The Billionaire Next Door

by Jessica Lemmon

  “Thank you,” she turned to tell Tag. “For walking me home.”

  “You bet.” He was already at the elevator and had pushed the Up button. The doors opened instantly. Another wave of disappointment she couldn’t explain covered her. She didn’t want him to pursue or kiss her. She didn’t want to be at the receiving end of a man who would use her and toss her aside. Yet the disappointment stayed when she realized there was no chance of lingering in the private entryway with her neighbor.

  “’Night,” he said.

  It was so final, she let out a sigh.

  “Good night.”

  He stepped in, hit a button, and the doors closed on his handsome face. She walked into her borrowed apartment with her furry companion, determined to shake off every last confusing thing Tag had made her feel tonight.

  * * *

  Rachel had tried to return Tag’s gloves the very next morning, the day after, then yesterday, at different times of the day and night. After earning motion sickness from the elevator, she’d finally determined he must be out of town. And the way she’d determined was by asking the front desk and lying by saying she’d found his gloves in the elevator.

  The woman had smiled like she didn’t believe Rachel’s story, but at least she’d confirmed: Tag was out of town and expected back today.

  So.

  Rachel waited until after her shift, a really busy one where she could avoid Bree’s scrutiny. Her bestie had been consumed with prying out the details of Rachel’s and Tag’s walk home when Rachel had already told her several times nothing had happened.

  Well. Nothing much had happened. She was fairly certain Tag warming her hands and forgetting his stupid gloves was a scam. The man knew women and Rachel refused to be another bee in the hive. He wasn’t getting her honey.

  Enough with the metaphor.

  Right. She was here on serious business. Return the gloves. Go to bed.

  Her own bed. Because imagining Tag in bed was…gosh. Distracting.

  Delicious.

  She shook her head to dislodge the thought. Where he was concerned she was beginning to think she couldn’t trust any of her female anatomy. Her brain had its guard up, and as long as she wasn’t around him for extended periods of time, she could fend him off.

  Yes, it’d been two months since she’d broken things off with Shaun, much longer since she and her ex were romantic, but in no way was she looking for a man to occupy her time. She had a very simple list of goals: find a job, get her own place.

  There was no item number three involving sliding lips with her sexy neighbor.

  Properly fortified, she knocked on his door three times and waited, gloves at the ready so she could thrust them in his face and go directly downstairs. Do not pass go. Do not attempt to converse with the guy who scrambled her brain.

  Then the door opened and her brain was promptly scrambled. And scattered, covered, smothered…

  Tag was wearing…next to nothing. No shirt, so his beautiful chest and shoulders were exposed, leading down to a pair of enormous biceps. He had a pair of large, white headphones over a ball cap, under which his wavy brown hair hung over his shoulders, half out of its ponytail.

  There were no words. None to describe the expanse of his chest dotted with a faint bit of golden hair, expanding more with the deep breaths he was taking. Or the rippling six-pack leading to the perfect indent of a belly button, then to the delineated lines that cut a sharp V shape along his hips above a very, very, very low-slung pair of sweats.

  By the time her eyes reached his waistband, she jerked them north to meet his face instead. His skin was covered with a sheen of sweat and he was breathing heavily, chest glistening with perspiration.

  He took off the headphones and hat, smoothed his hair, and then put the hat back on. She watched every choreographed move like he was putting on a show for her and her alone.

  Say something.

  “Hi.”

  Nice going.

  Half of Tag’s mouth lifted into a smile. “Hey, Dimples. Come in.”

  “No, I…” But it was too late. He’d already turned and was walking into his penthouse, his stride casual. Like women knocking on his door and him answering bare-chested was an everyday occurrence.

  She followed behind him, and try as she might couldn’t keep her eyes from feasting on the way his tight butt swaggered across his living room and into the kitchen.

  He nabbed a water bottle from the counter and chugged down several greedy gulps. She watched his throat move, his Adam’s apple bob. Even drinking water, he was a glorious sight to behold.

