Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club Book 2) Read online

  Autumn Rolls a Seven

  Jasinda Wilder

  Copyright © 2021 by Jasinda Wilder

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  SNEAK PREVIEW

  Also by Jasinda Wilder

  Sign Up!

  1

  My cell was ringing, somewhere.

  I’m not a morning person. It was early, and I hadn’t had coffee, and who would be calling me at…I cracked an eye and squinted my alarm clock…eight on a Saturday morning? What kind of sadistic, masochistic jerkwad would even be awake this early on a Saturday, much less calling me? Everyone who knows me knows my Saturday mornings are sacred to me.

  I blinked my eyes open, reluctantly, begrudgingly, crankily. My cell was across the room, plugged in to the charger and sitting on a little table in my reading nook. I stumbled blearily to the chair, plopped down into it, picked up the phone: the number on the screen was an LA area code, so likely a realtor sniffing for a last-second showing.

  I cleared my throat, tried to sound awake as I slid my finger across the screen to accept the call. “Hello, this is Autumn Scott.”

  “Good morning.” A deep, rough male voice. It sounded like someone who’d spent the night smoking, drinking, and fucking. It was a smoky, gravelly voice. And…possibly familiar?

  “Yes, hi. This is Autumn—how can I help you?”

  “I’m calling in response to your ad.” A cough, clearing his throat. “On Instagram. I saw it last night, and I’m calling to see if it’s for real.”

  “Ad?” I sounded faint, even to myself. And horrified. “What…um—what ad?”

  A slow, syrupy, gravelly chuckle. “Beautiful, successful single woman in search of a wealthy, handsome man to help her get pregnant the old-fashioned way. Financial validation a must. Serious inquiries only. DM for more info.” His tone indicated he was reading.

  “No. No. Hell no. They didn’t.”

  “Pranked by some friends, huh?”

  I should have said yes, it was just a prank.

  But that voice. Holy hell, that voice. Each syllable positively caressed me. The very sound of his voice promised long nights of wild pleasure, promised dirty secrets and tangled sheets.

  I should have said yes, it was just a prank.

  But his voice alone had me saying something else entirely.

  “Possibly.” I paused. “But possibly not. Tell me about yourself.”

  “My name is Seven St. John.”

  Seven St. John. Retired heavyweight boxer and multiple-time world champion, a sports commentator on ESPN who was starting to dabble in Hollywood…and the ultimate bad boy.

  Perennially on TMZ and in the tabloids for his wild antics and debauched ways, associated with an endless parade of stunning women ranging from A-list actresses to supermodels, with a trail of broken hearts in his wake. And one of the most gorgeous men to walk the planet, if you go in for brutally powerful, scarred, tattooed, with features hewn from granite, piercing eyes, and a wicked mouth.

  Seven St. John was a name synonymous with Sin, capital S.

  And he was calling me.

  “Seven St. John,” I repeated.

  Another of those slow dark laughs. “That’s me.”

  Get it together, Autumn. Too early—my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders yet.

  “The ad. Um…” Not much better. Something smart. “I, um…”

  “You aren’t a morning person, are you?”

  “No. Not at all. Especially on Saturdays.”

  “I got you. So how about instead of continuing to bother you on a Saturday morning, we just get together for drinks tomorrow.”

  “Drinks?”

  “Yeah. Like, I pick you up, and we go somewhere and sit down together and have a couple drinks and we talk.”

  “With you.” Jesus, Autumn. Smarten up, girl. “Drinks tomorrow.”

  He chuckled again. “Drinks, with me, tomorrow.” A pause. “So, you in?”

  “Yeah. Yes, that sounds good. Drinks with you, tomorrow.”

  “Great, so I’ll pick you up at…seven?” A hint of humor in his voice.

  My turn to laugh. “I bet that gets all the girls, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s a good time. Not too early, not too late.”

  “Right. Seven, then. With you, Seven.”

  “Address?”

  I relayed my address to him. “We’re not going anywhere super fancy, are we?”

  “Nah.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, Autumn Scott, it was a pleasure talking to you. I’m excited about tomorrow.”

  “Good talking to you, too. And, same.”

  “I’ll let you go, now. So you can get back to sleep.”

  I groaned. “I wish. But no, once I’m up, I’m up.”

  “Sorry to have woken you. I’m an early riser by nature.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Okay? It was more than okay. I had a date with Seven St. John.

  “Bye, Autumn.”

  “Bye, Seven. See you tomorrow.”

  I ended the call and stumbled in a daze to my bed, flopped heavily backward onto it.

  I had a date with Seven St. John.

  Why had he called me? I mean, the ad, obviously. But this was Seven St. John: one of the boxing greats, already spoken of in the same breath as Mayweather, Foreman, Louis, and Ali. He retired at thirty-eight, after his third championship belt, undefeated. Immediately upon retirement, he was snapped up by ESPN as a commentator on those talking head sports shows, and obviously as an expert announcer for boxing matches. More to the point, he’d been associated romantically with a who’s-who list of actresses, household names, supermodels, influencers, and even at one point an elegant blond woman who everyone said was some kind of European royalty. Granted, he never stayed with any of them for long, but it was clear he was capable of snapping his fingers and having any woman on the planet drop her panties for him.

