by Elise Faber
Bad Night Stand
Billionaire’s Club Book 1
Elise Faber
BAD NIGHT STAND
BY ELISE FABER
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
BAD NIGHT STAND
Copyright © 2018 Elise Faber
ISBN-10: 1-946140-03-1
ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-03-6
Cover Art by Jena Brignola
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
To those with a past. We don’t have to let it define us.
One
“If you were a chicken, you’d be impeccable.”
I swirled the sip of rum and Coke in my mouth in an effort to not spit it all over the bar.
Then I swallowed carefully and rotated my head so I could see my friend Seraphina on the next stool over. She was currently holding court over a group of men.
Beautiful, tall, thin, and with a pair of boobs that could knock someone out—quite literally, they had once rendered a man unconscious. Okay, well, the sight of her impressive cleavage had caused the man to do a double take and promptly run into a large and extremely hard brick pillar in this very bar, but the point was still there. Seraphina was goddess gorgeous, and she was my very best friend.
“Get it?” the man who’d elbowed his way to the front of the crowd surrounding Seraphina asked. “Im-peck-able.”
“She gets it,” I muttered. “It’s just so horribly im-peck-able that only an idiot like you would dare use it.”
Seraphina’s lips turned up at my caustic complaint.
“Hush, you,” she murmured before raising her voice to address the man. “Puns. I do have a certain . . . fondness for them.” Her reply started him talking, drowning on about different languages and double meanings. It might have almost been admirable, the sheer quantity of words orally puking all over our ears, if it wasn’t so sad and pathetic.
Whew.
I took another sip of my drink. A bigger one because . . . bitter much?
“I’m sorry,” Seraphina whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “I don’t know why this always happens.”
“You’re Barbie,” I said, bumping her arm with my shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”
My friend had that elusive je ne sais quoi. Unspoken charisma that drew men to her like flies to honey.
And if I was being honest, sometimes that made it hard to be her friend.
I didn’t mind being in the background; I preferred it, actually. Given too much attention, I froze and inevitably made a fool out of myself.
But drawing a crowd of slavering men every time we went out made it difficult just to have a drink with my best friend, never mind a full meal.
“I’m sorry,” she said again when Bad-Pun was displaced and another man slid forward in an attempt to claim Seraphina’s attention. “I honestly thought the jacket would help.”
I grimaced. “The jacket is what’s doing it, I think.”
A bomber made of black leather, it hit just beneath her breasts and managed to emphasize both the bounciness of that particular portion of her anatomy and the slimness of her waist.
“Next time, drinks at my place and takeout.”
I saluted her with my glass. “Agree completely.”
“Should we go?” she asked, tilting her head toward the door.
“No.” I nodded at the Y-chromosomes dotting the space around her like flowers in a planter bed. “Prince Charming may be here.”
One blond brow rose. “I doubt it.”
“You’re the one looking for a happily ever after.” I nudged her arm with my own again, knowing my friend was a romantic and, despite her beauty, also very lonely. It was hard for her to find someone who saw her as more than the sum of her parts.
And Seraphina was desperate to be more for someone.
“I’m not so sure happily ever after exists,” she said.
“Oh, it definitely exists.” I held her stare, willing her to believe.
Because happily ever after had to exist.
For some people.
Of the goddess variety.
Because if Seraphina couldn’t find it, then what chance in hell did I have?
Not that I was looking, thank you very much.
I was just fine with my laptop and my cozy socks and my books.
“Now get on finding that HEA,” I said, using the code word from our favorite genre of books—romance, of course. Because what the heck was life without fictional eight-packs and alpha males who actually cared about the women they slept with?
Seraphina bit her lip and I narrowed my eyes at her. “I’ll be here to quip nastily about all the bad pickup lines your prince tosses your way.”
She laughed, leaned her head against mine. “You’re the best.”
I smiled, leaned back. “I know.”
Seraphina turned back to her admirers and I pulled out my phone, half reading the latest release from one of our favorite authors, and half listening to my friend charm the socks off everyone around her.
“You’re a good friend.”
The male voice sent a shiver from my head to my toes. It was honey, warm and languid as it slid down my spine and sent my blood pumping.
Which was very, very dangerous.
I sighed. This was always the worst tactic, the most underhanded masculine effort to get my friend’s attention.
Going through the slightly-rumpled, cute-but-definitely-not-gorgeous, exceptionally-clumsy best friend.
