Page 9 of Her Billionaire Bargain (Kensington Square)

I showered and washed it, then I got out and dried myself off and tamed it into a semblance of a style. Then I went to evaluate the contents of my closet. After some deliberation, I slipped into a white wrap dress with a modest thigh slit.

I’d intentionally bypassed my pink pantsuit. Only Dexter Shaw could somehow develop a fixation on such a completely non-revealing piece of clothing.

Not that I knew anything about the man. Except he’d seemed smug and insufferable upon our first meeting.

For one, he was far too good-looking. Men like that were dangerous.

If you were a woman looking to meet a man, that is. I was not. I was basically a born-again virgin with a child.

A text came through and I rooted around through the bedding on my unmade bed until I found my phone.

TJ

Bishop said he’s a decent dude and he pays well and on time. Magic words!

I forced myself to unclench my fingers around my case.

K. Guess I’ll go see what he’s looking for.

TJ

Maybe he’s looking for you.

The guy doesn’t have enough money. Later.

I went to the closet and got out my favorite purse, red patent leather. Completely impractical. Went with my red heels. I didn’t know why I chose those. My arches would be screaming later.

Maybe now I’d be Red Heels Hottie instead.

And maybe Dexter Shaw would regret this day. Somehow I had a feeling he was about to be officially in over his head.

Or maybe that was me.

THREE

My pug had gas.So much for an auspicious start to the day.

“Dude, you smell rank. What the hell did you get into?”

He’d had some cake last night. Decent cake, but not for dogs. I didn’t know who had fed it to him, but it sure wasn’t me. I was a conscientious pet parent, dammit.

I’d kept this dog alive for six whole months now since my buddy Clint had suggested I adopt him. He was in great health. His vet even said so. And that his vet was Clint didn’t mean I’d paid him off or in any other way unduly influenced him. Clint couldn’t be swayed through bribes.

“You’re happy here, aren’t you, buddy?” I ruffled his fur between his ears.

From Bob’s position face down on the couch, his stump of a tail wagged halfheartedly.

I would’ve been similarly afflicted if those kinds of smells were coming out of me too. As it was, I’d already popped enough Tylenol to give me a rebound headache.

Drinking was very bad.

I was picking up crushed paper plates laden with cake remnants near the kitchen trash can when my gong of a doorbell signaled Shelby’s arrival. I didn’t know if my partygoers the night before had missed the trash can or if Bob had snooped around and somehow dragged out more fruit from the poisoned tree.

Should I text Clint and make sure cake wasn’t bad for dogs? It was all vanilla. Even as a fledgling dog parent, I knew chocolate was bad for fur kids.

The gong sounded again, impatience clear in the sound. I didn’t know how I knew Shelby was impatient just from the bell—the fucking annoying bell—but I did.

Rubbing my hands together in anticipation, I headed down the miles-long hall in the direction of the front door. Only to be nearly tripped by a rocket-shaped Bob, aiming for the front hall as if he’d ordered DoorDash.

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