  And he was calling me. A nobody real estate agent pushing forty. He’s been with the hottest, sexiest starlets in Hollywood and twenty-year-old Victoria’s Secret models.

  It didn’t make any sense.

  So…why had I agreed to meet him for drinks tomorrow night?

  Curiosity, probably.

  But also, that voice. On the phone, it had been low and growly, like a bassline vibrating in my tummy. It tugged on something deep inside, something both physical and more than physical. Especially when he’d said my name: “Bye for now, Autumn Scott. Can’t wait to meet you in person.”

  I decided I wasn’t going to tell anyone about this. Don’t give them the benefit of knowing their little ad had actually worked. Zoe, especially. As my sister, she should have known better.

  I groaned, and then gave in to the impulse to have a little squeal-and-kick moment, as the reality set in.

  Holy shit, I needed an outfit.

  Normally, I’d call one of the girls to go shopping with me, but since I was a little more than
half mad at them still for putting me in one of those stupid billionaire ads in the first place, I decided to punish them by not inviting them shopping with me. That’d show them.

  I spent the day shopping, and bought an off-the-shoulder, knee-length piece in a summer grass-green color that offset my copper hair. It had a plunging neckline, hugged my hips, and showed off my long legs, which most men deemed my hottest feature. I also bought a new bag to go with it, a beautiful cream Yves St. Laurent. And new shoes, suede Louboutin pumps.

  I mean, a girl has to treat herself once in a while, right?

  Sunday, the day of the date.

  Seven had insisted on picking me up. A chance to not have to either drive or take an Uber is a welcome change. And being that Seven is wealthy as hell, I’m guessing he has a pretty cool car.

  He said he’d pick me up at seven—hahaha—but I’d been ready by 6:45, makeup done, hair in an updo with a few strands artfully draped by my face. I gave myself one more good look in the mirror. I was pacing and resisting the urge to have a drink to calm my nerves.

  Five-nine, almost five-ten, gray eyes that went almost silver in certain light, freckles spotted across my cheeks, and other places. I was still slender, thanks in large part to genetics, honestly, but also because I was careful about what I ate, lifted weights three days a week, and ran with Zoe several times a week when I wasn’t lifting. My hips were decent, my ass nice and tight, and I had admittedly small breasts, a middling B-cup that a really good bra could turn into a decent C; I’d considered implants a few years ago, but I’d heard too many horror stories from clients about leaks or having to have them taken out due to infections and all sorts of shuddery things, so I’d decided to stay au naturel.

  I’d opted for a bra that didn’t change my natural size but did flatter my build in this dress. The best thing about the dress was what it did for my legs, which were long and strong—every day was leg day at the gym. Paired with the heels, my legs and ass looked fantastic, so I felt pretty good about myself as I waited for Seven to arrive.

  6:54, and my phone blooped. I’d already saved his number.

  7: I’m here. No rush if you’re not ready, I don’t mind waiting.

  Me: I’m ready. Be right down. Which car are you in?

  7: You’ll know it when you see it haha

  I snorted a laugh and rolled my eyes at that, heading down to the ground floor. The elevator opened, and Tommy, the evening doorman of my building, smiled at me, heading over to open the door for me.

  “Lookin’ mighty fine tonight, Miss Scott. Hot date?”

  “Thank you, Tommy. It’s a blind date, actually, so we’ll see.”

  “You? A blind date? Say it ain’t so, darlin’.”

  I laughed, pausing at the door to talk to Tommy, who was a tall, rotund, garrulous, genial man with a happy smile and a kind word for everyone. “Well, it’s not technically a true blind date. Let’s just say I know who he is, so I know what he looks like, but I’ve never actually met him.”

  Tommy blinked at me. “I ain’t sure how that works out, but you do you, boo.” He eyed the parking lot. “That him in the fancy car?”

  I followed Tommy’s gaze, and sure enough, there was a low, sleek sports car with murderous curves—it was yellow and black, with intake vents on the sides and a spoiler on the back. I didn’t recognize it, which was saying something considering I sold ultra-luxury real estate in Beverly Hills, Orange County, and Malibu, where you frequently saw some of the most expensive cars on the market.

  “I’m guessing that is him,” I said to Tommy. “He said I’d know his car when I saw it.”

  “That there is a mighty expensive whip,” Tommy said. “He must be flush, if that’s your date.”

  “What is it, do you know?”

  “Hell if I know—ain’t ever seen one of them before.” He shrugged. “All’s I know is, lines like that are expensive as hell, whether it’s on a woman or a car.” He grinned at his joke as I headed out the doors. “Be safe, okay?”

  “I will.”

  I headed for the car, and as I approached, the driver’s door swung open—not swinging out, but rotating up. A gargantuan male slid out, and my heart nearly stopped.

  Seven St. John.

