Manhattan Billionaires Book 2: Big Bossy Trouble

I’M LYING ON A CLOUD. A silky, pillowy, heavenly-smelling cloud.

Blinking my eyes open, a soft sort of confusion filters through my consciousness. It’s not unpleasant, but… Where am I?

Somewhere nice. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere better than I’ve ever been before.

My eyes drift shut again, and I enjoy the serenity of the moment. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks—months, even. But my limbs are heavy and my body is oh-so-relaxed, and I feel as if I could sleep for an eon. Stresses buzz at the distant edges of my mind, but I ignore them. Whatever problems will emerge—and I know they will—I’ll deal with them later, when I wake up. When I have to leave this oasis of peace.

I feel…safe.

The sound of deep, steady breathing penetrates the haze in my mind, and I turn my head toward it. My eyes slit open, and I manage to make out a shape beside me. A male shape. A muscular shape. A very distinctly naked shape.

Mm…a naked male chest that looks perfect to snuggle up against. Maybe I can just reach over with my hand, run it over that broad expanse of skin, and nuzzle right into the crook of his strong shoulder—

Record scratch.

Uh. Wait—what?

Reality slams into me like a bucket of ice water to the face. I freeze, wide awake. Cold jets through my veins as my skin pebbles like gooseflesh, rasping against the silky-soft sheets wrapped around my body.

I’m in a strange bed with a strange man.

A naked, strange man.

Except he’s not a strange man at all. He’s my boss. Well, he was my boss for the seven excruciating days that just passed.

And—hold on. I lift the edge of the sheet and peek down at myself, my body turning to stone. Every inch of me grows still as the horror of my situation settles over my ice-cold skin.
He’s not the only one who’s naked.

Sucking in a hard breath, my eyes widen as I stare at the ceiling, using my arms to hold the sheet tight to my bare body. A slow, deep breath fills my lungs as I attempt to calm my racing heart, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m in a bed that isn’t my own, there’s a man sleeping beside me, and neither of us are wearing any clothes.

Oh. My. God.

I snake my hands under the covers to make sure, moving slowly so as not to disturb the man sleeping next to me, and yep—topless. But when I reach down, I feel the thin scrap of lace I call panties and let out a breath. And for no other reason than I need to know, I lift the sheet with one hand, sliding my gaze toward his side of the bed. Inch by inch, his arm and side are revealed. His skin is smooth and golden, dark against the white sheets.

My heart thunders, and I don’t know if it’s nerves at being nearly naked next to my billionaire boss, or the fact that he’s male perfection made flesh.

Another inch, and I see the edge of black boxer-briefs. He’s not naked. Neither of us are. My breath runs out in a rush, even if a tiny corner of my heart wilts with disappointment.

Which is insane. The last thing I want to do is have drunken sex with my boss—especially if I don’t even get to remember it.

Turning my head, I take him in. Slowly, second by second, the memories from last night come back to me.

I remember leaving the hospital where my good friend Dani was entering her sixth hour of labor to welcome her new baby boy into the world. I felt a thrill pierce my stomach as Leif Sorensen, Manhattan’s most famous—or infamous—blue-blooded billionaire, suggested we go out for a drink to unwind. Even under the full power of his charm, I knew I should’ve refused. I knew it was a bad idea to give in. But he gave me that smile, that knowing arch of his eyebrow, and honestly, how is a woman supposed to resist?

I’d resisted his magnetism for a week, but I no longer had the shield of our professional relationship.

I didn’t stand a chance.

I remember letting my feet carry me through the revolving glass doors and into the waiting Rolls-Royce on the other side.

Last night, like every other time I’ve seen him, everything about Leif smelled of money. The way his clothes were perfectly tailored to his body, even the plain white tee he wore under his designer sport coat. The way he strode with his shoulders back, gliding through doors that were opened for him as if he were royalty.

Being next to him was like entering a parallel universe I hadn’t known existed right alongside my own squalid existence.

The memories tumble through my head—memories of drinks and shots and laughter. Of low, pulsing music in the VIP section of an intimate jazz club I’d never be admitted to without Leif Sorensen by my side. Of Leif’s hand on my thigh as his breath ruffled my ear. Of the dirty, flirty words that made fire slide all the way down to my core. I remember the moment I decided I’d sleep with him, when he used his thumb to swipe a bead of my drink off my bottom lip, his eyes dark and full of promises.

Something snapped in me at that moment. A thread of tension that’s always kept me on the right side of trouble. Years of discipline, of responsibility, of sacrifice. Burdens piling on top of each other one after the other after the other, finally collapsing under the weight of it all.

I was tired. I hadn’t slept right in weeks and three jobs kept me on my feet for far too many hours a day. This past week was more tiring than most, what with the extra responsibility I took on with Leif’s daughter.

That’s my excuse, anyway.

I’ve always been the reliable one. Until last night.

