Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 2) (15 page)

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scrolled through recent calls and hit Kline before I moved an inch.

“Yeah?” he asked, laughter in his voice.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. I should have known. “You gave her a key, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t,” he denied. “But Georgie did.”

“What the fuck, man? Is there no bro code in that cold heart of yours?”

His chuckles were obnoxious. “I thought it was hilarious. And she’s just messing with you. You should be in heaven. You’re always messing with everyone.”

“That’s right,” I corrected. “
I
mess with everyone. Not the other way around.”

“Ah,” he breathed. “I see how it is.”

I narrowed my eyes at the realization he was making me out to be a pussy.

“I can handle it. I’m just not used to it.”

“Poor Thatch,” Kline fake pouted.

“Screw you. I don’t know why I call you.”

“Because you’re looking for reason, and I’m normally the voice of it.”

“Yeah, normally,” I agreed.

He laughed again, and I sighed long and deep. “Just have fun with it. That’s what you do with everything else.”

He was right. And there was one thing I found enjoyable above all others.

“That’s it,” Kline said with excitement in his voice just before I hung up. “That’s the sound of plotting.”

Fuck right
.

T
he door clicked shut behind Thatch, and I stayed on his couch, a bit taken aback by the events that had just gone down. My gaze roamed his apartment—
now, my apartment?—
taking in the neutral yet sleek décor. Unable to comprehend what had happened between Thatch and me, or any of the implications of it, I came to the only conclusion I could: he had definitely paid someone to decorate his bachelor pad.

No fucking way he was this forward thinking in the interior decoration department.

The minimalist approach was completely modern and highlighted with strategically placed black, white, and gray accents.

Whoever had designed this place had a very keen eye. They had known the huge window framing the living room would bring in natural light that would make the darker style appear warm and inviting versus drab and melancholy.

The photographer inside me wanted to add a few black-and-white photographs of places I had traveled to the walls beside that huge window, which only led to my confusion.

Was I really moving in now? Decorating his shit?

Needing information, I found the ability to move my body off his couch and into his bedroom, where I had last left my purse. I grabbed my phone, plopped down on his big-ass bed, and called the one and only person I could call in a moment like this.

“Well, hello, Cass,” Georgia answered, and her voice hinted at amusement.

My eyebrows rose with suspicion. “It sounds like you were expecting my call.”

“Why would you say that?” She feigned bewilderment. The day Georgia Brooks was able to lie with a straight face and a convincing voice, hell would freeze over and I’d be able to teleport myself onto David Gandy’s cock whenever I wanted.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I answered, laughing a little at how truly terrible my best friend was at lying. “Maybe because you can barely hold back your giggles. And I know for a fact, when you’re two seconds away from turning giggly, you’re one hundred percent full of shit.”

“I am not full of shit,” she responded, but I could literally hear her swallow the urge to burst into laughter.

“Acting would’ve been a horrible career path for you, by the way,” I teased. “But since I love you, I’m going to take the bait and act like I actually believe the words coming out of your mouth.”

“I’m not lying!” she exclaimed.

“Uh-huh, sure you’re not… Would you like me to tell you about what just happened?”

“Yes,” she responded far too quickly. My spidey sense was tingling. She already knew something.

“Well, I’m at Thatch’s apartment, and honestly, I’m not sure if I should start calling it
my
apartment.” I sat up from the bed and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a gracious view of the city. “My original plan was to
fake move in
and ruffle the prankster’s feathers a bit, but things didn’t exactly go as planned.”

“What happened?”

“Well, he didn’t freak out or try to get a restraining order. He got naked, took a shower, and then went out to get us dinner. Not gonna lie, I’m not quite sure what to do with this.”

“Do you think he’s…maybe…screwing with you back?”

“Do
you
think he’s doing that?” I tossed her question back. “Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me what you already know?”

Fabric rustled in the background like maybe she was covering the mouthpiece of her phone.

“I’m not saying I know anything, but I’m not saying I don’t either,” she answered vaguely when a slight hum of ambient noise returned to the line.

Georgia was a special brand of fiddle. You had to really tune her up right, and begging wasn’t the way to do it. But, as her longtime best friend, I knew the one thing that
would
make her little informational bow fly—act like I was freaking the fuck out. Her immune system had absolute shit defense against hysteria.

“So…I shouldn’t be concerned? I mean, what if when he says he’s got his hands in all kinds of things, he’s actually living a secret life? What if I just accidentally moved in with the next Ted Bundy?” I forced my voice to rise a few octaves toward panic.

“Cassie,” she started to chime in, but I cut her off, going all out with the dramatics.

“What am I supposed to do now? I think I just moved myself in with a psychopath! What if he’s a serial killer, Wheorgie?” I started rummaging through his nightstand for added effect, knowing full well she’d be able to hear the commotion. Condoms. Ticket stubs. An old cell phone. No Beretta 9mm or bowl of teeth.

“Cass, calm down.” She tried to talk over me, but I kept up the charade.

“There’s nothing in his nightstand, but serial killers are notorious for covering all of their tracks. They don’t hide shit in their nightstands, do they!
Oh God,
they hide things under floorboards and behind secret doors where they have their stash of crazy and walls filled with pictures of their victims!
Oh. My. God.
I’m going to end up on one of those FBI Files shows, and it will be all your fault!”

