Page 24 of Filthy Rich Daddies
Her simple faith floors me more than any corporate pep talk. “I hope you’re right.”
My plate is a graveyard of syrup stains and bacon crumbs. I lean back, stretch. Thalassa licks her fork—no pretense—and catches me staring. The grin she offers is equal parts shy and wicked.
Bouffant leaves the check with a single eyebrow raised. I drop too many fifties and slide out of the booth. Thalassa stands, and I catch her waist, pull her flush. Over her shoulder, I see the neon sign flicker. The sunrise glare washes the booths gold. She rests a hand on my chest, kisses me softly, syrup-sweet. The kiss deepens, and the world narrows.
Behind us, Bouffant clears her throat, louder this time. “Save room for dessert, kids, but eat it somewhere without a health code.”
We laugh, break apart. Thalassa wipes her rosy mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
Out front, the wind picks up, riffling her braid. She hooks her arm through mine while I call a ride. “Best pancakes ever?”
“Without question.” The warmth of her tucked elbow feels like a secret. “Thank you for remembering the thing I said about diners.”
She shrugs, cheeks pink. “It was important to you.”
Simple. True. Someone listened and did something with the data, no strings. My chest pinches again. Dangerous territory.
Our ride arrives. We slide into the sun-warmed backseat silence—hands laced, thumbs tracing idle loops. As we merge onto the highway, the skyline glittering ahead, Thalassa leans her head on my shoulder, and I let the promise of what-if hum louder than the fear. Silly fantasies built on a fantasy weekend.
At the hotel’s curb, the doorman opens our car door with ceremony. Thalassa whispers thanks, tucks stray hair behind her ear. I palm a folded bill for the driver, then hold the lobby door wide for her. Under the chandelier, she pauses, turns, and presses a quick, chaste kiss to my cheek—like it’s the most natural thing the marble has ever witnessed.
“Full-stack success,” she says, eyes laughing.
“All thanks to you.” I fake-bow.
The elevator whooshes. Inside, she hits the button for our floor, then lays her head back on the wall, eyes closed. I study our reflection in stainless-steel panels. Me—a tech gremlin in last night’s T-shirt, hair still chaos. Her—morning glow, hoodie, flannel pajama pants peeking under the hem. We look like…us. Not a billionaire playboy and a sugar baby. Just two people who found a diner and forgot the world.
The elevator dings. The doors part. She squeezes my hand once, then pads toward her room to shower. I watch until her door latches, pulse echoing the click.
My phone buzzes again—Marcus. I sigh, clickIgnore, then reopen DevOps Slack. Everyone’s applauding stable metrics. Small victories. I owe the team cronuts.
Inside my suite, I shrug off my hoodie and boot up my laptop. Before budgets, I open a blank doc and start a proposal about Starconnector. I save it. The file name autofills defaultUntitled 1. I rename itMutinyPlan_v1. My finger hovers, thinking of Thalassa’s half smile covered in syrup. What was I doing again? Right. The proposal. I save it and make coffee.
Once the nectar of the gods is in hand, I begin writing the case strong enough to retire a dinosaur. Hopefully. If Marcus hates it, so be it. Some revolutions start with syrup on your cheek.
I laugh under my breath, a sound lighter than I’ve heard from myself in months, and let the keys clack into morning.
9
THALASSA
I’m sprawledacross a velvet sectional roughly the size of my entire dorm lounge, clutching a double-shot cappuccino that Atticus just pulled from the penthouse’s copper espresso machine. The man knows his espresso.
The guys—Atticus, Dean, Colin—are arranged around me like a very stylish solar system. Tic on a leather armchair, polishing his reading glasses, Dean perched on the piano bench and scrolling stock tickers, and Colin cross-legged on the rug, installing a firmware patch on some gadget I don’t recognize.
My phone buzzes. Arabella is on her third check-in of the morning:
Arabella:Status or I call in the Navy.
Me:Alive, caffeinated, oddly blissed.
Arabella:Bliss? Details.
Me:Will debrief later. TL;DR the trio are respectful, hilarious, and v effective at recreational biology.
Arabella:Recrea—Oh. Good. If you need an exit, I’m ten minutes out, day or night.
Me:You’re the best menace a girl could ask for.
