Page 248 of Most Eligible Billionaire CEO

Just like the sexy blonde, the beautiful blue gown is nowhere to be seen, only her subtle perfume lingers.

I search for the time and nearly fall out of bed in shock.

Eleven a.m.?!

Being jetlagged, coupled with a wild night of sex, threw my body’s internal clock out of whack. I rake my fingers through my hair and let out a long sigh as I close my eyes. When I open them again, I catch sight of a note lost in the sea of tangled white sheets. I snatch it off the bed. It only takes me a quick glance to read it. I can’t help but chuckle.

“Yeah, that screams newbie, but it’s pretty adorable,” I mutter to myself.

Adorable?

That’s a word I reserve only for my little nephew.

Seriously, Aldridge, you sound more like a teenage girl than a twenty-seven-year-old executive.

I chuckle at my silliness.

Even though Wild Strawberry escaped, I’m clearly still under her spell.

Jesus.

Images of our naughty time together flash in front of my eyes, and my balls draw up at the memory. Hours on end of over-the-top sex and I still want her. I didn’t expect her to be unabashed. I fucking loved her wild side. And I fucking hate there won’t be an encore.

I read the note one more time.

J. S.

Who are you, sweetness?

Chapter 8

Levi

Mondays are hell. That’s a given.

Technically, Tuesdays should be bearable.

Technically, being the operative word…

I spent most of yesterday catching up and updating my brother on my meetings while I was in London. Meetings that promise a flurry of talented British artists looking to make their mark on this side of the pond. As much as my body hates to have to adjust to the jetlag, the potential of new and lucrative business more than makes up for the temporary discomfort.

“Who the fuck does he think he is?” My brother isn’t mincing his words. “We’re behind some of the biggest concerts in the last decade. Joel fucking Banner just landed from gay old London,” he says in a crappy British accent, “and he thinks he can tell us how to run our business,” he rages. “Again, who the fuck does he think he is?”

“Stop pacing, Linc. You’re making me dizzy,” I tell my brother.

“It’s either I pace, or I wring Joel fucking Banner’s neck!”

To say Linc is pissed off would be an understatement. Dealing with a bunch of finicky clients is a lousy way to kick off your day.

I’m equally vexed, but one of us has to maintain a cool head.

We just ended an excruciating meeting with Joel Banner and his three bandmates at our Culver City office-slash-studio. They’re the four British rock stars behind the chart-topping group Brawn Impulse. Joel Banner is their lead singer and Linc’s main point of contention right now.

“Their manager needs to rein them in,” my brother points an agitated finger at me. “They’re acting like spoiled kids in desperate need of a good spanking. My son is more mature for God sakes!”

“Their manager is a snob, and it’s clear Joel calls the shots,” I say.

“Joel fucking Banner.” Linc shakes his head.

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