  “I tried to return them sooner,” she said needlessly, waving the gloves before tossing them on a glass dining room table. Beyond, half a wall of windows revealed the dark city skyline. Tag had a great view. Given his penthouse was twice the size of Oliver’s, he also had a great amount of space.

  “Something to drink?” His voice echoed off the sparsely furnished kitchen and dining area.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I have wine.”

  He stood at the counter, palms flat on the surface, biceps straining, chest temptingly bare.

  “No,” she said more forcefully, then covered with, “Rain check.”

  “Hold you to it,” he said with a nod.

  She turned away and tried to think of something to say, when her saving grace came into focus. On the kitchen table next to the discarded gloves was a collection of photos of bars. Pool bars, she noted. She lifted the eight-by-tens and flipped through the pictures.

  “Is this for work?” she asked, admiring the ocean view for this one. Tropical. Hawaii, maybe?

  “Yeah.” His deep voice grew closer. “Redesigning the bars in a bunch of Crane hotels. He dug under another stack and pulled out a blueprint-style drawing. “Just had these drawn up.”

  She took the prints, a bird’s-eye view of the pool bar with seats and blenders, liquors, and beer taps. “Where’s your server’s well?”

  “The what?”

  “Come on.” She slanted him a disbelieving glance.

  He grinned. Yeah, she thought he was giving her shit. He couldn’t be in charge of Guest and Restaurant Services and not know there was an area where servers picked up their customers’ drinks.

  “Here.” He pointed.

  “It’s tiny.” She held the drawing closer to examine the itty-bitty square of space. “Bad idea.”

  “What do you mean?” This time he wasn’t teasing her; he sounded interested in her opinion. He crossed those massive arms over his massive chest and waited.

  “Well…” Don’t think about how good he smells, even sweaty.

  She didn’t like sweaty guys. She liked suited guys. Clean-cut guys. No facial hair. A respectably short haircut. What was happening to her?

  “You don’t have enough space for the servers to wait for their drinks,” she said, grateful she’d found her former thread of thought. If Tag had an inkling of how he affected her clothed—let alone shirtless—he’d never leave her alone.

  Which suddenly didn’t sound so bad. Which was why she needed to keep talking. Outside the door, she’d determined why he was a bad idea and why she wasn’t ready for someone of his caliber in her life. In here, she was having a harder time reminding herself why she couldn’t roll onto her toes and sample his mouth.

  “Sure they do.” He took the papers, scooting closer to point out the map. “One here, and one here, on the opposite side.”

  “You have servers on two sides of the bar? So your bartenders have to run from one end to the other.” She shook her head and repeated, “Bad idea.”

  He took the plans, studied them for a long, silent minute, then handed them back to her. “What else sucks?”

  She let out a small laugh. “It doesn’t suck.”

  But his brow was creased, his expression concerned. She took another look and then pointed out the flaws that jumped out at her immediately.

  “Here. The liquors are out of reach. If you have
a bartender who doesn’t have particularly long arms”—she gestured to herself—“you run the risk of breakage and spillage, which is costly.” She laid the plans on the table next to a spread of photos. “You’re right to carry through on a redesign. The way it’s designed currently isn’t good, but the plans aren’t much better.”

  When he was silent for a few seconds, she lifted her chin to take him in. His eyes were shadowed by the bill of his cap, his mouth pulled flat. He nodded subtly.

  “Interesting,” he murmured.

  “I’m no expert but—”

  “But you kind of are.” Those electric eyes arrowed to her soul. She could sense his brain churning. Tag cared about this stuff. In a flash she saw past the player who had talked her into a beer followed by a walk home. He cared enough to bring his work home and spread it out on the table. Cared about his job as much as he cared about his body. And he must. To work it out to such perfection. Her eyes slipped from his face to acres of tempting flesh.

