Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club Book 2) Page 12

  He laughed. “It’s all stuff that was left here. By an…ex.”

  “They just leave stuff here and don’t come back for it?” I walked in, and perused the garments. “This is all expensive stuff, Seven. People don’t just leave behind a dress like this.” I flipped a beautiful linen dress. “I mean, this is boutique, designer. Worth at least a thousand dollars.”

  He shrugged. “I know.”

  “So…what’s the story?” I kept perusing. “I got the impression that you’d never been in a serious relationship. And clothing of this quality being left behind like this speaks of…either an abrupt and final departure, or something rather more nefarious.”

  He sighed heavily. “It was the closest thing to serious I got. And I was serious. I don’t talk about it, and no one knows about it. We kept it out of the press entirely. The only secret I’ve successfully kept since fame found me.”

  None of it was an off-the-rack, online purchase. It was all designer, some of it very, very high end. My size, too, or close enough in a pinch, which this was.

  I pulled a navy pencil skirt out, a blousy white button-down. Glanced at Seven, who had an inscrutable expression on his face. “You okay?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Just not a good memory. Not a big fan of talking about it.”

  I put the hangers back. “Another time, then. I can find a store on the way.”

  He came in, pulled the hangars back out and put them in my hands. “They’re just sitting here, wasting space. It’s space I don’t need and don’t use, but still.” He shrugged. “Better that you get some use out of them.”

  I frowned up at him. “No one…died, did they?”

  He smiled, shook his head. “No, nothing like that.” He sighed again. “Okay, short and light version. She was an aspiring actress. It’s LA, so who isn’t, right? But she had it going on. She’d done some commercials, a few bit parts in indie films with B- and C-listers, and up-and-coming directors. A music video for a big-time hip-hop artist. We didn’t set out to keep our relationship a secret, I should preface it with that. But I’d just gotten torn apart in the media for that whole Zeke and Adelaide shitshow, and before that, shit, a dozen other things. Some of it my fault, because god knows I ain’t a saint, and far fuckin’ from it. But like I said when we went out, a lot of it is either flat wrong, out of context or lacking context, or whatever. So I was just burned, I guess. I wanted to hang with someone and not have it put on blast for the whole world.”

  “Doesn’t seem like that much to ask,” I said.

  “Right? It is, though. The media figures they have a right to my personal life. Everything is fair game. And being the bad boy or whatever, I’m always cast as the villain. And you know, I don’t really mind. I’ve never been the nice guy. I’ve never been the guy you bring home to mama, the guy you want to spend Thanksgiving with at your childhood home.” A shrug. “I grew up hard, and it only got harder from there. So I’m not a nice guy. But I’m not a villain either.”

  “You’re nicer than you give yourself credit for, Seven.”

  He smiled at me. “If you say so.” A wave and a sigh. “So this girl. I never told her I wanted it a secret, I just wanted it low profile. And for a while, it was. She’d come over after work, leave early in the morning. She was a cocktail waitress at night, an executive assistant during the day, and made time for auditions and bit parts in between. Busy girl, had a fire under her ass to make it. And you know, I respected the hustle.”

  “Then it went sideways?”

  He nodded. “She got a part in a big-budget film. Not a lead role, but not an extra. She stole every scene she was in, blew up, and got an ego. Started spending money, acting all…” a sigh. “I dunno. Hoity-toity. Bigger than me, like she was a bigger deal suddenly than stupid ol’ washed-up Seven and his Sports Center bullshit leftover career.”

  “Yuck.”

  “All this time, I’d been bankrolling her. Just because I liked her. Because I liked giving her stuff.”

  I smirked. “And I bet she was…exuberant with her thank-yous.”

  He rolled his eyes at me. “Clearly, you understand. But for me, it really was because I liked her. She’d grown up without much, and I identified, right? So I bought her nice shit. Put together this wardrobe for her, so she’d have stuff to wear when she left, so she didn’t have to shuttle back to her place to get changed before work, or bring an overnight bag.”

  I nodded. “So you bought her all this?”