  He was bigger in real life than he seemed on TV, and he looked enormous on TV. Six-four, maybe six-five, weighing I don’t know how much but a fucking ton, all of it rock hard muscle. He was wearing faded blue jeans over black leather boots, with a white button-down, the sleeves folded up to his elbow, unbuttoned to mid-chest. It should have looked douchey, being unbuttoned so far, but his chest was so broad, so powerful and heavily tattooed, that it somehow just worked, as if the shirt was simply incapable of containing his sheer breadth and depth of chest. The shirt was thin, nearly see-through as the brilliant evening sun hit it. He had mirrored aviators on, hiding his eyes.

  His skin was a warm, dark golden brown, and his hair was jet black, tightly curled, shaved on the sides and left in a wide mohawk on top. Again, on most men, mohawks looked stupid and douchey, but Seven made it work, and work well. On his left wrist was a heavy silver watch, and even from a distance I could tell it was expensive.

  His cheeks were chiseled out of granite, his jawline hewn from marble. Stubble shadowed his jaw, and tattoos crept up his neck from his chest and shoulders, writhed on his forearms. More ink on his knuckles—I couldn’t tell what the letters on his knuckles read.

  I was walking toward him on autopilot, but my brain was rapidly attempting to process the fact that he was here, picking me up, that he was real, that he knew who I was. I didn’t follow boxing, but even if you didn’t, you knew Seven. You knew his rep. You’d seen him on tabloids, whether a scandalous shot of him doing something inappropriate in public with his flavor of the week, or in a brawl in a bar somewhere exotic, or basking on a yacht in the Mediterranean with A-list buddies, you’d seen him.

  Seeing him live and in person, I had a momentary existential crisis. Why had I agreed to this date? This was a famous man, an infamous player. I was probably just another snack to him. So…why had I agreed to this date?

  Curiosity, certainly. It’s not every day that a celebrity just cold calls you and asks you out. And I may not follow boxing, but a hot guy is a hot guy, and Seven St. John was sex on a stick. So, maybe it was also pure lust, like, just the opportunity to be close to a man that fine. And maybe, possibly, get a shot at messing around with him. See how those big hard hands of his felt on my body.

  Fine. So, it was curiosity and libido that had goaded me into agreeing to this date. And seeing him exit the car and rise to his intimidating full height, seeing those cheekbones, that killer grin…yeah. I wasn’t regretting it.

  Maybe I would end up regretting it—maybe I was just going to be another flavor of the week or day for him. Maybe he was just curious in return as to what kind of girl would put up an advertisement for herself on social media. But regardless of his intentions…here he was. And I could avoid the topic, right?

  He stepped around the front of his car and up onto the sidewalk, and grinned at me, removing his sunglasses. His grin was dazzling, arresting. Arousing. His eyes were deep dark brown, melted chocolate and cinnamon.

  “Autumn Scott,” he rumbled, extending a hand. “Goddamn—you look like a motherfuckin’ goddess.”

  My stomach flipped, twisted. I took his hand, and nearly yanked it away immediately; electricity shot through me at his touch. His hand was massive, felt like leather and cinderblock, and even as he gently wrapped his fingers around my hand, I could feel the power in his hand.

  Instead of shaking my hand, he brought it to his lips. Kissed the back, damp warm lips touching my knuckles.

  He smelled amazing. Soap, a faint whiff of cologne, leather from the wide, weathered plain black cuff on his right wrist.

  My knees shook. “Thanks,” I gulped.

  “Do I need to introduce myself?” he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes saying he didn’t take himself that serious
ly.

  “No, I know who you are.”

  “Nonetheless.” He still had my hand. “I’m Seven.”

  “Nice to meet you, Seven.” His eyes bored into me, and I had to focus on staying upright under his piercing dark eyes.

  God, he was intense.

  “Pleasure is all mine, Autumn.” If an alpha male lion could speak, his voice would be Seven’s. Dark, deep, rough, commanding. He gestured at his car. “Ready to go?”

  “Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  He pulled up the passenger door, and I realized he’d never actually let go of my hand after kissing my knuckles. “In you go.”

  I had to get low, way, way low to get in, and doing so without letting my hem ride up to my hoo-ha was challenging at best; I felt Seven’s eyes on me the whole way. No polite looking away for him, no sir. I finally managed to half fall into the seat, tugged my hem lower with a little shimmy of my hips that he definitely noticed and appreciated: once I was in and settled, Seven lowered the door into place.

  Holy shit, what an interior. The steering wheel looked more like something you’d fly a jet with, featuring a dizzying array of knobs, switches, and buttons all over the front of it. Instead of a dash display, there was a large black screen standing above the steering column, and another large touchscreen display for the infotainment center. A row of switches ran up the center column, with a large knob above that. Everything was black carbon fiber with yellow accents.

  Seven slid into the driver’s seat, pushed a button, the motor turned over with a jet engine snarl. The heads-up display screen read “Hennessey” and the infotainment screen read “Venom F5.”

  “This is…a hell of a car.”

  He grinned. “Ain’t it? It’s a Hennessey Venom F5—they only make a few every year. This one is special, though. Lots of custom touches all over it.” He gunned the engine, and my seat vibrated with power, a vicious snarl behind my back.