Page 3 of Dial B for Billionaire

“We're celebrating,” I say, suddenly shy again, acutely aware of his height, his presence, his… everything. “I just got promoted.”

“To?”

“COO.”

“The person tasked with making everything run smoothly.” His eyebrows lift, genuine surprise crossing his features. “Impressive.”

“It sounds fancier than it is.” I fidget with the hem of my dress. “Mostly, I just keep the lights on while the real geniuses create things.”

“I doubt that.” He studies me, head tilted like he's trying to figure out what kind of puzzle I am. I like it more than I should. “Intelligence like yours doesn't hide well.”

Before I can ask how he could possibly know about my intelligence, a man in a navy suit appears beside him like he was conjured from thin air.

“There you are,” the newcomer says. “Tokyo’s pushing back on terms. Dominic wants to call in thirty.”

The shift in him is instant. So fast it knocks the air outof me. One second he’s relaxed, almost playful. The next, it’s like a switch flips. His posture sharpens. That easy smile disappears. And suddenly, I’m not talking to the intriguing guy by the tacos. I’m looking at someone powerful. Controlled. Dangerous, in a boardroom sort of way.

His spine straightens. Shoulders back. His eyes? Steel. Cold and focused, like he’s locked back into whatever high-stakes orbit he just fell out of.

Then he looks at me again, and the hardness fades just a little. Regret flickers behind his eyes. “I’m sorry. Business emergency.”

“Of course,” I say, already trying not to look disappointed. “Go save Tokyo.”

The other guy turns, already disappearing into the crowd.

But he doesn't follow. He stays still, watching me. For a second, I think he’s going to say something else, but then he just... hesitates between staying and going.

Then, unexpectedly, he pulls out his cell. “Can I get your number?” he asks, voice low, with just a trace of urgency threading through it. His eyes flicker between mine, and it’s as if every heartbeat stretches our moments together into an eternity.

I swallow hard. The air feels thick with everything unspoken. “You want my number?” My heart races, doing an absurd dance in my chest. This isn’t a rehearsal. This is the script of all my fantasies colliding with real life, and it’s too chaotic to process.

“Yes,” he says simply, handing me his phone. “I’d like to call you.” Something about the way he says it—deliberate, certain—makes me think he isn't a man who chases often.

“OK.”

I type fast, nerves jangling. My hands are still damp from the heat, the sangria, and him. And I have to grip the device hard, just to keep from dropping it.

“I think that’s it,” I say, more to myself than to him.

“We’ve got to move!” the other guy calls from a few feet away.

“I should go before the vein pops in his forehead.” Before I can double-check the digits, he takes the phone back.

Our fingers brush. Warm skin against mine. Just a sliver of contact, but it sends a jolt up my arm like static and adrenaline made a baby. For one ridiculous second, I think I might actually swoon.

“Wait,” he says, blinking down at the screen. “You didn't add your name.”

I glance at his impatient friend, who’s now tapping the face of his watch.

“I guess you'll have to call me to find out.”

His smile returns. This time with full dimples. “I walked right into that.”

“You did.”

“Good.” His gaze drags over me once more, slow and deliberate. “Gives me a reason to use it.”

Then he's gone, striding into the crowd beside his colleague, disappearing like a mirage.

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