It sent my inner sidekick radar on full alert.
Mostly because I’d been hurt this way before.
So “mmm-hmm” was the only thing I said in response.
“Jordan.” A hand appeared directly in front of my face, unfairly positioned between my booze, my book, and my eyes and mouth.
I huffed and finally looked up.
Then promptly felt my lips fall open. Because—holy fucking shit—this guy was gorgeous. Way out of my league, of course. But blond and blue-eyed and hard and tall and ripped. He brought every single Thor fantasy to life—the short-haired, shorn, lightning-bolts-on-the-side-of-his-head version.
Which, face it, was obviously the better variety.
He wore a pair of slacks and a gray button-down that was so sinfully tight around his biceps I half expected it to burst open. I studied those seams for signs of wear. I mean, a girl had to watch out for the rest of humanity, right?
>
Unfortunately for me, the shirt stayed in place and the signature lightning bolts weren’t present in Jordan’s hair, but his pants were so tight that his hammer—
I shifted on my stool, thighs unconsciously pressing together as blood pooled there.
Which was the exact moment that I remembered he wasn’t there for me.
Damn.
He radiated that same allure as my best friend. Wasn’t life just perfect sometimes? A gorgeous redhead was perched on the stool behind him, leaning forward in an almost obscene pose in order to compete with Seraphina’s cleavage.
She couldn’t, of course.
But it wasn’t just one woman vying for his attention. No, they were dotted around the room, coquettishly blinking at him, crossing and uncrossing legs, adjusting outfits. Even the bartender—female, brunette, beautiful—had chosen to polish glasses two inches from his right elbow.
He was movie star handsome and he . . . was perfect for Seraphina.
“Abigail,” I eventually made myself reply, putting my hand out to shake his.
It wasn’t disappointment curling around my stomach. It couldn’t be, not when Jordan was so stratospherically far out of my league.
He grinned—nice smile, of course—and shook my hand. I suppressed the zing of pleasure that coursed through me at the contact. Instead, I pulled back and hitched a thumb over my shoulder. “Her name is Seraphina. She likes cosmos and hates cheesy pickup lines, despite her kindness in accepting them.” I decided to throw him a solid because, really, they were absolutely perfect for each other. “Talk to her about how much you love CSI.”
I tucked my phone into my purse, grabbed my drink, and drained it.
“I hate CSI,” he said, brows pulling down.
“If you want a chance with her, you might want to discover a newfound love for it.”
My legs took a long time to reach the ground—short people problems—but luckily they’d made contact with the wooden surface before Jordan spoke again; otherwise, they might have kept on slithering until I was ass-down on the sticky floor.
“I don’t want a chance with her,” he said. “I want a chance with you.”
My eyes flew up, and I couldn’t help my breath from catching. I wanted that, too. A horizontal, writhing chance. Or hell, vertical. Semi-reclined. I’d take any of it.
My body was very aware of exactly how hot he was.
But then I remembered reality.
“I’m the best friend,” I said and lifted my chin, forcing my words to be matter-of-fact. I’d been through this before. “You might be fuckable to the nth degree and perfect for Seraphina, but I refuse to set her up with a liar.”
In a movement too quick for my brain to process, my stool was shoved to the side and I was pinned against the bar, heavy hips pressing into me, a hard chest two inches from my mouth.
Seraphina whipped around at the movement and I could just see her over Jordan’s shoulder, her blue eyes concerned.
“Hi, Seraphina, I’m Jordan,” he said, calm as can be, gaze locked onto my face then my eyes when mine invariably couldn’t stay away. “I’m going to borrow your friend for a minute.”
“Abs?” she asked, and I knew she’d go to bat for me right then and there if I needed her to.
“Weasel or no?” I managed to gasp out. For some reason, I couldn’t catch my breath.
Not that it had anything to do with Jordan.
No, it had everything to do with him.
“Weasel?” he asked.
I shook my head, focused on my best friend. Weasel was our code name for the men trying to weasel, quite literally, their way into my pants and then into hers.
I was just about ready to say fuck it—or me, rather—even if Jordan was a Weasel. He smelled amazing. His body was hard and hot against mine.
And it had been way too long since I’d had sex.
“No chemistry on my part—” Seraphina began.
“Your friend isn’t who I’m attracted to,” Jordan growled out. “You are, and it’s fucking pissing me off that you don’t believe that.”
Two
The woman was certifiable. How could a man even look at her friend when he could have her?
