Page 82 of Dial B for Billionaire

“So?”

“He knows not to call this late unless—” The phone rings again, more insistent.

With a muttered curse, he withdraws his hand and answers. “This better be life or death.”

I watch his expression shift, tension creeping into his jaw as he listens. Whatever Caleb's saying, it's serious enough to break through post-make-out haze.

“When?” Bennett asks sharply. “How bad?”

His free hand rakes through his hair—a rare tell. My stomach drops.

“Send me everything. I'll be there in thirty.” He ends the call, already rising.

“What's wrong?” I sit up, pulling the shirt down.

“Deal's imploding.” His voice is pure CEO now, all traces of playfulness gone. “Someone leaked confidential information. I need to contain this before market open.”

“That's...” I check the time. “Four hours from now.”

“Which is why I need to go.” He's already heading toward the bedroom. “This can't wait.”

“What can I do?” I ask, following him.

He pauses halfway to the bedroom, surprise flickering across his face before something softer replaces it. He crosses back to me, cupping my face in his hands and pressing a kiss to my forehead.

“You can stay here and get some sleep,” he says gently. “Let me handle the corporate warfare.”

My instinct is to argue. To insert myself into the problem like I always do—fix it, lead it,own it. But this isn’t mine to fix, and the realization makes me keenly aware of how different our worlds really are. His is huge and mine fits into one tiny part of his whole.

“Actually, I should head home,” I say, already gathering my laptop. “My plants are probably staging a revolt by now. Four nights away is pushing it, even for succulents.”

“You sure?” He's watching me with an expression I can't quite read.

“I’m sure. Go save your deal, Mercer.” I push him gently toward the bedroom. “We’ll finish this tomorrow.”

He disappears into the bedroom while I finish gathering my things. The shower runs and I try not to imagine water sluicing over those shoulders, down that chest...

Get it together, Carmichael.

Bennett emerges ten minutes later in a Tom Ford suit that's probably bespoke, looking every inch the corporate shark.

“Be careful,” I tell him, straightening his tie unnecessarily.

“It's a hostile takeover, not a street fight.” But his expression softens. “I'll call as soon as I can.”

“You'd better.”

“Tell the doorman to get you a car.”

“Yes, sir!”

One more kiss, and then he's gone. I follow a few minutes later, the elevator ride feeling longer than usual. The doorman doesn't even blink when I request a car. Apparently, I'm already a regular.

“Have a good evening, Ms. Carmichael,” he says, holding the door when my car arrives.

The driver tries to make conversation about the late hour, but I'm too distracted to engage beyond basic politeness. The city blurs past, all lights and shadows, while I wonder what kind of crisis pulled Bennett away. Who's trying to sabotage his deal? How bad is it?

My apartment feels strange after four nights away. Like I'm visiting rather than coming home. Even my plants look judgmental, drooping slightly despite being succulents.

---