Best Man (Billionaire Bachelors Book 6)

by Lila Monroe

  What is it that rich playboys do for fun, anyways?

  “You’ll see.” Fitz will only grin mischievously when I demand our schedule for the night. “Relax, let your hair down.”

  “It’s already down,” I protest. Also, I’m fairly sure it’s both greasy and frizzy right now, a double victory only I could achieve. I glance down, and realize I’m not exactly dressed for a night on the town. I’m still wearing my work attire, which is a pair of plain gray pants and a white silk blouse. Day to night, it is not.

  “You look great,” Fitz says, as if reading my mind. “Anyway, the place we’re going doesn’t have a dress code.”

  “You’re taking me to a Korean spa,” I guess, only half-joking. “Paintballing. One of those ‘dining in the dark’ restaurants where you can’t even see the silverware.”

  “All good ideas,” Fitz grins back at me. “Especially the naked spa. Let’s put that on the list for later, OK?”

  “Fitz!” I laugh and give him a playful shove.

  That is totally not just an excuse for me to touch him. Not at all.

  “Give me a hint?” I beg, and he pretends to think about it.

  “You’re about to witness a stunning display of athletic ability,” he finally says, and I gasp.

  “You got tickets to the Knicks?!”

  “The who?” Fitz looks blank.

  “Basketball?” I try. He laughs.

  “Sorry. Maybe next time. Oh, here we are.”

  The cab pulls up outside a non-descript building on the Lower East Side. Fitz pays the driver, then helps me out. Not that I need it, but I’m not arguing with holding his hand, even for a moment.

  Who am I kidding with my “playing by the rules” talk? The thirst is real.

  “This way.” Fitz gives me a wink, then leads me to an unmarked door. Inside, there’s a long hallway, leading to another entrance—this one manned by a beefy bouncer guy.

  My curiosity grows as Fitz flashes the guy some kind of membership card, and the man steps aside. “Enjoy your night, sir,” he says, opening the door.

  “If this is a strip club . . .” I start, warning him as we step inside. Then I stop.

  And burst out laughing.

  “You brought me bowling?” I splutter, looking around. Sure enough, it looks like a hipster version of the 1950s in here, with neon lights, old-fashioned bowling lanes, arcade games, rock ’n’ roll playing from a jukebox. The place is packed with dapper men in Elvis hairstyles cosplaying date night with their vintage dress-wearing ladies. It’s absolutely ridiculous.

  I kind of love it.

  “What’s wrong with bowling?” Fitz protests. “I told you, it’s a show of athletic strength. Plus, the food, the music . . .” He looks around happily. “To a British guy, this is about as foreign and exotic as it gets.”

  “You love Americana?” I hoot with laughter.

  “So?” Fitz asks.

  “Nothing, it’s just funny that’s all.” I grin. “For all your fancy restaurants and champagne, you’d be happier eating diner food with a jukebox playing Springsteen.”

  “I’m more a Meatloaf guy myself, but yes.” Fitz leads me over to claim our dorky shoes, and then sets up at an open lane. I tie my laces, still amused that the suave, sophisticated man I know is reduced to a childish delight by the sight of a few pins and some antique Formica booths. “Now, prepare to marvel at my prowess,” he says, flexing his biceps as he selects a ball.

  Hmmm, maybe this game has something to it, after all.

  “Them be fighting words,” I warn him. “I’ll have you know, I was the birthday bowling party queen of Springfield Drive.”

  “Want to make it interesting?” he asks with a devilish gleam in his eye.

  I’m having fun, but not so much that I’ve forgotten who I’m dealing with here. “That depends on the bet.”

  “How about loser buys dinner?”

  I look over at the fast food window advertising two hot dogs for $5. “That works for me,” I grin. “I take mine with extra relish.”

  “Don’t be so sure . . .” Fitz warns me. Then he steps onto the polished lane, lines up his shot, and smoothly sends the ball sliding down the center line—straight into the middle of the pins.

  A perfect strike.

  He lets out a whoop and raises both arms in triumph. “The British are coming!” he cries, and I have to laugh.