  He shrugged. “I sent some photos of her for style reference to a personal shopper, gave her a budget, and had it brought here.”

  I widened my eyes. “Wow. All this, just like that?”

  “Sure. It wasn’t a gift, it was…a gesture. Like, I want you here as much as possible. I just don’t want to appear in public with you. Not because I don’t want us to be a thing officially, but because I know what the paps will do, eventually.”

  “She got jealous?”

  A side-to-side bob of his head. “Not jealous. Resentful. Like I was holding her back. Because the reality is, getting photographed with me is kind of a thing. In certain circles, I guess it gives you some kind of cred? I dunno. She was just antsy for me to acknowledge us in public. Take her to a red-carpet event, or one of those clubs where you know the paps will snap some juicy shots of us together.”

  “And you didn’t want to.”

  “No. Because I wanted our thing to be…private. But it didn’t matter how much I explained it to her, she just got more and more angry.” A shrug, a sigh. “Eventually, she put down an ultimatum—make us Instagram official, and take me out in public, or I’m gone.”

  “She just wanted the fifteen minutes you could get her.”

  “Not at first, I don’t think. But once she started to blow up, it wasn’t happening fast enough. She wanted to go from bit parts and commercials and scene-stealing side character to A-list superstar overnight. She thought I owed it to her to help her get there, and being a public couple, in her mind, was the way to get there.”

  “Why should you owe her anything?”

  “I dunno. She never said as much, not in so many words—until the ultimatum, I guess—but she made me feel that way.”

  “I’m sorry. You deserve better.”

  A laugh. “Maybe, maybe not. She set down her ultimatum, and I called it. If that’s how you want it, I told her, then get the fuck out. No thanks, I’m good.”

  I winced. “Ouch.”

  “Yeah, I was pissed, and probably a little…harsh.”

  “Ultimatums have a way of doing that.”

  “Guess so.” He gestured at the closet. “She got the fuck out, and left all this. Said she didn’t want anything from me. Mailed back all the jewelry I’d bought her, sold the car I’d gotten her. Kept the purses and shoes, though.”

  I laughed. “Honestly, cars and jewelry and clothes, fine, give that shit back. But keep the shoes and purses. I get that. Not saying it’s right, but…”

  He laughed, too. “Nah, I don’t blame her. She had her own money by then, so I think in some ways it was less of a fuck you to me, and more to show that she didn’t need me or anything I’d given her. Which, okay, fine, but that’s not why I gave any of it to her.”

  “Of course not.”

  “So, I didn’t know what to do with this stuff. It’s expensive stuff, barely worn. I had it all dry cleaned after she left, so it’s not, like, recently used. I was like, donate it? Give it away? To who? So, I just said fuck it, shut the door on it, and don’t generally think much about it. Now you’re here, and you can use it. Shit, you want it, you can have it all.”

  The closet represented tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of high-end, designer clothing. I saw Chanel, Gucci, Dolce and Gabbana, Versace, Prada, a dozen other brands …all of it in the clear plastic bags from a dry cleaner keeping them dust-free.

  I was hesitating, and Seven misinterpreted it.

  “Shit, that’s probably insulting, isn’t it? Like, here, let me
give you all this old shit my ungrateful ex didn’t want.” A laugh, but it was bitter.

  I smiled at him. “No, not that at all. It’s just…a lot. You shouldn’t be giving this stuff away to just anyone. You bought it with really sweet intentions, Seven, and I appreciate your gesture in offering it to me, but I think I’m fine with just an outfit for today. But thank you.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He pushed away from the doorframe. “But, to answer your very original question, I do have a toothbrush you can use.”

  I laughed. “Why Seven, you’re so generous.”

  “I’ll even let you use my shower. And my three-in-one shampoo, body wash, and conditioner.”

  I cackled. “Your hair is way too fancy and nice for that.”

  He spluttered a raspberry. “You keep figuring out my secrets, dammit. Yes, fine, I use salon-quality shampoo and conditioner. I even moisturize my face. But if you tell anyone, I’ll put a hit out on you.”

