Page 4 of Resisting the Billionaire

“I’m guessing you know then.”

“Who do you think scheduled the meeting tomorrow?”

I nod, jamming my hands in my pockets.

“Oh, sweetie, it’s not as bad as all that. She seems like a sweet girl.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at her. Vivian’s never been anything but nice to me and my brothers.

“You want him to set you up with someone next?” I ask, sidestepping her comment about Serena.

“If it means I stay rich,” she laughs, filled with such good humor I can’t help but laugh along with her.

She's right. I get to keep my lifestyle. Money that, if I’m being honest with myself, I have absolutely no claim to. I’ve never worked a day in my life. I offered to help with the company after graduating from college, but Dad never took me up on it.

And all I have to do is marry some girl. It’s not like I planned on marrying anyone else. I mean, someday maybe, but not anytime soon.

I could get divorced eventually… right? Or is this a lifetime commitment?

I shake my head.

One day at a time.

“Whiskey, neat.”

The bartender sets a cheap glass in front of me, leagues away from the Waterford Crystal set and Glenfiddich back at my place. But I don’t want to be home tonight, alone with my thoughts. I’d tried it for a couple of hours and finally gave up. Tonight’s my last night of freedom until I become… engaged.

Just the thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

“Thanks, man.” I take a swig, grimacing at the mediocre quality, but they don’t exactly sell the good stuff here.

I’ve never been to this bar, but that’s why I chose it. Somewhere I could lose myself in anonymity, where people wouldn’t recognize Gabriel Bishop, son of tech billionaire Harold Bishop. Heirs to billionaire fortunes rarely frequent the- I glance over at the sign over the bar. That’s right - King’s Pub. Not sure if it’s referencing royalty or a person, but I guarantee no kings are setting foot in this place. The counter is sticky with some unidentifiable residue, and I’m fairly certain I’ll have to bathe in sanitizer when I get home.

But the point of being here is to get drunk and wallow in my sorrows, not worry about what germs are lurking on the surfaces.

I pick up my tumbler again, studying the clear amber liquid, a flash of color catching my attention out of the corner of my eye. I turn, spotting two women entering the bar, clearly out of place. One is pretty in an understated way, with long, dark hair plaited down her back. But my gaze stops on the other woman, temporarily blindsided.

Caramel curls tease the tops of her shoulders, a fitted blue dress and heels accentuating her trim figure. Her lips are painted a pretty pink with long lashes framing hazel eyes. She glances around hesitantly, following the woman she entered with over to the other end of the bar where they order. She studies a barstool, only settling onto it after carefully wiping it off.

The woman’s got standards then.

The other patrons don’t pay any attention to them as the bartender hands them each a martini, which I’m surprised they even serve here.

I watch her surreptitiously as I finish my whiskey, mulling over the idea of getting lost in a woman tonight instead of alcohol. It would save me a headache tomorrow morning at least. And who knows when I’ll get laid again? I’m not quite convinced the Ice Queen will be so accommodating.

I get a refill, standing to stroll over to her end of the bar, something about her drawing me forward, an innate sensuality she’s projecting despite the sweet image she’s trying to portray with the business appropriate dress and soft makeup. “I’m guessing this isn’t your normal hangout?” I motion to her with my glass, taking another sip as she turns her head my way. The burn of the alcohol isn’t so bad this time.

I swear there’s interest in her gaze before she quickly shuts it down, those hazel eyes even more striking up close, with flecks of golden brown interspersed among the green.

“Doesn’t look like your kind of place either,” she replies, giving me a once over. She’s right. The suit I put on earlier in an attempt to impress Dad costs what most people make in a month.

The woman beside her smirks into her martini glass, then turns away from us, checking something on her phone.

I lean an elbow on the bar, immediately regretting my decision once I remember what likely lurks there. “Maybe we could find a place that would suit us both a little better.”

She sets her drink down, turning fully toward me, amusement flirting over her lush lips. “And where might that be?”

I give her a smile, the one I’ve had women describe to me aspanty-melting.“My apartment.”

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