck, mouth at my ear. I kick the door shut behind us, but the world was already forgotten the moment I saw her.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi.” My hands support her thighs as I carry her to what I assume is her bedroom. “I missed you.”

“It's been five hours,” she points out, but her fingers are already in my hair, her mouth finding that spot below my ear that drives me insane.

“Too long,” I admit, past caring how desperate that sounds. Past caring about anything. Except her.

LAYLA

“Is this crazy?” I ask, watching Chicago fall away beneath us through the jet's window. “This feels crazy.”

Bennett's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. “Most good stories begin with a little insanity.”

When he showed up at my door last night, I expected morning sex and maybe breakfast. What I didn't expect was him canceling all our meetings and suggesting we 'disappear for a day' like it was as easy as ordering lunch. And maybe it is, when you’re Bennett Mercer.

“We can't just run away to Europe for the day,” I'd protested in between his many phone calls. “We have responsibilities. Meetings. People expecting us.”

One call to his pilot, another to Jenna with instructions to clear his schedule, and a final one to my assistant claiming a sudden bout of food poisoning, and here we are, thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, heading to Lisbon, Portugal, with Chicago's responsibilities shrinking with every mile.

“I've never played hooky before,” I admit, watching sunlight glint off his expensive watch as his thumb strokes my wrist. “Not even in college.”

“Never?” He seems genuinely surprised. “Not even for a concert or a road trip?”

I shake my head. “Always too worried about missing something important.”

He leans back, studying me. “And now you're missing a full day of meetings without a second thought?”

“With several second thoughts,” I correct. “But here we are.”

“Here we are,” he echoes, a satisfied smile playing over his lips. “Finally making some questionable decisions.”

“You know, I wasn’t like this before I met you,” I say, trying to sound stern, but there's too much wonder in my voice. “Everything I did was a very careful decision. Anything questionable was thoroughly over thought and then tossed out in the window in favor of the safer option.”

His smile turns wicked. “So this is my influence, then? Encouraging bad behavior?”

“Definitely. I blame you entirely.”

He shifts closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Good.”

The flight attendant approaches with champagne. She's the only crew member besides the pilots.

“We'll land in Lisbon in approximately five hours, Mr. Mercer.” Her smile is professional but carefully neutral. “Is there anything else you need?”

“We're fine, thank you, Karen,” he says. “Could you give us privacy until we call?”

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