Page 27 of Billionaire Romantic
I’ve actually never in my life had dirty thoughts about a man, especially not one that’s real. But Noah Steel is just so freaking gorgeous, my body is reacting to him in crazy ways.
“So, are you actually Irish?” he drawls, pouring two glasses of champagne and handing me one.
“Yes. My mother was an O’Callahan from County Cork.”Why did I tell him that?I’m giving away real info and we’re supposed to be playing our roles here.
“My mother’s father was a Sullivan from Dublin.” He clinks his glass against mine.
Oh shit.The sincere smile and the blue eyes and the hair and the musclesandhe’s got Irish in him?
This is a man I could fall in love with.
13
Lucky Irish approachesthe table and I stand up, wondering if my eyes are playing tricks on me.
Am I hallucinating? Have I stepped into some alternate universe where all my wildest dreams are suddenly realized? Because I can only stare with beguiled fascination at the girl walking toward me.
She’s blond, but it’s not a typical blond. It’s not ash or sandy or bleach-blond, but a bright honey gold that’s streaked with platinum. It’s wavy, hanging to barely touch her shoulders, with those same whimsical, jaunty curls as in her photo.
I don’t usually stop to think about how “natural” a woman is. I don’t care how much she spends at the hairdresser or what she does to enhance herself at whatever kind of spas or salons women go to these days. But what I notice about Lucky Irish is that she’s very noticeablylike this, without even trying to be. It’s not a manufactured beauty, but one that’s unapologetically real. Amazingly, she seems completely unaware of how gorgeous she is.
With her clear blue eyes, her flawless skin and a playful sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, she’s youngand fresh-looking, like she just walked out of a dewy garden on a sunny spring morning. You half expect bluebirds and butterflies to flutter around her.
She’s slim but also lusciously curvy in all the right places.
Fucking hell.
That blue dress leaves almost nothing to the imagination—and my imagination is on overdrive.
Does she look this way to everyone? Why isn’t every man in New York chasing after her right now?How can anyone be so insanely drop-dead gorgeous?
I can only pray to the Lord Almighty that it’s not obvious I’m already revved into high gear. My cock hasnotbeen happy with my monk-like choices lately and, as much as I’m trying to remain calm, it’s refusing to cooperate.I’m hard as a fucking rock.Which isn’t the easiest thing to hide when you happen to be…me. My jacket—thank fuck—hides the worst of it.
She’s close now and I can read that she’s nervous, even as she holds my gaze. So I smile, partly to ease her nerves and partly because I can’t help it. She’s far more beautiful than her photo. This makes me wildly happy.
“You must be Lucky.”And I must be even luckier.I hold out my hand. “I’m Noah. It’s nice to meet you.”
Jesus, how am I supposed to play it cool when she looks likethis?
“You too.” The breathlessness of her softly-spoken reply is almost more than I can handle. I don’t know why. The light husk of her voice makes me feel like I’ve morphed into a yeti who will protect this feminine softness of her with my life. It’s intense to suddenly feelso much, and with so little warning. A flood ofwantis pumping through my veins with so much force, I feel a weird kind of vertigo.
Here she is. I finally found her.
I ignore the crazy talk going on in my brain right now and focus instead on Lucky Irish’s face, which is dazzling me like nothing ever has. I offer her a seat. “After you, Lucky Irish.”
Her giggle at the fake name she’s given herself sends more blood south and, with less of it in my brain, my new obsession is making me almost dizzy with it. “Thank you, Noah Steel.”
At this point, the description isn’t wrong. “I hope you like champagne. Or we can order something else if you prefer.”
“I like champagne.” She blinks at me and—holy fuck. Is it possible to fall in love at first sight? Because I think it might be happening to me in slow motion. I think I might already be a hundred percent besotted with this fresh-faced, golden-haired little nymph. She’s sobeautiful. On purely a physical level, she’s so…what I want. Her perfection is messing with my head.
She sits and I sit next to her but not too close. There’s no telling what I might do.
I pour the champagne, trying not to stare. “So, are you actually Irish?”
“Yes. My mother was an O’Callahan from County Cork.”
There’s a light nostalgia in her voice when she mentions her mother. I can’t help but notice thewas.Notis. Something we have in common, then. And a topic I’ll save for later. She bites her lip, like she’s wondering if she’s confessed too much already. So I give her the same level of honesty. “My mother’s father was a Sullivan from Dublin.”
