Billionaires Dollar Series

A quick glance around the bookstore reveals all the changes that have happened. The plants, the bookheart window embedded in the wall. The sale signs. It’s true that we’re going through parts of our inventory quicker than before.

Karli leaves two hours before closing, and I’m left with my thoughts, the radio, and the book I’m currently stacking.

It’s a classic. We sell a ton of these every start of the new school year. The author is male, famous for his cross attitude and sparse writing. He smoked cigars and whiskey. He fought in several wars and travelled across Europe, from city to city, for years. He made mistakes and friends and foes and lived to tell the tale.

It’s an author who lived.

I look down at the picture of him on the jacket of the book, the thick mustache and beard. Maybe it’s time to be reckless, too. After all, the authors I admire don’t live tame lives.

Maybe it’s time to stop making excuses for not writing that book. To give in to the bad ideas and the good ones alike. To give in to someone who might be a bad choice, but who will inevitably make for a memorable experience. Live a little, Skye. Don’t be so scared.NôvelDrama.Org owns this.

My bravery trip lasts all through the end of my shift, even as I close up the bookstore with more hope than I’ve had in weeks. It sends my fingers flying across the screen to send Cole a text.

Skye Holland: Let me drop off the thermometer before you file a police report against me.

Not brave enough to wait for a response, I drive home and jump into the shower. Forty minutes later my hair is clean and dry, and I’m putting on mascara in the mirror. He might have seen me feverish and sweaty, but I want to remind him of what I can look like when I make an effort.

Slipping into the same tight-fitting dress I’d worn to the hotel and some matching lingerie-the only matching pair of bra and panties I own-I grab my phone. He’s responded.

Cole Porter: I’m in the Amena Building. Top floor.

That’s the only thing he writes, no instructions, no proper address. It’s so like him that I smile down at the phone. Perhaps I should tell him I’m coming over right away, but he might object. I might lose my nerve. Riding my new bravery high, I decide not to.

Thirty minutes later I’m parked outside of the Amena. It’s a giant high-rise in central Seattle, a beautifully sleek building. It’s the kind of modern look-but-don’t-touch architecture that I’ve always wondered who would choose to live in. Cole Porter, apparently.

My mother would call it soulless, and not figuratively, either.

I smooth a hand over my dress. Reckless, Skye. The great writers of old travelled the world on pennies for experiences. In comparison, I’m trying to seduce a man who’s already shown his willingness. It’s not remotely comparable.

I walk into the lobby of the Amena like I belong there. My kitten heels echo painfully loud across the stone floor.

A doorman stops me. “Can I help you, miss?”

“I’m here to see a friend,” I reply. “Cole Porter. He’s expecting me.”

I hope.

The man looks me over once before directing me to a receptionist, seated behind a copper-plated desk.

“For the top floor,” he tells her.

She gives me a professional, practiced smile. “Good evening, miss. What’s your name?”

“Skye Holland,” I say, feeling lesser by the minute.

As I watch, she makes a call, and then I’m forced to stand there while she informs the person on the other line-Cole, perhaps?-that he has a visitor.

My attempt at recklessness is now a four-person show. I should have figured that rich people come with a retinue. Tugging on the already modest hem of my dress, I give her a smile as my fate is decided.

She finally hangs up. “Welcome to the Amena. Gordon will escort you upstairs.”

He leads me to an elevator at the back of the lobby, only accessible by keycard. Inside, there’s only one button, and it’s for the top floor.

Cole has his own private elevator.

And he willingly spent the night next to me in my little apartment to make sure I was okay.

The ride feels eternity-long, ascending toward the heavens, my heart beating frantically in my chest.

It finally slides to a stop and the doors open to reveal Cole, pacing in a hallway like a caged animal.

He stops when he sees me. “Skye.”

“Hey.” I step out of the elevator and give him a half-smile. “Your own elevator? Very impressive, Porter.”

He ignores me. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine. The pills you gave me did the trick. So this is your place, huh?”

I step past him and around the corner. Gray walls, floor-to-ceiling windows. The sparse furniture is severe and beautiful in a way that’s clearly meant to be admired, not used.

“Yes.” A strong hand wraps around my wrist and I’m stopped from going further. “You came awfully fast.”

“I realized something.” My breath catches as his gaze travels down to my lips, my neck, down my body. The tight black dress and the kitten heels. My hair, blow-dried and long down my back.

His eyes blaze when they return to mine. “Ah, Skye, you kill me.”

I inch closer and put my hand on his shoulder, slowly running it down the hard planes of his chest. “Don’t you want to know what it is I’ve realized?”

He closes his eyes. “I think I can guess.”

“Let me give you a clue. The thermometer was a pretext.”

“I’m gathering that, yes.” His hands reach out and grip my hips, fingers digging deliciously into my skin. “Have I finally convinced you to be reckless?”

“Yes.” I rise on my tiptoes and press a kiss to the sharp edge of his jaw. “But this is a separate thing. It can’t interfere with the business deal.”

“Entirely separate,” he agrees.

Boom. Something sounds eerily like pots slamming together. Cole takes a step back, his hands releasing me. “Fuck. Give me one minute. Let me handle something.”

“You have a guest?”

“One minute. Don’t leave, Skye.” He disappears down the hallway with brisk strides, and I’m left in the larger-than-life corridor.

I inch further down and peek into his place. That’s when I see the two glasses of wine on the coffee table. One has a faint, but distinct, lipstick mark.

Voices reach me. One is dark and deep and delicious, even at this distance. The other is unmistakably feminine.