Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club Book 2) Page 3

  “Cheap ass,” Seven muttered. He jutted his chin at me. “Look good to you?”

  I cut into the steak and peeked at the middle. “Looks great.”

  “Shall I bring more beverages?”

  “I’m in no hurry,” Seven said.

  “Me either.”

  “Very well,” James said, and backed away. “Enjoy.”

  I eyed the steak on Seven’s plate. “Okay, Fred Flintstone, let’s see you eat that whole thing.”

  “You don’t think I can?”

  I shrugged. “I mean, looking at you, I feel like you probably can, but…damn, that’s a lot of meat.” And that statement both sounded and felt like a rather direct innuendo.

  “Watch me,” he said, smirking. “So, Lizzy, your successful friend.”

  “We both decided to change tracks, and started working for our realtor licenses, got jobs at a big LA firm, did the drudge work for a few years, the shitty listings for little baby commissions, but over time we got better and started earning enough to get out of the crappy loft and into a decent apartment. Maybe not in the Hills, but a step up. For poor as church mice girls from the wrong side of the tracks, it felt like winning.”

  “I identify with that narrative, for sure.” He cut a massive bite, chewed, swallowed, gestured at himself with the knife. “Growing up, I’d have made church mice look rich.”

  “You wanna compare poor stories, sometime?”

  He laughed. “I don’t usually, because I always win. And that just makes people feel sorry and shit and that ain’t my jam, the pity bullshit.”

  “I identify with that narrative,” I said, echoing his words. “So, after a couple years with that big, soulless LA firm, Lizzy hired us to work for her—her uncle had retired and left her the brokerage, and she was starting from scratch as far as personnel went, and that included us.”

  “And now you sell luxury real estate. Which means what, exactly?”

  “A million is the base listing price. If the property is in a great location and sure to sell quickly, high nine hundreds, but something for that little is a rarity for Six Chicks. We live mostly in the two-to-ten range.” I gestured at him. “Now you. How’d you get into boxing?”

  He finished his bite, dabbed his lips, took a sip. “Fighting was all I knew.”

  I waited for more, but he didn’t seem inclined to continue. “That covers a lot of territory.”

  He rolled a shoulder. “There’s a lot of territory in that question, and this is a first date.” His smile was a smolder and a friendly grin. “The heavy shit is best saved for pillow talk.”

  My stomach flipped. “Pillow talk, huh?” I speared some broccoli and sugar snaps. “You don’t seem like the pillow talk type.”

  “We just met, so maybe you don’t know what type I am.” He leaned toward me. “Don’t believe all the hype. Just most of it.”

  “How should I know what to believe and what not to?”

  “Ask me.” He was almost done with the mammoth slab of steak already. “Easiest route to the truth is to just ask.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask, then.” I set my fork down and sipped wine. “Are you a sex on the first date sort of guy?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “The girl. The situation. What I’m after, what she’s after.”

  “I suppose this is where you ask about the ad.”

  He tilted his head sideways. “Yeah. I mean, I gotta say, we only just sat down together, so I can’t know you super great, yet, but…I’m not sure that ad jives with the vibes I’m getting from you.”

  “No?”

  “Not really.” His gaze sharp, heated. “You want the god’s own truth, I called based solely on the picture. The text of the ad just made me even more curious. But mainly, it was the photo.”

  I swallowed. The moment I’d hung up, I’d gone onto Instagram to look, and if Zoe wasn’t my sister, I’d have killed her for using that photo.

  We’d taken a vacation to Belize. Zip lines through the jungle, long hikes, snorkeling, kayaking along the shore, shopping in out-of-the-way markets. And, being our first real vacation anywhere, let alone outside the US, we’d had a bit of booze-fueled fun. Bar hopping, mainly, and then somehow making our way back to our resort in the wee hours of the morning. The photo in question had been taken by Zoe, at like four in the morning. We were both hammered, and were goofing off the balcony of our room, which was at the very top, a corner unit, facing the ocean. We’d both taken off our tops and flashed the sea, laughing. And then Zoe had called my name. I’d turned around, saw her with her phone about to snap a photo, and I’d clapped my hands over my tits, just in time, head thrown back, laughing hysterically. It was a great, candid shot of me. Blue bathing suit bottoms, my skin tan from a week in Belize, hair loose and wild and more blond than copper from the sun. My boobs were covered by my hands so it wasn’t precisely inappropriate, but you could still get a pretty good impression of what I was rocking. My smile was genuine and bright, a laugh of joy frozen in time.