I hopped off the bed and put the phone on speaker as I started stomping my feet along the hardwood floor. “The secret floorboards would sound hollow, right? And what are secret doors supposed to sound like when you find them?”

“Cassie!” Georgia’s voice echoed inside the bedroom.

“What?”
I asked as I continued stomping my feet along the floor.

“Stop going through his shit. Thatch is not a serial killer.”

Once my feet got tired, I grabbed a nail file from my purse and sat down on the beige chaise in front of the window. “Then why is he going to get us dinner?” I yelled as I filed my nails. “Why isn’t he freaking out that some stranger—
albeit a very attractive woman—
took it upon herself to just move in with him?”

Come on, Georgia. Spill the juicy gossip. You know you want to…

“I’m like ninety-nine percent sure he’s messing with you back. He might be on to your prank,” she finally admitted on a whisper.

“Ninety-nine percent sure is not reassuring, Wheorgie! That one percent could be the one percent that has me ending up on a missing persons’ website!” I shouted as I held my right hand out in front of me.
Man, oh man, I really need a manicure.

“I think he might be mentally disturbed, G! I wonder if I should try to get out of here before he comes back with dinner.
Holy. Fuck.
What if dinner is code for something else?” I asked on a dramatic gasp.

“Oh. My. God. Seriously, calm down and stop yelling in my ear,” she responded in irritation. “Thatch isn’t a serial killer. He’s not a psychopath or mentally disturbed. He called Kline the second he left his apartment to grab dinner. He knows you’re pranking him.”

Bingo.

“Oh, okay. Thanks for the info,” I answered in a normal tone.

The phone went silent for a few seconds.

“You are such an asshole,” she eventually responded with an incredulous laugh. “Why do I always fall for your bullshit?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea, sweetheart, but I can’t believe that big motherfucker is trying to one-up me. He’s in for a rude awakening if he thinks I’m going to be the one to raise the white flag,” I announced, determined.

“Uh oh… This sounds like it could end badly,” Georgia said in concern. Although, her concern didn’t really sound all that concerned. It sounded more excited than anything else.

“Yeah, you’re right. This could end badly, but I will not be the one to say uncle. Even if I have to continue this little prank war until I’m on my deathbed, you can bet your sweet ass I will come out victorious.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she responded with a laugh. “What exactly are you plotting? You promised you wouldn’t kill Thatch until after Kline’s birthday.”

“The only thing that will die at the end of this is a big part of the Jolly Green Giant’s ego.”

She laughed. “There’s a small part of me that feels bad for wanting to encourage this.”

“If anything, Thatch deserves this.”

He has to pay for making my steel-barricaded heart feel like maybe it isn’t impenetrable after all.

“I think that’s pretty debatable, Casshead. And mostly depends on what you have planned. Thatch is actually a really good guy. Kline says he’s—”

I didn’t want to hear it. I already liked the guy enough all on my own.

“Yeah, speaking of plans, I gotta scoot. My roommate will be coming home with dinner soon, and I need to make myself nice and comfortable in my new humble abode.”

“Okay…” she said and then paused. “You should probably avoid a few things, though. You know, just a few things that might
make him mad
.”

Well, I’ll be damned, Georgia could be a little devious when she wanted to.

“And what exactly would those things be?”

“Well, for starters, he only keeps one item of junk food in his pantry, and he gets pretty pissed when someone eats it. So,
don’t
eat his Trix cereal. Whatever you do, I
wouldn’t
do that.”

“Jesus, he’s like a giant toddler. I’ll be sure to stay away from his favorite sugar fix.”

Or I’ll eat the whole fucking box in one sitting.

“And don’t mess with his DVR. He records all of his favorite teams and a few shows. One of which is
America’s Next Top Model
, which I gotta say, I kind of find endearing.”

“Got it. Don’t mess with the sports.” Or I’d delete the games and, obviously, keep
Top Model
. “Any other no-gos?”

“And he’s a bit of stickler for keeping your shoes off in his apartment. So I would always make sure you take your shoes off at the door. Do
not
wear them around his place.”

“Shoes off, always. Got it.”

Or I’d never take my shoes off. Ever. Hell, I’d probably start showering in them.

“All right, G. I better go and make sure I’m not doing any of those things.”

“Good plan.”

After I hung up the phone, I slid on my oldest pair of Chucks and headed into the kitchen. I found a serving bowl, filled it to the brim with Trix and milk, and made my way into the living room where I proceeded to sprawl out on his couch and scroll through his DVR recordings.

ESPN
SportsCenter
…
Goddammit, I can’t delete that.

America’s Next Top Model
…
Of course, keep.

The Late Late Show with James Corden
…
Keep.

Family Guy
…
Keep.

It’s Always Sunny
…
Keep.

The Voice
…
Fuck. Keep.

Well, this wasn’t going as planned.
At. All.
He had the same taste in television as I did.

“Honey, I’m home!” Thatch called as he came through the door. I heard his footfalls stop in the entryway while he was predictably taking his shoes off. “Where are you, Cass?”