Last night, I let myself be swept away by the glamour. By the rich-boy smirks. By the knowledge that this would be one night of fun—and one night only.

After all, Leif Sorensen doesn’t date—especially not mere mortals like me. I learned that a long time ago, the first time we met.

Not that he remembers.

For the briefest moment, I stare at the man whose bed I’m sharing. His body is a work of art. As he rests on his back, his chest rising and falling with every breath, I find myself itching to reach over and push a strand of unruly blond hair off his broad forehead.

His full lips are parted to reveal the edge of straight, white teeth. A billionaire’s teeth. He probably spent more money on his smile than I make in a year—and every penny of it was worth it, because his smile last night nearly made my panties spontaneously combust. Male-model-worthy cheekbones give his face a regal air, with a thick fan of lashes resting against his bronzed skin.

Generations of good breeding are sleeping next to me, and I’ve never felt so out of place.

He’s a king. A Scandinavian regent descendent from Vikings—and just as gorgeous the morning after as he was in an alcohol- and exhaustion-fueled frenzy last night. I remember the way his piercing blue eyes looked when he was on top of me, when his hand pinned my wrists above my head.

My gaze slips down the muscular planes of his torso to the carved ridges of his stomach, and all the way down, down, down…

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Then the panic starts.

I, Layla Reynolds, am half-naked in bed beside Leif freaking Sorensen, and I need to get the hell out before he wakes up and realizes his mistake—or worse, asks me to stay.

Sleeping in his bed after a drunken night of debauchery is bad enough. Waking up next to him and seeing those deep, dark-blue eyes open to see me lying half-naked on his bed would be an unmitigated disaster.

I can’t stay here. The memories get hazy after the whole pinning-hands-above-my-head thing. I have this awful feeling I said something mortifying. Or did I fall asleep in the middle of us fooling around?

Stifling a groan, I bite my lip. This is why I don’t usually drink—and especially not when I haven’t eaten or slept all day. It leads to terrible, terrible decisions.

Heart racing, head pounding, mouth tasting of death, I inch my way to the edge of the bed and slip my feet onto the floor. Slithering off the mattress, I try my best not to disturb the sheets. I land in a crouch, arms crossed over my chest to hide my nakedness.

From whom, I’m not sure. The walls might have eyes.

The room looks like it was hit by a tornado. My bra dangles from a lampshade where it landed after Leif took it off one-handed before tossing it over his shoulder. I genuinely didn’t know it was possible to take off a bra one-handed. Last night, I thought it was just about the sexiest thing that had ever happened to me, especially when those broad, strong hands shaped my breasts like he owned me, when his lips touched my nipple and sent electric waves coursing through my blood.

Oh. My. Lord. I fooled around with Leif Sorensen last night. I might have fallen asleep in the middle of it.

I freaking fell asleep in the middle of fooling around with my boss! What is wrong with me?

Breathe, Layla. Step one: gather your clothing.

I scan the room. Bra is on the lampshade; jeans are next to the dresser. I can’t see my top.

Dropping to my hands and knees, I find one sock under the bed. I crawl to the end of the bed, wincing at a sharp pain in my knees. When I glance down, I realize the skin is rubbed raw, and my cheeks flush as I think of the activities that led to that particular injury. “Shit,” I whisper to myself, then freeze when I hear movement above.

The billionaire in the bed shuffles, snorts, then stops.

My heart bangs against my ribs hard enough that I’m worried they’ll crack. I stay on my hands and knees for long, interminable seconds, staring at the lush, abstract-design rug that probably cost more than my entire miserable apartment across the river.

I don’t belong here. Last night was a mistake.

When I hear nothing for what feels like an eternity, I shuffle to the other side of the bed and reach underneath to grab my sock. Then I crawl to the leather-upholstered chair sitting beneath the picture window. There, I find my top. I have to reach under a side table for the second of my socks, grasping it with the very tips of my fingers. When I try to back out, I bang my head against the underside of the table. Objects rattle. I freeze at the sound of more movement in the bed.

I can only imagine the view Leif has of me right now. Who knew full moons happened in broad daylight? My thong sure as hell isn’t hiding anything.

When all I hear are deep, rhythmic breaths, I back out from under the side table. Gathering my clothes under one arm, I hold my breath as I make my way to the sleek, modern lampshade and pluck off the bra dangling from it.

This is a new low.

Even for me.

Finally reaching the bedroom door, I turn the handle.

I don’t know why, but right before I slip through the door, I look over my shoulder—and pause.

He’s too gorgeous for his own good. For my own good. He’s turned onto his side and his body looks carved from bronze, all muscle and taut skin. Three parallel red marks mar the smooth expanse of flesh where my nails dug into his shoulder in the darkest hours of the night.

I scratched red marks into my boss’s skin while he tugged my nipple with those wicked teeth, and then I fell asleep. How utterly mortifying.

What have I done?

Last night was a very big mistake. A terrible lapse in judgment.

