Page 7 of Enticing My Off Limits Billionaire

Yeah, not really. Can we talk?

The dots appear again, and I wait, my heart pounding. What am I doing? I barely know this guy. But there's something about Quinn that made me feel safe.

Something about the way he looks at me…like heactuallycares about my well-being.

When it feels like nobody else does, that means a lot.

Sure. Call me.He texts back.

My heart racing, I hit the call button and wait as the phone rings. When he answers, his voice is warm and soothing, like a balm to my frazzled nerves. As far as I know, he doesn't smoke—but he's got this throaty, low voice that sends shivers down my spine and makes me want to curl up somewhere warm and cozy.

"Hey," he says. "What's wrong?"

"I'm bored," I admit.

He snorts, and then lets out a loud laugh. "What the hell, Sterling?"

"I just got back to my apartment, and it feels weird to be alone," I tell him. "Sorry...I'll let you go…"

"Don't," he says. "That's okay. You just want someone to talk to?"

"Yeah," I say, "if that's okay."

"I'm not a therapist, and I do recall giving you that number...but sure," he says, a laugh in his voice. "What's on your mind?"

"I don't know," I mutter. "You watch The Bachelor?"

He laughs again, and I can hear him shaking his head. "I don't," he says. "But I'm going to put you on speakerphone so you can give me the lowdown."

I start to talk...and as we chat and laugh, I start to feel better. By the end of the call, he's given me his personal cell number, and the apartment doesn't feel quite as empty.

It's strange and unconventional, sure.

But I think this may be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Chapter three

Quinn

Icomeintotheoffice and text Madison, or she texts me—usually just a quickGood morning, how are you? The weather's nice. We exchange polite words, and then we don't chat again for a few days.

But ever since the wedding, I've found a new friend in her, surprising us both. I didn't expect that we would find solace in each other, but since Gavin and Kylie got hitched, we've been chatting every time we would have texted our friends.

It's not weird at all to hang out with your friend's daughter. At least, that's what I tell myself when I want to hear from her and find myself staring at my phone.

Going in for an interview today, she texts me back.Wish me luck!

Good luck!I reply.What's it for?

New internship. This one isn't giving me any exciting work.

I scoff at the text, even though she's not there to hear it. I've seen some of her designs; she's brilliant. The fact that her current job isn't giving her anything interesting to do is a damn shame.

I'm sure you'll get it, I tell her.Keep me posted.

I pocket my phone as I walk into my office, a small space I rent out in an artist's collective just for the sake of getting out of my apartment every so often. I wave at a few people as I walk down the hall, my footsteps on the concrete floor, glancing at what everyone is working on.

I wish I still had more time to create—but it feels like all I do is paperwork lately. Contracts, deals, securing funding and grants...that's my life. I got into this industry with dreams of working as a creative director somewhere, but I keep getting sidelined.

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