  Goofy, fun-loving Fitz is a surprise. But I have to admit, there’s something pretty damn adorable about a man who isn’t afraid of looking dorky.

  “Hold that thought,” I tell him, going to pick out my ball. I choose a sparkly pink one, and sashay past him to take up my position. “Don’t count your hot dogs before they’re bought.”

  “Is that so?” Fitz looks amused. “Wait a second, you’re holding it all wrong.”

  Then, before I can move, he steps behind me and lightly places his hands on my waist, adjusting my position. “Shift your center of gravity,” he murmurs in my ear, and dammit, if the feel of him, pressed against the back of me, doesn’t send all the nerves in my body sparking to life. “Now, turn your hips . . . Bring your arm back . . . And, release.”

  How am I supposed to bowl straight after that?

  I don’t. Three gutter balls and a measly 15-point score later, I accept defeat.

  “At least you’re gracious in defeat,” Fitz smirks, as I hand over the cash to pay for our enormous spread of junk food. We take a seat at a brightly colored booth. “I like a woman who knows her place.”

  “Is that place with my foot up your ass?” I reply sweetly.

  He laughs. “Depends. Are you still wearing those shoes?”

  I lift a leg and admire the clunky, mustard shoes. “They’re surprisingly comfortable,” I say. “What do you think, can we bring them back into fashion?”

  “You can pull off anything,” he smiles, and for a moment, I think about taking him literally and just tearing all our clothes off right here.

  Although, the group of seven-year-olds at the next table might have something to say about that.

  “So, what other surprises do you have up your sleeve?” I ask, dragging my attention back to the (fully clothed) man in front of me. “A secret passion for line dancing?”

  “I’ll have you know, I can do-si-do with the best of them,” Fitz shoots back.

  I smile. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I told you, I’m a man of many talents.” Fitz’s smile turns mysterious, and for once, I believe him. “What about you?”

  “Do I have any hidden talents?” I pause to think about it. “I don’t think so. What you see is what you get.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that,” Fitz says, giving me a long look—that makes my stomach do a funny little flip.

  I glance down at my fries, hoping I’m not blushing. “No, really.” I shrug. “I can’t hold a tune or paint a picture, and it’s a good thing I take public transport, because I have the worst sense of direction in the world. One time, I tried to go to Ikea, and wound up halfway to the Catskills. Google Maps saves my life on a regular basis.”

  He laughs. “Luckily for you, I can navigate my way out of the woods with just a twig and a piece of string. Five years in the Boy Scouts, and seventeen merit badges,” he adds.

  “Did they give them out like candy?” I tease.

  He puffs up his chest. “I worked for every one of those badges. Dug a latrine in the middle of the night and figured out which leaves to use as a salve balm after half the troop got themselves poison ivy in a particularly nasty spot.”

  “I’m trying to imagine you as a kid,” I say, tilting my head to look at him. “You were probably the one sneaking around leaving frogs in everyone’s beds, weren’t you?”

  “Actually, no.” Fitz’s smile turns nostalgic. “I was a bit of a swot.”

  “A what?”

  “Nerd. Geek,” Fitz translates. “Always had my nose in a book. Our library was the only place I could escape my parents.”

&n
bsp; “You had a library?” I whistle. “Admit it, you grew up in a castle. Or Hogwarts.”

  “Something like that.” He chuckles, then pushes his food aside. “Ready for round two?”

  “Bowling or fries?” I ask, politely hiding a burp. “Because I think I’ve hit my limit on both.”

  “Oh, we’re just getting started.” Fitz takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. “Just one question: are you scared of heights?”

  “No . . .” I answer suspiciously, as he dumps our trash and leads me to the exit. “Why?”

  “No reason.” He gives me that grin again, the devilish one that could mean he’s plotting either murder or seduction. And God help me, I wouldn’t mind finding out. “Onwards!”

  This time, I give up on peering out of the cab windows, trying to figure out where he’s taking me next. After all, there are far more interesting things right here in the backseat of the car. Like the man currently sprawled beside me, his hair catching gold in the city lights as they blur past.

  Who is Arthur Fitzwilliam Fitzgerald?