  I looked hot. But I never meant for anyone other than Zoe to see that. That was a private version of me. Carefree Autumn, cut loose and go wild Autumn.

  Not really the version of me most people would recognize on a day-to-day basis.

  “The girl in that photo isn’t really…me.” I sighed, knowing that was confusing. “What I mean is, that is me, it’s a real, candid photo of me Zoe took, but it’s almost ten years old, and it represents a different kind of person than I usually am.”

  His expression wasn’t giving away much. “I really want to know the girl in the photo.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Topless?”

  A lecherous grin. “Hell yeah.” The grin slid slowly into something more serious. “Carefree. A wild card.”

  It came out before I could stop it. “Me too.”

  He stared at me, and his eyes were deep, soulful. “Been a while since you’ve met that girl yourself, huh?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I guess so, and I’m just now realizing it.” I sighed, waved a hand. “Like you said, that’s heavy shit. Not first date conversational material.”

  “Got it. Cataloged for pillow talk.”

  I laughed. “You seem awful confident we’re going to end up having pillow talk. Which is assuming we’re going to be doing what comes before pillow talk.”

  “Assuming?” He bobbed his head from side to side. “I don’t know about assuming. Planning would be more accurate. Hoping, definitely.”

  I couldn’t say a good part of me wasn’t on board with that plan. He was hot as sin, kind of scary in a way that I didn’t quite mind, and a far better conversationalist than I’d honestly anticipated.

  “How about we play a game of one for one?” he suggested, after finishing the steak and covering the plate with his napkin.

  “What’s that?”

  “We each answer the same question, taking turns with who comes up with the question.”

  “Okay. You can go first.”

  “Anything off-limits?”

  “The ad, specifically the part about getting pregnant.”

  “Got it.”

  “And you?” I asked. “What’s off-limits territory for you?”

  He shrugged. “The heavy shit. My childhood.”

  “I mean, same, so that’s fair.”

  He tapped his chin, nodding when James came by with an inquiring gesture toward our empty drinks. “Okay, got one. One expensive item, or several cheap ones?”

  “One expensive item,” I answered immediately. “I hate cheap stuff.”

  “Same. I would rather own five really fuckin’ nice things than a thousand not as nice ones.”

  “Like your car.”

  He nodded. “Exactly. I don’t have a fifty-car garage full of Rovers and Lamborghinis and all that shit. I could, but I’d rather have my Venom and put the cash elsewhere.”

  “How do you take your coffee?” I asked, for my question.

  “Black, straight
up.”

  “I’m a sissy. I like a little cream. No sweetener though.”

  “How about a more personal one?”

  “Okay.” I thanked James as he dropped off a fresh glass of red for me and another vodka soda for Seven. “Personal, but not heavy, right?”

  “Nope, just personal.” He smirked, and I felt my stomach flip. God, that smile was a killer. “Sleepy, lazy sex in the morning, or half drunk, aggressive sex late at night?”

  “Damn, that’s a hard one. I like both, for different reasons.” I tried not to think about Seven, about what he’d be like half drunk and aggressive, or sleepy and slow. “If I had to pick only one, for the rest of my life, I’d say sleepy morning sex.”

  “Related, so not a new question. But, why?”

  “It’s more…intimate, I guess. Don’t get me wrong, I like to have fun, but when it’s slow and sleepy and lazy, first thing in the morning, it’s just… better. I don’t know.” I had a vision of Seven in my head, naked with a sheet over his waist, half asleep, reaching for me, and I shuddered. My skin tingled. I could almost feel his big rough hand on my hip, pulling me toward him.

