One Night with a Billionaire (Playboy Billionaire Club, Book 1)

Siena

Most days I sit at the counter of Salty Dan’s Beach Shop hoping and praying for a customer, but not today.

No, today we got in our new
inventory for spring, which means out with the old, in with the new.

It’s a lot of work, but that’s
exactly what I need today to keep my mind busy. If I think too hard, I’ll break down and cry; and I refuse to throw myself a pity party.  Anger is better. Men suck.

I’m at least five hours into the
transition, jamming along to the upbeat songs coming through the speakers from the satellite radio I begged the owner, Danny, to install. He didn’t do it for me or his other employee, who happens to be his son. No, what pushed him over
the edge was the article I showed him about how people buy more when they’re happy, and pop music makes them happy.

To be honest, the music is sort of
like being in a completely unrealistic romantic comedy every single day, but it beats the silence, especially today.

When the front bell jingles, at
first, I think I imagined it. There are never any customers this time of year because the store caters to tourists, not locals, and tourists don’t show up until spring break. Still, I stand on my tiptoes, cursing being height-challenged to peek over the rows of clothing racks to be sure, and that’s when I see him.

And God bless America, he’s hot.

With the front of his jet-black
hair styled perfectly, a clean-shaven face, wearing a blue dress shirt and an undone navy tie, the tall man with massive shoulders strolls in the same way all the rich assholes do – like he owns the place.

He doesn’t.

Danny Denning is the man who owns this store and two others just like it up and down the coast. He’s a grouchy old man with a hunchback.

Dammit, I’m so distracted by the
customer’s sexy swagger that I temporarily forget that I hate men, especially gorgeous, rich ones like this guy and Braxton Walker.

I’ve wasted too much time. It’s too
late to make a run for the counter to put some space between us. Nope, I have to stand my ground surrounded by the buy one get one free beach towels when the
hottie asks, “Hey, how’s it going? Where’s your swimwear?”

That’s right. He doesn’t actually
ask the first question like he cares how I am. Nope, he just uses it to
pretend he has good manners when I have no doubt he’s a pretentious jerk.

Which is why I make the
split-second decision to lie to him on the second question. “Right this way,” I say as I lead him over to the section of racks a few feet away. I’m almost certain I can feel his eyes staring at my ass in my jeans. That’s why I grab the smallest size on the rack and hold them out to him. “Here you go.”

One incredibly sexy black eyebrow
arches, and I realize he’s standing even closer than I expected, so close that I can see the swirls of gold in his warm dark chocolate eyes. “Those are little
boy’s speedos.”

“Yes, they are,” I say. “Isn’t that
what you wanted?”

“I’m gonna need something
significantly bigger.”

No, Siena. Don’t go down this road.
Don’t do it. Don’t flirt!

“How much bigger?” I ask, despite
knowing better.

His perfect, beautiful face is even
more appealing when he smiles, making two very deep dimples appear in his cheeks. Then he opens his mouth. “Want to go in the back and find out?” 

“Ugh. No!”

I hang the boys underoos up and
start walking toward the counter.

“Hey, you asked!” he calls after
me. And I hate him a little more because he’s right. I shouldn’t have asked the flirtatious question. Just like I shouldn’t have had so many drinks at the bar when I got stood up on New Year’s or slept with the jerk when he finally showed
up hours later…

“I wish I hadn’t asked!” I mutter.

“Wait! I really do need your help
finding some boardshorts.”

I stop walking and decide to stick
with my earlier lie. Unless he walks into the storage room and digs deep, he won’t see a single pair of men’s shorts.

“So sorry, but we’re all sold out
of boardshorts.”

“Seriously?” he asks with an
arrogant head tilt like he knows I’m lying. So, what if I am, buddy? Screw you.

“It’s the off-season, you know.” I
shrug to make the lie more believable. “We should have some more in soon.”

He goes over and starts wandering
through the racks, and even looks in the boxes, but he won’t find any
boardshorts – just lots of cheap beach towels.

“Damn,” he says when he comes to a
stop, his hands on his hips. “How soon will you get more in?”

Another shrug. “A few weeks.”

“I need a pair to wear today.”