  “Do you mind if I pick your brain some more?” His eyes narrowed. “I could use another opinion. I was trying to figure out the kinks, but I gave up and worked out instead, which didn’t get me anywhere.” He offered a cocky smile. “I mean, it got me these.” He spread his fingers over his glistening abs. She imagined running a finger over those bumps. One, two, three…

  Good Lord, he had an eight-pack.

  “You like what you see, Dimples? Because you keep looking down there.”

  She moved her eyes to his and instantly regretted it. Their gazes locked and when he stepped forward, she was again in the position of stepping away or standing her ground. She should step away. Excuse herself. Her brain tried to call up details of the lecture she’d given herself at the door, but she came up blank.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked, her tone light so he didn’t think she was panicky.

  He stopped advancing and leaned with one hand on the back of a chair. “I want you to admit you like what you see.”

  “Ha!” She couldn’t help it. The audacity of this guy was incomparable. Who talked like he did? “You want me to stroke your ego? No, I don’t think so.”

  “Dimples, whatever you’re offering to stroke, I’m in.”

  The quip should have earned him a slap, or at least a heel-pivot and a march straight for the door. She should be hoisting her middle finger in the air and leaving. But instead she laughed. Again.

  “Don’t look offended,” he said around an impermeable grin. “I was talking about my hair.”

  “Yeah, right.” She crossed her arms protectively. She’d die before she admitted it, but the thought had crossed her mind. “Because alllll I want is to run my fingers through your luxurious manly mane of hair.”

  Arguing with him was her only defense at this point. He emitted testosterone like a mind-altering drug.

  He didn’t look the least bit insulted as he prowled—yes, prowled—to her. She cleared her throat. Backed up one step, then another.

  “I’m not into players. An-and I know that’s what you are.” Another step back and her ass collided with the back of the sofa. She reached behind her to grasp the edge.

  Tag stood no farther than a foot away, his expression animal, his body making her forget her own name. All that bared skin…

  He kept coming, dipping his head to take some of the inches off his height.

  “You’re into me,” he stated.

  “Am not,” she choked out. Barely.

  “Touch me,” he said. A simple request.

  “What?” Her heart hammered against her ribs, reminding her how she wasn’t ready for this moment. Maybe in the future with some harmless, neutral guy who made her feel attraction instead of chest-exploding anxiety.

  “I want you to touch me. You’ve been eating me alive with your eyes since I opened my door. You look at me like you’re shopping for something you can’t afford.”

  “I can’t afford you.” Her confession was a whisper. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. It was too honest. Too revealing. Wasn’t she supposed to be protecting herself after she’d been thoroughly let down? She hadn’t meant to stand frozen while he made demands. Inappropriate demands. Then she remembered Bree’s advice from yesterday.

  Why not let yourself have some fun, Rach? He looks fun.

  Her eyes danced over his rounded shoulders and pecs, rock-hard abs and narrow hips. He did look fun. He looked like a damn carnival ride.

  “You’re doing it again,” he accused, and this time she didn’t argue, because she was busted. “Touch me.”

  She should say no but heard herself whisper, “Where?”

  He shrugged one round shoulder. “Anywhere you want.”

  She licked her lips, swallowing thickly and watching as if an observing outsider as her fingers breached the gap between their bodies. Then she did what she’d imagined a few seconds ago and touched his ab muscles with the tips of her first three fingers where his smooth, slick flesh was stretched over hard muscle. Slowly, she brushed along the second bump, then the third. Ran her index finger around his belly button and the wiry hair surrounding it, then dragged her blunt nails the opposite direction up his right side.

  When she’d reached the end of her exploration, she hesitantly lifted her face to his chest and saw it expand with one huge breath. Despite the fact she was terrified to look, she met his eyes next and was nearly floored by the responding heat she found there.

  Snow fell rapidly outside Tag’s windows, but between them it was Florida in July. An active volcano. The buzz in the air between them shook her bones. Jetting from her spine to her breasts and lingering in the space between her legs.