His hand reaches toward my side of the bed and—wait, no. It’s not my side of the bed. I need to get out of here.

Completely naked except for the valiant panties that somehow survived last night, I slip out the bedroom door and ignore the pang in my chest when the latch snicks shut behind me. A long breath slips through my lips as I lean my forehead against the door. I feel like I just sprinted the hundred-meter dash.

Last night was an aberration. It can’t—it won’t—happen again.

Firstly, I have responsibilities. I can’t spend nights away from home when what I should be doing is trying to find a permanent job. If I’m going to keep my family afloat, I have to start making more money. This gig with Leif was always going to be temporary, and I’m glad it’s over.

Liar, liar…

Secondly, Leif Sorensen is a different breed. I’ve known this for a long time—six years, to be exact. After our first meeting, I googled his name and came up empty but for a short Wikipedia page on the Sorensen fortune. Generational wealth, it said, first made a century ago when the family first arrived in America.

I didn’t sleep next to a man last night; I slept next to an heir.

To make matters worse, Wikipedia informed me that Leif caused a stir in his twenties by defying his parents to start his own real estate development business. It has since grown to be one of the largest companies of its kind in the northeast.

He’s an heir and a CEO, and according to the Forbes articles I’ve read over the years, he’s a ruthless one at that. His company’s success has been explosive, and most analysts agree it’s because of the single-mindedness with which Leif attacks every business deal. He’s much the same in the way he pursues women. Lots of women.

Oh, but in his private life, he’s a picture-perfect father who dotes on his daughter—a fact that I didn’t quite believe until I saw it with my own eyes.

In the years since our first meeting, I’ve seen his name in the papers countless times. If he’s not acting debauched and reckless, he’s cutting multi-hundred-million-dollar deals and growing his fortune. The man has a nose for business like no one else. He’s unmerciful, bloodthirsty, and attractive enough to have women lining up to be corrupted by him.

I didn’t think I would be one of them.

The best thing for me to do is get out of here and never look back. I live in the real world, where people have jobs instead of multi-million-dollar inheritances and even bigger net worths. A world where others depend on me. Where my sister’s future rests squarely on my shoulders. Where my grandparents’ home might get taken away from them unless I pull a rabbit out of my hat and save it.

People like me don’t sleep with people like him—and if they do, it’s just for one night. Just a bit of fun.

I didn’t even get that, because I freaking fell asleep.

With shaking hands, I slip on my bra first, then tug on my top. My clothes are wrinkled and smell vaguely of alcohol and Leif. But there’s not time to think of that. I need to get out of here, get home, forget this ever happened.

Tiptoeing on polished hardwood floors, I make it down the hallway into a vast, cavernous space. My chest constricts at the sight of the clean, white lines of the contemporary furniture, the huge windows overlooking the chaos of the Manhattan streets, the splashes of colorful art displayed on pristine white walls.

I’d kill to own a space like this. Hell, I’d kill to plan a party in this space. It was made for entertaining, but judging by what Leif has told me, it’s basically where he rests his head after working too late to go home.

Or, reading between the lines, where he brings women to hook up with.

A group which now includes yours truly, the Queen of Bad Decisions.

When I exhale, I know this place will never be mine—neither this four-bedroom penthouse, nor the six-bedroom townhouse on the Upper West Side that Leif calls home with his daughter. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about billionaire real estate moguls in the past week, it’s that they own multiple Manhattan properties. One isn’t enough, apparently, when the rest of us struggle to give our slumlords enough money for rent every month.

Focus, Layla. You’re trying to escape.

On the huge, smooth stone countertop, I see my purse. It’s a knockoff Michael Kors shoulder bag that I got from a vendor in Chinatown. The fake leather is worn and flaking, the strap hanging on by a thread. Amidst all this understated opulence and evidence of wealth, it looks completely out of place.

Half its contents are spilled out onto the gleaming marble countertop. Last night, Leif tore the bag off my shoulder and tossed it halfway across the room right before hauling me over his shoulder to carry me to bed. It was an appropriate prelude to the whole one-handed-bra-removal thing. Very macho and funny and sexy—or at least it was to my addled brain.

Now, as my throat tightens and I stuff the contents back into my purse, it doesn’t seem so hot and hilarious. He could have cracked my phone screen. That might be inconsequential to someone with commas in their bank account, but it would be devastating to me.

Once I have my things, I stab my feet into my sneakers and angle for the door. I remember thinking the bouncer wouldn’t let me into the club last night in my stained and torn Nikes when it looked like sky-high stilettos were a part of the dress code—then I realized Leif Sorensen had his arm around my shoulders. I could have worn faded Crocs and that velvet rope would’ve still opened for me.

I pause, wondering if I should leave a note, then quickly dismiss the thought. The best thing for me to do is slip away and never speak of this to anyone. I’ll lock the memories of last night into a vault, only to be taken out and looked at in the darkest hours of the night.

I open the door.

…and there’s someone on the other side.

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