  Down, girl.

  He grinned, but it was more of a baring of teeth, feral and primal and eager. Hungry. He knew what I was thinking—he could see it in my eyes, I was sure. “A girl after my own heart, but don’t tell anyone else.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” I said, unable to stop a smile. “And why?”

  “It’s unfiltered. Raw. I don’t mean that in the crass way, though. Raw, in that sense is…”

  “Personal.”

  “Connected. Deep. Real.”

  I shivered, thighs squeezing together under the table. To be deep, personal, and connected with a man like Seven must be…intense.

  “Again, not what I would have expected. I’m sorry if it seems judgmental of me.”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. I am aware of a certain reputation I have. And to be fair, it’s not entirely unearned.” He sipped. His eyes bored into me. “Your turn.”

  “What one nonsexual thing turns you on more than anything?”

  He rocked back in his hair, nodding. “Good one.” He stirred his drink, fished a lime wedge off the top of the layer of ice, squeezed the juice out of it, dropped it back in. “Damn, though, that’s a really good question. Hard to answer. Really got to think about it.” He eyed me, searching me and thinking. “Okay, so this one is really gonna kill my status as a hard-ass. But. It’s nonsexual affection. The little shit. I’ve never been a relationship guy, and all I can say without it getting into heavy territory is that I’m just not, and I have reasons. But the few times I’ve been with a woman long enough for it to be a thing, when a girl, like…” he trailed off, shook his head. “I dunno how to even put it. The sissy, lovey-dovey shit. If I was bullshitting with my boys, I’d call it pussy-whipped bullshit, but since you’re a chick and this is real talk, I’ll give you the truth. Mainly because you seem…trustworthy, I guess. I like that shit. It makes me crazy. Playing with my hair, touching my shoulders—I don’t mean hanging off me like some trophy piece of ass on the red carpet, just…intimate touching. I don’t get it very much, and that shit turns me on like literally nothing else short of grabbing hold of me and going to town, know what I mean?”

  Very much not what I expected.

  “You?” He finished his drink and chewed on the straw.

  “Smell.” I felt myself blushing a little. “Weird, maybe, but a man who smells good is an immediate turn-on. It’s not any one specific smell, and just bathing in cologne is definitely not what I mean. It’s a lot of things. Being clean, obviously. The right cologne in the right amount. Natural smells. If a man smells good enough, it can make me, like, unbearably horny.”

  “Unbearably horny.” He gave me a heavy-lidded stare. “Good to know.” He smirked. “And how do I smell?”

  I held his eyes. “Your scent was one of the first things I noticed about you.”

  “One of, but not the first. So what was the first thing?”

  “Well, our first interaction was on the phone, so your voice.”

  “And do you have a thing for voices, too?” he asked, a cocky, teasing grin on his face.

  “I mean, not really.” I’d finished my second glass, so I could possibly blame what I said next on that. “Not until I heard your voice, at least.”

  “Kinda how I felt about redheads.” His grin widened, turned less teasing and more flirty, more seductive. “Didn’t know I had a thing about a particular hair color until I saw you.”

  I couldn’t look away, felt myself being drawn in like a fish on a hook being reeled in. “What’s your next question?”

  “You want dessert? Or drinks somewhere else?”

  “No dessert. I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs a little, and maybe another drink.”

  He just nodded, leaned back in his chair and dug into his hip pocket. Fished out a folded stack of cash, counted off way more than dinner could be even at a swanky place like this, and shoved the rest back into his pocket. “Ready when you are.”

  Was I ready? I wasn’t so sure. If I spent another second in this man’s presence, the heat boiling in the pit of my stomach was going to explode into something wild and desperate and possibly embarrassing.

  But yet.

  We left his car in the care of the restaurant’s valet, parked in a corner by itself and cordoned off by big orange cones, and set out on foot.

  “I know a place a few blocks from here,” Seven said. “It’s kind of off the beaten path, a bit of a dive, but the drinks are good, and it’s quiet. A locals-only kind of place. They know me there, so I can get left alone.”

