Page 25 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

I laugh, rolling my eyes at him and glancing at the glossy sign for the bar — the one that the concierge informed me earlier is usually booked out a year in advance.

“No offense, Elliot, but I’m not sure you’re going to be able to get a table up there.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “Let’s bet on it. If I can’t, you spend the rest of the night in your room and I foot the bill for your room service, but if I get us the table, you come up for a drink with me.”

“You love your bets, don’t you?”

His smile broadens. “What do you say?”

This doesn’t feel real. When did we go from hating each other to getting drinks? And why do I like the way his eyes are locked on mine, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist?

I think of the concierge, the haughty way he shook his head when I asked about getting the team up on the roof.Even sports teams have to book,he said.

Holding my hand out to Elliot, I grin at him, already thinking about all the room service I’m going to enjoy on his dime. “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Altman.”

Not only do we get a table on the rooftop, but our server assures us it’s the nicest view in the city, and brings us a bottle of champagne on the house.

“Okay,” I say, closing my eyes when I take a sip of the champagne. When I open them and see Elliot seated across from me, I have to remember to be mad. “This is not fair.”

This time, he raises both eyebrows, glancing out at the city. “You mean, for everyone else? That they can’t all have this view?”

“I mean,” I say, leaning forward and giggling — wait, after a single sip of champagne, I’m already giggling? — and setting my glass on the table, “if you had told me that youownthis hotel, I wouldn’t have made the bet with you.”

He shrugs, holding his champagne glass so casually it looks like it might slip right out of his hands. “I don’townit, I’m just a pretty significant shareholder.”

“See, and you’d almost convinced me you’re human.”

He laughs, sets his glass down, and leans forward.

“Do you know my favorite part of the game earlier? That header goal from Krueger.”

“Okay, I’m impressed that you know what that is.”

“Of course I know what it is,” he says, shooting me a smug look. “Iamthe owner of a soccer team, after all.”

“I’d almost forgotten — you hadn’t mentioned that in a few seconds.”

“So champagne makes you snarky,” he hums. “I like it.”

“I am normally like this,” I bite back, taking another sip of my champagne. It’s the best I’ve ever had — even better than the stuff my mom ordered the day I found out I’d be going to the Olympics. This champagne tastes like someone unearthed it from a cellar in France after centuries, chilled it to perfection, and put it on its own first-class flight straight to this table.

“All right,” Elliot says, pulling his phone out. He taps on it a few times, then places it on the table and turns it toward me, tipping his head down and looking up at me through his lashes. “What do you think?”

Stupidly, I say, “What?”

He gestures at his phone, “For a sponsor.”

Oh.

Something silly, something unbelievably naive deflates inside me. He asked me up here so he could talk to me aboutsponsors. Of course. He’s the owner, and I’m the coach, and he owns this place. He’s probably used to talking business over a bottle of champagne, even if this feels special to me.

I hate the feeling. Even more, I hate that I’ve allowed myself to think any differently, that I wanted it to be different.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Right,” and pull the phone toward me.

Then, my surprise overshadows my disappointment, and I look back up at him with wide eyes, my mouth dropped open. “Nelson Financial?”

“Yep.” Elliot sits back, champagne in hand, looking appropriately pleased with himself. “And I’m thinking that, with the money from this sponsorship, we can tackle a lot of the projects I’m looking at. Bump the prices for the seats, but more importantly, get your team playing somewhere with at leasttwicethe capacity. You’re sold out for every game — that means it’s time to expand.”