Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1) by Max Monroe Page A

bartender confirmed my order with a nod, turning to the glass shelves behind him to grab my scotch. It was fifteen minutes past eight, forty-five minutes later than our agreed upon time, and still no sign of Georgia. I was beginning to think she might have stood me up—hoping that she had, rather than something having happened to her—when Stacey Henderson sauntered up to me and leaned her body into my space with an elbow at the bar.
    “Where’s your date?”
    I grabbed my scotch and the lime as the bartender set it down in front of me, squeezing the juice into my glass before handing the carcass back to him with a smile and a nod. Plucking a napkin from the top of the stack, I wiped the remaining juice off of my palm.
    “Well, hello to you too, Stacey.” I turned to her in acknowledgment, but my body did it under protest. It feared the effects of cross-contamination if it got too close.
    “Your mother told me you already had a date. That’s why you couldn’t come with me.”
    “I’m aware. What I wasn’t aware of was the fact that she had arranged a date with you in the first place. Don’t you think that’s the kind of thing you should be asked directly by a man?”
    She waved the thought away like a pesky fly.
    “If you’re not here with someone—”
    “I am,” I interrupted.
    Her eyes narrowed while mine searched the room nearly desperately, and my brain tried to conjure up an excuse. My face and body portrayed an outward calm.
    “Where is she, then?”
    “The restroom. You know how you ladies are,” I patronized in the name of inserting frivolous, vaguely-insulting conversation into a still-civil exchange. As much as Stacey Henderson was asking for a big ‘go fuck yourself,’ the Mount Sinai Kravis Children’s Hospital was not. “Always running to the restroom to touch up something or other or to relieve your peanut-sized bladders.”
    Stacey scoffed rather indelicately, an effect of too much alcohol too goddamn early in the benefit, and I winced, fearing the turn of events when no one returned from the restroom.
    Then, out of the crowd emerged a frazzled—but stunning —Georgia. Red framed her body from breast to foot, the tight material clinging to her in all the right places. Her tan skin peeked out of a cutout just below her chest, and a matching blood red painted her lips and nails. The only thing missing red was her head, her now blonde locks cascading and curling down and around her slim shoulders and damn near robbing me of the ability to think.
    Worry from her late arrival ravaged her face as she approached the two of us without pretense or fear.
    “Oh my God, Kline, I am so sorry I’m—”
    “It’s okay,” I cut her off, stepping pointedly around Stacey and pulling her into my arms for a hug.
    “I’m just glad you’re here,” I whispered softly into her new hair. Stacey groaned audibly in begrudged response before grabbing her high-priced clutch from the bar and stomping away like a petulant child.
    “Who was she?” Georgia asked, leaning back and glancing over my arm as Stacey dragged ass away.
    “ That was a day-spa-loving version of my cat.”
    Her nose scrunched up adorably as she tried to make sense of my words.
    “Would you like something to drink?” I offered, escorting her the few steps back to the bar with a hand at her back. I felt the warmth at my palm all the way in my dick, the need to touch her having been a palpable thing all day long.
    She smiled, and it lit up her face and mine. “Can I say ‘God yes’ without sounding like a lush?”
    One side of my mouth hooked up in a grin. My cock said she could say ‘God yes’ anytime she wanted, but thankfully, my mouth said, “Sure.”
    I looked away long enough to grab the bartender’s attention and then turned back to her.
    “You look beautiful.”
    She started to smile but stopped herself, the skin between her eyebrows pinching slightly.
    “I’m an asshole. I can’t believe I’m so late. I mean, I