Bad Swipe Bad Swipe (Billionaire's Club #12) - Elise Faber Page 0,37
pizza was gone, a nerdy Sci-Fi horror flick was watched, and . . . then Ben put something else on.
And it was glorious.
Chapter Twenty
Ben
She was asleep next to him, her breathing slow and steady.
Lips reddened from his kisses, her lipstick long since rubbed off. Beautiful and cute and sweet and . . . funny.
That had surprised him as she’d watched the movie, droll commentary interjecting their viewing. She’d been quiet in the theater, and when he’d asked her why, she’d only said that she could talk over previews but never over the sacredness of a movie in a theater.
Either way—both ways—he liked her.
A lot.
He liked her body just as much, her personality to equal measure. Hell, he’d burst out laughing when she’d looked up from her phone as he’d paused his scrolling through the selections on the streaming platform, bent to look over her shoulder, and pointed to the screen, lips curving in a self-deprecating smile, joking, “Magnum. Definitely get magnum.”
“Boys and their penises,” she’d teased, rolling her eyes, and running with the joke.
Because he wasn’t magnum, not that he gave a shit, and when the condoms had arrived, they weren’t either. But he just liked making her smile, even if the joke was at his expense.
Plus, he’d still made good use of the condoms, no matter the size.
After chuckling his ass off when she’d smirked and said, “Big hands. Big . . . Sci-Fi nerd.”
Laughter, so much of it over the last two days, and he knew that his decision to pursue this was the right one.
She was the right one.
He smoothed her hair off her face, smiling as she nuzzled closer, her arms tightening around him. Even sweet in her sleep.
Ben let his eyes slide close, pondered his next move, determined to negotiate the weeks and months and hopefully years ahead with Stef like a business deal and not like he’d normally handle a relationship with a woman.
He wasn’t going to be tentative.
He was playing to win.
He’d just drifted off to sleep when Stef jerked up in his arms.
“Sweetheart!”
“What?” he asked, sitting up next to her. “What’s the matter?”
“Sweetheart,” she said again, spinning in his arms to stare up at him. “We forgot about Sweetheart, and she’s probably hungry and has to go to the bathroom.” Guilt slid across her face. “She’s probably terrified and—”
“Baby,” he said, cupping her jaw, feeling a piece of his heart break off, drift through the air, and float to her. It was hers. And probably not just that one part of it. “She’s fine.”
Stef’s hand clamped over his. “You haven’t been back—”
“My assistant came and picked her up this morning.” He smiled gently. “She’s fine. I need to get her tomorrow”—his eyes flicked to the clock on the nightstand—“or later today, actually. But they’re getting along fine. Claire even said that she hasn’t tried to bite anyone.”
Stef relaxed. “Your assistant is watching your dog?”
A nod as he coaxed her down to the mattress. “Well, technically, she’ll be my newest VP on Monday—tomorrow, that is. The important thing is that she’s fine, Sweetheart is fine, and you can go back to sleep.”
A few blinks, her sleep-hazed and half-panicked mind processing his words.
“Your VP has your dog?”
He nodded, biting back a grin as he smoothed back her hair again.
“Okay,” she murmured, nuzzling close, and it wasn’t three more heartbeats before she was out again.
So fucking cute.
She was less cute in the morning.
Mostly because they were in an argument.
Okay, who was he kidding? She was fucking adorable, dwarfed in his shirt, her arms crossed over her breasts, as one bare foot stomped on the floor.
Fred whined, his food in his dish.
“I’m not bringing Sweetheart here,” he said, for what must have been the fifth time since he’d told Stef he needed to retrieve Sweetheart soon.
“You are.” There that foot went again.
“Sweetheart isn’t good with other dogs.”
“You said she wasn’t good with people,” she pointed out. “But she was good with me, and Fred is the therapy dog at doggy day care. If a pup is having a bad day, they put it with Fred, and he gets them through the nerves.”
“Sweetheart doesn’t have nerves.”
Her nostrils flared. Her lips pressed flat. “Ben,” she said. “I’d like to spend more time with you. That would be easier if our dogs got along. It’s not like you can ask . . .” Her eyes slid to the side then back to his as she remembered Claire’s name. “Claire to dog sit all the time.”