  “Is that a big thing for you, getting left alone in public?”

  He shrugged. “I mean, I’m not Tom Cruise level famous, so I don’t get swarmed with paparazzi every time I step foot in public. I’m just a retired boxer and TV commentator. But I still get recognized, asked for autographs. Scenes like with that hostess. So yeah, finding somewhere I can just keep my head down and have a couple drinks in peace, it’s pretty nice.”

  “You like being famous?”

  “It has its perks. You’ll get this since you said you grew up poor too, but I honestly like the money more than the actual fame—I like knowing I’m set for life. As for fame, at first, having people know me and want to talk to me and have me sign things was cool. And it still is, in a way. But it’s exhausting. People think they know you. They think they have a right to you, to your time, your attention, to details about your life. It’s a trade-off.”

  “I don’t think I could handle being famous. I’m a pretty private person.”

  “That’s what’s funny—so am I. I didn’t set out to be famous, I set out to be the best goddamn fighter on the planet. I wouldn’t say I succeeded, I’m not that cocky. I’ll never put myself in the same category as Ali or Rocky Marciano or Joe Louis. Those guys really are the greats. But, I think I achieved a lot of what I set out for. And the fame just kind of…came with it, I guess.”

  We walked and talked, then. Our hands brushed, our hips now and then. I smelled him, leather and spicy, musky cologne and clean male. Felt his heat, his bulk.

  At some point in the walk, he grabbed my hand to guide me around a car blocking the sidewalk, putting himself between me and the car, and he didn’t let go after that. I noticed. He noticed. First date, and were holding hands.

  My belly roiled with heat, with attraction.

  Turns out Seven St. John was dangerous in more ways than merely as a boxer.

  2

  Talking to him was way too easy. He liked nineties action movies, and claimed to be a homebody for the most part. He was also surprisingly well-read, considering he didn’t finish high school.

  The bar in question was in fact a dive on what seemed more like an alley than a street, the kind of place you had to know about in order to know about. It wasn’t seedy, though. Just dark and old, with the kind of decor that�
��s dated but timeless, mainly because they’ll never update it. They didn’t sell wine, so I joined Seven in drinking Titos and soda. There was a booth in the back corner, lit by a handful of tea lights. We sat on the same side, facing the interior of the bar, sipping and talking.

  The bartender did indeed know Seven on a first-name basis, and kept the drinks coming.

  Which, in retrospect, was possible unwise for me.

  He was on the inside, a big hard warm bulk of man, his broad arm a cushion at my side, and his smile was ready and ever-present, his eyes always on mine, sometimes sliding down to my cleavage for a moment, or my legs. He wasn’t staring, but wasn’t hiding the fact that he was checking me out.

  I didn’t mind. I was copping glances at his huge anvil-hard chest where his shirt was unbuttoned, at the way his fly bulged around something pretty substantial. At his hands, the thick trunks of his thighs in his jeans, which he wore just tight enough—not baggy, nor hipster-tight leggings, just…tight enough to show off his massive thighs.

  His voice and his scent lapped over me.

  The vodka was sly, subtle. Sneaking up on me. Fueling dirty thoughts that popped up now and then. Igniting desires inside me.

  Listen, I was no nun. Not by a long shot. But the past couple months had been busy as hell at work, and I’d been having trouble finding anyone suitable for…playtime. No one on any of my social media or apps appealed. None of the guys I met in the bar appealed.

  So I’d been on an involuntary hiatus, and now, in Seven’s presence, I felt that lack.

  That need.

  I’d never met anyone like Seven. And I didn’t mean simply because he was the only famous person I’d ever met, on a personal level. I’d represented a middling-famous actor selling a home in the Hills, but after the initial meet-and-hire, most of my contact had been with his assistant. A few recognitions of celebrities, since this is LA, after all. But nothing real, nothing personal, not like this.

  No, my attraction to Seven was physical.

  Deeply, intensely, wildly physical.

  I didn’t go for guys like him. I went for staid, buttoned-up types. Three-piece suits and shiny shoes, with an MBA and a stock portfolio.