  She wondered about the space between Tag’s legs, and with a great amount of effort avoided checking the front of his sweatpants for signs she wasn’t alone in her attraction.

  But she wasn’t alone.

  She could see it in his expression. Sense it in his barely controlled posture.

  “Have your fill?” he asked, his voice a thick, lust-filled growl.

  Not even close.

  “Yes. Sorry. I’m sorry. I have to go.” She slipped away, half surprised Tag didn’t grab her arm, pull her back, and kiss her. Or maybe press her against the door and kiss her. Or throw her on the couch and kiss her.

  Wow. She’d take all three.

  “Dimples,” he called as she jerked the door open.

  “Yes?” she asked without turning, her eyes on the patterned carpet leading to the elevator. To freedom.

  “I was serious about needing your help.”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t turn. She simply nodded, then shut the door behind her, slamming a palm into the elevator button and praying to God Tag didn’t come out to wait with her. At this point, she didn’t trust herself not to lunge at him and have some of the fun she’d been imagining.

  When the elevator took its time, she opted for the stairwell. She jogged down to the next floor, working off some of the unfulfilled desire hammering her bloodstream and arriving at her safe haven to a Great Dane with pale gray eyes.

  That was a close one.

  Too close.

  Chapter 7

  It was an early night for Rachel, and she was relieved to be home before two in the morning. She hadn’t been home before ten in a while.

  In the swanky lobby of Crane Tower, she inhaled the fresh, floral smell that likely came from the vases of real flowers dotting the room. She hadn’t spent much time down here but had noticed as she passed through how residents often loitered in the swanky space. Especially in the evenings.

  It wasn’t hard to see why. Gold carpeting and wide chandeliers, cozy leather furniture in nooks, and a sprawling area in the middle made for an inviting third space. There were plenty of small tables interspersed with seating where one could rest a drink and coaster from the in-house bar.

  She’d never been in a place this ritzy before and wondered how she’d acclimate to non-luxury living when she was done with her dog-sit
ting gig.

  “Dimples.”

  She stopped in her tracks on the way to the elevators. The deep, sexy voice had come from her right. Tag was sitting on an armchair, papers spread over a low table in front of him, in a nook with another matching armchair and a couch. He was the only one in the tiny area and took up most of it.

  But then he took up space wherever he was—even when he was in his massive top floor penthouse threatening her personal space.

  Touch me.

  “Hi.” She sidled over to him, hands in her coat pockets so he couldn’t see the slight shake that worked through her as she remembered touching him. “What are you doing down here?” Then her smile fell as she put two and two together. “Oh, no. Not Adonis. Is he…?”

  “He’s fine.” Tag was quick to shake his head. “I needed a change of scenery. I’m not really an office kind of guy.”

  “Do you have an actual office?” she asked, unable to picture him behind a desk.

  “A big one.” He gestured to the chair next to him. “Join me. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “I should…” She pointed upstairs. “The dog.”

  “Fair enough.” He turned back to his spread of papers and a little ping of regret zapped her when he didn’t argue. Where he was concerned, she couldn’t decide what she wanted. Did she want him to leave her alone or pursue her? Ignore her completely, or continue offering her drinks and flirting?

  The ride up to Oliver’s apartment didn’t deliver an answer.

  She made quick work of changing, tugging her hair from a for-work bun. She slipped into a pair of black yoga pants and a thick fleece, and pulled her coat on. By then, Adonis was dancing by the door, ready for his after-hours jaunt around the block.

  Because she was a lost cause, she brushed her teeth and touched up her lip gloss before heading downstairs. When she strolled by, Adonis ahead of her, she casually turned to smile at Tag only to find he was no longer sitting there. But then had she expected him to wait when she’d turned him down?

  The next day, she recounted the story to Bree in between flinging drinks to eager customers. Bree’s fiancé, Dean, was at the bar to visit, nursing his beer as he listened with half an ear.