“Well, in that case…” I march over
to the men’s section and grab a pair of bright red speedos. “Guess you’ll have to make do with these.”

“Those are…no way,” he says with a
shake of his head, refusing to take them. “I’ll go somewhere else.”

“Yeah, good luck with that too,” I
tell his back when he starts to the door. Damn, his ass is round and juicy in his pale gray suit pants. “All the other beach shops are closed this time of year. We’re the only clothing store that stays open all year long. But maybe you
could buy some online and have them flown in on your private helicopter.”

“Nah, I gave Davidson the week
off,” he says with a straight face as if he actually does own a private
helicopter. Ugh, rich entitled jackass.

He silently considers me for several
long moments. “Are there really no other stores around here, or are you just messing with me?”

“It’s the truth. This place turns
into a ghost town in the off-season. Only those rich enough to take vacations whenever they want show up at the beach this time of year.”

He keeps watching me, like he’s
waiting for me to burst into laughter and say “Gotcha”, but I keep the bored look on my face. It’s not hard since it’s a look I wear almost every day.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I guess these
are better than nothing.”

He takes the tiny red speedos from
me, and I barely stop myself from smiling. “I can check you out at the
counter,” I say, turning away to do just that.

I take my place on the stool in
front of the register, while he comes up on the other side and pulls out his wallet. “So, my friend has a new house on the beach. Why don’t you bring some friends and come over when you get off work?”

I pause in the middle of scanning
the price tag to look at his face and see if he’s being serious. He is. “Oh my god. No, just no!”

“Why not?”

“Sorry, but that rich boy shit will
not work on me.” 

I scan the tag, and he asks, “Then
what will? Don’t you want to see me in the speedos?”

God yes, I do. But that is not
going to happen.

“Let me save us both some time,
mister moneybags. You don’t have a chance in hell of ever sleeping with me.”

“I don’t?”

“Nope, not in a million years or
for a million of your daddy’s dollar bills.”

He grins bigger as if this whole
conversation is a joke to him. “What if they were my own? Would that make a difference?”

“Your own what?” I ask, busying
myself with grabbing a reusable canvas bag with the store logo on the front to put his speedos inside.

“My own million,” he clarifies.

“Ha!” a fake bark of laughter
bursts out of me. “How about you just pay for your banana hammock and leave?” 

With his black leather wallet still
in his hand, he pats the front of his chest with the free one and says, “Hold on, I left my checkbook in the car.”

He starts to the door, and I call
out, “We take cash or credit!” but he ignores me.

I glance out the window into the
parking lot, wondering if he’ll just say to hell with the speedos and leave. But no, he reaches inside a black SUV and comes back into the store with a long, thin leather case that looks like it holds checks twice the size of normal ones.

“What’s the total?” he asks,
removing a pen from inside the case.

“You’re in luck. Since it’s the
off-season, the speedo is on sale for $29.99. With tax that brings your total to…” I glance at the register, “thirty-two dollars and nine cents.”

I swear he takes forever filling
out the check. I thought only old women used those nowadays, not hot businessmen.

Finally, he rips the paper out
gently and hands it to me, “There you go.”

I reach for it, but he doesn’t let
go right away, so there’s a slight tug of war over the check.

I’m starting to get even more
annoyed when he says, “My cell number and the address for the beach house are in the memo section in case you change your mind.”

“Wow, you don’t get turned down
much, do you?” I say in disbelief since I couldn’t have made it clearer that this, us, was never going to happen no matter how hot he is.

“No, never actually,” he says with
a thoughtful grin and furrowed brow as if he’s suddenly unsure of himself.
“Have a good night.”

He grabs the bag and starts to
leave. Stupidly, I don’t want him to go just yet. I tell myself it was just
nice having a customer for once.

“Wait, don’t you want your
receipt?” I call out, but he slips right out the door, ignoring me.

When he’s gone, I finally glance
down at the check in my hand and see way too many zeros. Jesus, it’s like they go on and on and on. No wonder it took him so long to write it.

The total isn’t for
thirty-two-oh-nine. Oh no, it’s for one million, thirty-two dollars and nine cents made out to cash!

That arrogant son of a bitch.

He just stole a pair of speedos!

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