  I laughed, patting him on the shoulder on my way past him—it was akin to patting a slab of granite. “Your secrets are safe with me, Seven, I promise. Plus, you’re on TV. You gotta look your best. The real question is, do you exfoliate?”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “No?”

  I cackled. “You do! Oh god, this is too good. If you try to tell me you use facial masks—that I won’t believe.”

  He growled in his chest. “You’re makin’ fun of me.”

  I came back and leaned up against him. “I’m not, I swear. Having a little fun with you, sure.”

  “Fun for who?” he rumbled, his words felt against my chest as much as heard.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not making fun of you, I promise.”

  “I don’t put on those mud mask things. My makeup lady told me I should, but I gotta draw the line somewhere.”

  “You have a makeup lady?”

  “Sure. For taping. Her name is Sherri, and she’s cool as hell. Mainly it’s just stuff so I’m not all shiny, cover any blemishes or whatever. Not, like, eyeshadow and shit.”

  I laughed. “Well duh. What’s Sherri like?”

  “Fifties, black, married with two grown kids, and funny as shit. She’s always got me crackin’ up in the chair.” He laughed. “I’m always teasing her, telling her one of these days I’m gonna steal her from her husband and whisk her off for a sordid affair in St. Barts.”

  I laughed. “And what does she say to that?”

  “That I may be a big tough boxer, but her man is old-school, and he’d whup my ass but good.” He chuckled. “Funny thing is, I don’t doubt her for a minute. Powerful, successful, beautiful black woman like Sherri, takes a hell of a man to stick with her, and they been married for…twenty, twenty-one years. Speaking of, I gotta get them an anniversary present, it’s coming up next week.”

  “She sounds awesome.”

  “She is.” He popped me on the butt. “You better get this sexy ass in the shower so you can make that showing on time. I can’t be the reason you’re late a second time.”

  “You weren’t the reason the first time,” I said. “It was the bottle of wine I drank by myself.”

  “Which you only did because of me.”

  I slapped his chest. “Quit hogging all the credit and let me take responsibility for my own shitty-ass decisions. Now, Mr. St. John, get your big, dirty paws off my behind so I can go get ready.”

  He released me. “Extra toothbrushes are under the sink. Need anything, just yell.”

  “Like I did a few minutes ago, or is that different?”

  He rasped a laugh. “Keep up that talk, and you won’t make it into the shower.” He grinned at me wolfishly. “Did I mention the fantasy I had about you where you were in the shower?”

  “No, you did not.” I backed away, biting my lower lip and tugging the hem of his shirt upward, teasing him with glimpses. “Don’t tell me, show me.” I dropped the shirt and turned away. “Next time, though—I really do have to get ready and go.”

  He groaned. “Fuck, woman. Go, before I show you right now.”

  “I’m going, I’m going.”

  I went, and his shower was heaven on earth. Water pressure so high it almost hurt in a good way, spray nozzles from three directions, scalding hot. Too bad I really didn’t have time to luxuriate there all day.

  I did have time to reflect on how weirdly, scarily easy it was to be with Seven. How he’d opened up with me on something so personal as his ex, and how it hadn’t felt weird or too soon or too personal. He was just…genuine, and real.

  We could laugh, we could have deep conversations.

  And holy hell, the things he could do with his mouth. Good god, I was still high from that orgasm. I wanted another one, just like it. Or even two. Or three. As many as I could get.

  I wanted it all.

  And that worried me, because while the sex was incredible, we hadn’t even really had sex yet, and I was already craving more, with an intensity that took my breath away and left my wits scrambled and my heart doing somersaults.

  And that was without his stories and his open, frank, genuine conversation, his attentiveness, his dirty mouth and dry wit.

  I wouldn’t call it record time, but I was ready pretty quickly. The skirt fit me perfectly, as did the top. I only had the bra I’d been wearing, and no underwear, because those were still in shreds on his bedroom floor.

  He gave me space and time alone to get ready, and when I emerged, he smiled at me. “There you go. Classy, elegant, and beautiful. Ready to sell a condo.”

