Page 1 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

CHAPTER 1

ELLIOT

“Ican’t help it, I’m nervous.”

Abigail Bailey fusses at my side, and I set a reassuring hand on her arm, sparing her a quick glance as we maneuver our way through tables, laughing socialites, scrubbed-up athletes.

The woman on my arm is tall and blonde, sporting a thick Australian accent and a hatred of rainy weather, clouds, anything but sunshine and high tide. She’s the kind of woman you can easily imagine on a surfboard, soaking wet, in a stark white bikini that stands out against her tanned skin and looks even better on the floor of a hotel room.

Which is where I wish we were right now, instead of making our way through this bar, surrounded by the sound of light chatter and the twinkling of fake laughter.

“Abigail,” I murmur to her, dipping my head so she can hear me. Her nose wrinkles at how I address her. Her friends call her Abby. But I’m not her friend, and I don’t intend on seeing herafter I leave London. “In the absolute kindest way possible, he’ll barely notice you. Take solace in that.”

Despite my best efforts, I’ve been roped into having drinks with my father, which means those drinks will be with at least half a dozen of his business “friends.” Abigail, unfortunately, has interpreted this as ameet-the-parentssituation, despite the fact that we’ve only been spending time together for a few weeks, and I would never subject a girl as nice as she is to meeting my parents.

Currently, my strategy is to be in and out of here as quickly as possible. Show my face, appease my father, and get back to my hotel room.

I don’t even want to be in thiscountry. Let alone in this bar.

“Elliot!”

One always hears my father before seeing him, his loud, booming voice much bigger than his actual frame. I have several inches on him, but you’d never guess it by the way he says my name.

“Dad.” I shake his hand when he holds it out to me, then gesture to Abigail. “This is Abigail. It’s her first time in London.”

He ushers us over to a table, summons a waiter to take our drinks, and the moment we’re settled in, Abigail leans forward, both elbows on the table, her blond hair swinging.

“I swear,” she says, all bubbles and frenetic energy, “Wimbledon is theonlyreason I’d come to London.”

Beyond the glass walls of the rooftop bar, a slight drizzle mists the sky, blurring the lights from the taxis and businesses below. Big Ben is faint in the distance, barely visible through the fog.Down on the street, honks ring out, shouts bounce through between the buildings. But those sounds are shielded by the glass, muting the city for the patrons of this bar. To be seen, and not heard.

Dad quirks an eyebrow, apparently wanting to humor her. He and I both know he’s only waiting until he sees someone worth talking to, but Abigail seems pleased to have gained his attention.

My father is the type of man who always wears a suit — he’s not interested in fashion, or dressing to look younger — and a pair of sunglasses. Now that it’s dark, those sunglasses are neatly folded and tucked into his front pocket. His beard turned white ten years ago, and he keeps it in the same style as always, trimmed at a precise cut along his jaw.

“Come on,” he says, swirling his whiskey in the glass and flashing Abigail a winning smile. For all the world, he sounds like a used-cities salesman, about to tell Abigail why London is the exact perfect match for her, despite the price. “There are plenty of things to enjoy here.”

“Oh, sure,” Abigail laughs, waving a hand dismissively at the window beside us, which is streaked with the quicksilver rivulets, racing down the side of the building. “Starting with the weather.”

“It’s not so bad — think about it.” His thick eyebrows lower, and he eyes his drink again.

Our drinks arrive, and Dad continues on as the server sets them down. “Perfect weather for a fish and chips.”

Abigail wrinkles her nose, and I stifle a laugh into my shoulder. For all his people-reading skills, leave it to Frank Altman to completely misunderstand the woman beside me.

We haven’t talked about it, but Abigail hasn’t touched a single piece of meat in the entire time I’ve been seeing her. So she’s — what? Vegan? Vegetarian? Besides, it only takes one glance to know a woman like this would never touch a food that greasy, meat or not. Right now, she’s drinking a cucumber vodka, her lipstick not leaving a single print on the glass.

Dad’s eyes are on me when I straighten and take another drink. “Talked to anyone, Ethan? I saw you talking to Hemsworth down on the grass. Anything there?”

Kyle Hemsworth and I went to Harvard together. He spent fifteen minutes boring me with stories of his twin sons, then I managed to come up with an excuse to get away from him. Unlike my father, I’ve never found my business pursuits through networking. I prefer to work alone, but if I don’t do a certain amount of showing face, he gets agitated enough to pester me about social events.

Lifting my glass to my lips, I shake my head, eyes practically on the ceiling. When I set it back down, I say, “No. Hemsworth is still dull, just like he was at school.”

Abigail giggles at that — she giggles at everything. It’s part of the reason I’ve liked having her around. An uncomplicated piece of Australian sunshine in my back pocket, everywhere I go.

“Ah, well. London is teeming with opportunities, Elliot. Keep your eyes open.” My father turns and surveys the room, eyebrows rising when he sees some of his buddies. “Here we are now!”

After a long day of sitting in the grim weather, watching tennis and making polite conversation, the last thing I want is to be in this bar, talking to a British version of the same twenty guys my father is always chatting with. I glance at my watch — only fourteen more minutes left of the time I’ve allotted before leaving.