  I had no clue when I said I do, and somehow, I have even less of an idea after a week of married (almost) bliss. I sneak a look at him now, humming along softly to the radio, shadows casting across his chiseled leading-man cheekbones. Is he really just the reckless playboy he makes himself out to be, or is there a deeper side to Mr. Dapper, beneath all those perfectly tailored suits?

  Every now and then, he reveals a glimpse of a different man: someone thoughtful and goofy and surprisingly sweet. Someone who cares about more than just the VIP section of the hottest club, or which bikini model he can bang this week. Someone I might actually be friends with.

  Or am I clutching at straws, trying to justify this thigh-clenching, panty-twisting thirst? He’s not my type, I remind myself.

  He’s so not my type.

  And yet . . .

  “What would you be doing right now if we hadn’t . . . you know, gotten married?” I ask, curious.

  Fitz turns, almost like he forgot I was sitting here. So, only one of us has been panting lustfully, then. “I don’t know, out at a club, maybe, or another dinner date.”

  “Just with a different girl beside you?” I arch my eyebrows, and he gives a bashful shrug.

  “Nobody as beautiful and intelligent, obviously.”

  “Nice save,” I reply dryly.

  “No, I mean it. The whole social scene, it gets to be boring after a while.”

  “So that’s why you did it?” I ask. “You just wanted a change, and thought, ‘Hey, why not legally bind myself to a complete stranger?’ ”

  “Why are you asking?” Fitz frowns. “Having post-nuptial regrets?”

  “No!” I blurt quickly. “I’m just curious, that’s all. I mean, I would never have thought of doing something crazy like this if it wasn’t my absolute last resort. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly Miss Wild and Spontaneous,” I add.

  Fitz grins. “I don’t know, you’re doing pretty well this week.”

  I give a rueful laugh. “This week is definitely not normal. It’s about as far from normal as you can get. Light years away.”

  “Is that so bad?” Fitz asks. “I’ve always found ‘normal’ to be overrated.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” I can’t help pointing out. “It’s easy to be wild when you have a trust-fund safety net waiting to catch you when you fall. If I decided to ‘spontaneously’ not show up for work tomorrow morning, I’d probably have bigger problems than where to eat for brunch,” I add—with a smile, so he knows I’m not attacking him.

  Still, Fitz looks amused. “You think I’m just a lazy rich guy, don’t you?”

  “Not lazy,” I reply, only half teasing. “You seem pretty energetic to me.”

  He laughs. “Well, let’s see how you keep up.”

  The car comes to a stop, and I follow him out to find we’re deep in midtown, surrounded by sky-scraper office buildings. Hmmm. Another secret hipster club? A members-only drinks spot?

  “This way,” Fitz says, approaching one of the biggest buildings of all, a looming spire of chrome and glass. He pushes through the spinning doors, and I follow, even more curious now.

  “Is this your family’s company?” I ask, looking around.

  “Nope.”

  “Then you pulled a Christian Grey and bought me a healthcare company all of my own?” I joke, hurrying to keep up as he leads me across the empty marble lobby.

  “Close.” We step into the elevator and Fitz hits the button for the very top floor.

  “Tell me!”

  “Patience is a virtue,” he chuckles, looking pleased.

  My anticipation grows at the elevator swoops upward. Twenty . . . Thirty . . . Forty . . . Finally, the doors open with a ding! on the fifty-second floor.

  “Your chariot awaits,” Fitz says, gesturing me ahead of him.

  I step out to a deafening roar of wind and noise. Deafening, because a helicopter is perched, waiting on the roof.

  A freaking helicopter!

  “You have got to be kidding me.” My jaw drops. “Is that . . . for us?!”

  Fitz gives a surprisingly sheepish grin. “I figured I better live up to my reputation,” he says. “If a man talks the talk . . . Besides, it’s the best way to see the city.”

  He takes my hand and leads me across the roof. And, dumbstruck, I can only follow.

  Is this really happening?