  I had my purse on my shoulder, shoes on my feet—thankfully those worked with my outfit; I also had some emergency, bare minimum makeup in my purse, which I’d applied, as well as a brush and hair ties to keep my hair up and back in a neat chignon.

  I paused in front of him, near his door, and it was way too easy to just lift up, and take a kiss. “Thank you.”

  He smiled quizzically. “For?”

  I laughed. “Um, everything? Saving me last night, coffee and breakfast this morning, giving me an outfit to wear…and the orgasms?”

  “Was that orgasms, plural?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not quite sure. It all blurred together there at the end. It may have been several all close together. You’ll have to do it again sometime and see.”

  He growled. “Quit tempting me, woman.”

  “Hmmm.” I tapped my chin, pretending to think hard. “You know, I don’t think I will.”

  He laughed. “Got everything you need?”

  “All except underwear.” I had them bunched in my fist, and I took his hand, opened it palm up, pressed the ripped lace and silk into his hand, closed his fingers over them. “You can hold on to these, and think of me…not wearing anything under this skirt, all day.”

  “Fuck.”

  “You realize now you have to take me lingerie shopping.”

  “Well damn.”

  “And, of course, I’ll need you to make sure everything fits and looks good, so I’ll have to model them for you.”

  “Double damn. That sounds really hard.”

  “It’ll be rough for you. Think you can handle it, tough guy?”

  He sighed heavily, nodded. “I think I should be able to. Will I get to pick at least one set out for you?”

  I laughed. “That sounds dangerous.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  “You have a deal,” I said, still laughing. “You can pick one set.”

  “Is this before or after our picnic?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I dunno. Surprise me?”

  “Fine by me. I’ll pick you up when you aren’t expecting it, and take you lingerie shopping, and plunder you in the dressing room.”

  “Plunder me?”

  “You’re modeling lingerie for me. I’m supposed to keep my hands to myself?”

  “A fair point. But, be warned, I’m not good at keeping quiet.”

  “Just makes the challenge even hotter.” His grin was hot and wild. “Maybe I’ll wear a tie, a
nd I’ll gag you with it.” A pause. “Or no, your own underwear—that’s even better.”

  “Oh. I figured you’d just fill my mouth with…something else.”

  He growled wordlessly, another of those sounds of raw animal frustration, grabbed me by the arms and physically lifted me away from him, opened his door, and gently but firmly pushed me out of it. “You are dangerous, woman. A hazard.”

  “I aim to please, sir.”

  He shook his head. “You do way more than just that, Autumn.” He pointed at the elevators. “Go. Don’t be late.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Wait—shit! I don’t have my car.”

  “Hold on.” He leaned sideways in the doorway, grabbed something off a small nearby credenza, handed me a key fob. “Here. Take that. Take the elevator down to the parking lot. Bloop that lock button twice, and you’ll see her—you can’t miss her. She’s sexy, curvy, and red.” A grin. “Like someone else I know.”

  The logo on the key fob was a rearing horse—Ferrari. “Seven…I don’t know about this.”

  “You gonna argue, or you gonna get out of here and get your shit done?”

  I blew him a kiss. “Fine. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Call me.”

  7

  The showing was easy—the client had done extensive online research into the building and the unit in particular, knew he wanted it, and was doing the in-person viewing simply to make sure there were no surprises. Really, he just needed someone to let him in—once I’d unlocked it, he said he’d be fine taking a tour on his own. Meaning, let him look around alone.

  Easy enough. I used the time to text Zoe.

  Me: bad news bears, ZoZo.

  Zoe: I demand a full explanation, with all the most graphic details. In person. ASAP.

  Me: I’m in LA, still.

  Zoe: I know. Lizzy said you were with Seven. And in last night’s dress. Which is a little weird since you went out with that billionaire last night…

  Me: Trust me, the truth of last night and this morning is even more fucked up than you’re probably imagining.

  Zoe: Are you…sore?

  Me: well my jaw is…. ;-)

  Zoe: OMG. You dirty girl. Did he return the favor?