Silky brown hair, curves for days, lips that screamed to be kissed.
She was Jordan’s every teenage fantasy come to life . . . and somehow she thought that he wanted her friend.
Insanity.
The friend, Sarah-something, nodded at him and he took advantage, tugging Abigail closer as he led them to the dance floor.
He didn’t dance as a habit and certainly not after twelve long-ass hours in the office, which had been preceded by several weeks of the same. His workload was crazy at the moment. It had to be because he didn’t trust anyone else with the specific details of the buyout.
Oh, he might let them do the work, even knew the company couldn’t survive if he micromanaged every detail.
He just waited until they went home to double-check every single contract and calculation.
Jordan hadn’t spent the last decade building his technology development firm only to be careless with the details in the home stretch.
And this was definitely the home stretch.
The beach, the surf, and a quiet house where he could get back to invention rather than management was his dream.
He was almost there.
Which meant he could stop and smell the flowers, right?
Or at least a woman who smelled like one.
Abigail fit into his arms perfectly, the top of her head coming just beneath his chin, her face pressing against his chest. He’d have to bend a bit to take those lips, but Jordan had the feeling it would be worth it. Plus, she smelled fucking incredible. Like a tropical island—floral with just the hint of the sea. His fantasy come to life.
She stepped on his foot.
Deliberately.
He smiled, loosening his grip as he glanced down at her. “Problem?”
Her eyes flared in annoyance, and Jordan had to give himself a mental slap to not kiss her right then and there. Those eyes were something special. Streaks of caramel and dark chocolate, gray and green and blue.
He’d never seen a pair of irises so unique.
And they were partially covered by narrowed lids as Abigail glared up at him.
“Why are you doing this?” she snapped.
Jordan grinned. “Why am I holding a beautiful woman in my arms?”
She stomped his foot again. “I’m not beautiful.”
He snorted.
“I’m serious!”
“So am I,” he whispered, bending so that his lips just brushed the top of her ear.
Her cheeks went pink, her lips parted, and her body wavered, leaning against his before pulling away. She was fighting him, but not because she didn’t want him. There was something else underneath, an edge of panic that reminded him of a spooked horse.
“Shh,” he said. “Let’s just dance.”
“But—”
He planted his feet, grasped her shoulders, and pulled her a full foot away from him. Enough to clear his head, enough to give her some distance if she truly did want to get away.
Crouching a bit to meet those gorgeous hazel eyes when hers wouldn’t rise to find his, Jordan said, “Just a dance, flower girl, but only if you want it.”
He knew he could be pushy sometimes, knew he was a fucking pain in the ass in the business realm, but he wasn’t one of those guys who pressured a woman into being with him just because he wanted her. So what if she was gorgeous and her body was off the charts? Having a woman frightened of him wasn’t a turn on.
Yeah, not really his style.
Plenty of guys in his universe used their power to get laid, but that had always disgusted him. What was the point in a woman being with him if she didn’t want him as much as he wanted her?
Or because she wanted him for his ownership of a multi-billion dollar corporation or his fleet of private jets? Or, worse, because she was s
cared of the repercussions of not being with him?
And so he made sure Abigail knew that she could go.
But he also wanted to make certain that she knew she was the one he found irresistible—not her friend.
“You can go back over there to your drink and your book, side-kicking it with your friend, who may be model beautiful, but is also nothing compared to you.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I’m serious. Your body is the one a man dreams of—curved and lush, not bony lines and hard angles. A man likes to cuddle with something soft, not a coat hanger.”
Abigail glared at him then pointed to her friend and the group around of men surrounding her. “They like it. And Seraphina isn’t bony, she’s got huge—”
His mouth curved. “I’m more of an ass man myself.”
“That I have plenty of,” she said with a rueful smile.
“Dance?” He held out a hand. “I should have asked before I went all caveman on you.”
“Not a Weasel.” She smiled genuinely for the first time. “Definitely not a Weasel.”
Jordan raised his brows, hand out, waiting. “Not sure what that means, but are you going to give a guy a break here?”
She sighed. “I guess I can.” Then she started to turn toward a man sitting by himself at a high top table near them. “Do you want—?”
He snagged her arm, pulled her close. “You’re impossible.”
“Better you know that now, rather than later.” Her lips tipped. “You asked me to give a guy a break.”
“I was the guy needing a break,” he said with a mock glare. Amusement swept through him, especially when she looked up at him with mischief in her gaze.