  I know I shouldn’t be impressed by this display of totally over-the-top wealth, but come on, I’m only human. My normal dates involve 2-for-1 pizza deals at Gino’s, or a double feature at the black-and-white movie theatre. Once, for my birthday, Christian pushed the boat out and organized a karaoke night at a private room in Chinatown, but even then, he used a Groupon to get half off our unlimited wings.

  I guess Fitz is right. Normal really is overrated.

  Fitz helps me up the stairs into the backseat of the helicopter and hands me a massive pair of headphones. Right away, the din of the blades fades to a muffled roar.

  “Buckle up, buttercup,” Fitz’s voice comes, and I realize that we each have a little microphone attached, so we can talk. I strap in, my stomach in knots, and then, like magic—or fifteen tons of executive aeronautics—we lift off.

  I let out a yelp, and grip Fitz’s hand. He chuckles, warm through my headset.

  “Relax. Jenkins is the best in the business, he can have us doing a loop-the-loop with nary a hair out of place.”

  “He WHAT?” I cry.

  There’s laughter from the cockpit. “That’s Fitz’s excuse for a joke,” the pilot’s voice comes.

  “One of these days, you’re going to let me drive,” Fitz jokes.

  “Never.”

  Fitz squeezes my hand as we lift higher into the sky. I can see the ground fall away, and just like that, New York City is spread beneath us, glittering in the dark.

  I exhale, awestruck by the sight of it, a crisscross grid of lights, the pinprick lights of a million souls, surrounded by the dark shadow of the river. “It’s so beautiful . . .”

  “Not too shabby,” Fitz agrees in a quiet voice.

  We soar over the city, heading north. I can see the neon riot of Times Square, and the dark patch of Central Park. I’ve lived here for years, but I’ve never seen it like this before.

  I squeeze Fitz’s hand. “Thank you,” I tell him, tearing my eyes away from the view. “This is incredible.”

  “My pleasure.” He holds my gaze, watching me. And maybe I left my sense and reason behind me way back on solid ground, maybe it’s just because this scene is too romantic to resist, or maybe it’s because I’ve been panting for this man from almost the first moment we met, but I ignore all the reasons why I should keep my distance.

  I lean over and kiss him.

  “Oww!”

  Or, at least, I try to kiss him, but my bulky headset gets in the way.

  Fitz laughs. “Let’s try that again,” he says, moving it to
the side.

  This time, our lips meet, and I know there’s no going back.

  Because damn, I want him.

  By the time we make it back on solid ground, I’m pretty sure I deserve a medal. Making out in the backseat of a moving cab is one particular challenge, but in the cabin of a helicopter at 800 feet?

  Let’s just say I’m lucky not to have lost a tooth. Or my dinner.

  Still, between the swooping of the ride and the red-hot chemistry with Fitz, my head is spinning as the cab pulls up outside his building and Fitz practically drags me inside. Where’s a handy teleportation device when you need one? There are still way too many doors between now and me being alone with him—and way too many layers of clothing, too.

  “Night, boss,” his doorman calls, as Fitz shoves me into the elevator. The doors haven’t even closed before he’s kissing me again—hot and hard this time, backed up against the wall so I can feel every inch of his body pressed against me.

  I moan against him, on fire.

  Is it wrong to fuck a guy on the first date if you’re already married?

  I hope I’m about to find out.

  The doors open, and Fitz drags himself off me to lead me into the apartment. “If I were a gentleman, I’d take your coat and offer you a drink right now,” he says, giving me a heavy-lidded lustful look that makes me want to tear my clothes off right then and there.

  “Are you? A gentleman?” I ask breathlessly.

  His lips curl in a slow smile. “Do you want me to be?”

  Oh boy.

  I slowly shake my head, and Fitz grins. “Didn’t think so,” he says. “After all, a gentleman wouldn’t do this . . .”

  He places a hand on my chest and slowly, gently pushes me back until I’m up against the window. Then he drops to his knees.

  Hello!

  He lifts my shirt, teasing, and lands a flutter of hot kisses across my stomach. I lean back against the cool glass, trying to keep my balance, but I feel like the whole world has tilted off its axis. I’ve never been so turned on in my life before.

  And then Fitz unbuttons my pants and peels them down over my thighs.