My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby (Big, Fat Bigwigs #4)

1. Sabrina

1

Sabrina

V egas.

The land of questionable decisions, blinding neon, and air conditioning set to ‘meat locker.’

My mantra for the weekend: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas… unless it gives you an STD or ends up on TikTok.

So far, so good on both counts. But we’ve only just arrived.

We’re strategically positioned on loungers at Aria’s Liquid Pool Lounge. The bass thumps through my ribcage. Beautiful people drape themselves over every available surface, sipping antifreeze-colored cocktails. It’s less a pool party, more a live-action Instagram feed.

It’s… a lot. The pressure to look effortlessly perfect, the cacophony, the sheer performance of it all. My PR brain automatically starts analyzing the crowd dynamics, the subtle power plays, the brand messaging of everyone’s swimwear choices.

Stop it, Sabrina. You’re off the clock .

Tatiana is fidgeting beside me, adjusting the microscopic red bikini top like it’s rigged with explosives, looking more uncomfortable than I feel.

“Stop fidgeting,” I hiss, handing her one of the potent-looking blue concoction the server just delivered. “You look hot. Own it.”

Rule number one of crisis management: control the narrative.

Though secretly I’m praying that the damn top Jess loaned her doesn’t burst open.

We toast Amara’s promotion, and I gulp my own glass of blue poison. The alcohol hits my bloodstream with pleasant warmth, fuzzing the edges of my perpetual low-grade anxiety.

That’s when I see him .

Okay, wow. Across the pool, holding court in the center of a vortex of equally attractive friends and flanking women, is… a specimen . Tall, athletic build that looks earned , not bought. Wavy dark blond hair styled in that perfect ‘I woke up like this’ messy look that definitely takes some fussing with expensive product. And his eyes… green . Like, really green. Striking.

He’s laughing, and the corners of those green eyes crinkle attractively.

Damn it.

Blondie McTrouble is the kind of effortlessly charming guy my dad probably was before he perfected the disappearing act. The kind that makes warning bells clang in my head even as my ovaries do a little tap dance.

“Holy shit, is that Dominic Rossi?” Tatiana suddenly hisses, yanking me out of my impromptu risk assessment.

I frown. I don’t think she’s talking about Blondie McTrouble, but she’s gazing in the same general direction. Dominic Rossi... is that really his name? I don’t think so. Still, the name is familiar somehow...

“ Where? ” Jess and Amara snap their heads around like meerkats sensing a predator. Or prey.

“Don’t look!” Tatiana hisses, way too late. We are now officially That Group Of Obvious Fan Girls. Smooth.

“Damn,” Jess whispers, practically drooling. “This is the guy who occasionally shows up at your office, Tat? The tabloids don’t do him justice .”

Dominic Rossi… the name finally clicks. He’s definitely not Blondie McTrouble. No, Rossi is a self-made real estate mogul and billionaire, and also close friend of Tatiana’s boss, Christopher Blackwell.

Rossi is, however, in the same group as my guy. Unlike Blondie, however, he looks intense and focused even while relaxing. Not my type. I prefer them… well, less intimidating.

My gaze drifts back to Blondie. He catches me looking and offers a slow, easy smile that hits me straight in the solar plexus. It’s the kind of smile that suggests he knows exactly how good-looking he is and isn’t afraid to use it.

Definitely my type. My problematic type, that is. If hotness had a body, it would be that man.

“He’s looking this way,” Amara stage-whispers.

I quickly look away, pretending to be fascinated by the melting ice in my drink.

Act natural. Blend in. Become one with the overpriced lounger.

The moment of billionaire-gawking passes. Another round of drinks appears. The sun warms my skin, the music pulses, the blue liquid works its magic. I start to actually unwind.

And then, disaster strikes.

Jess, returning from the bar armed with reinforcements, trips over one of her flip flops and executes a perfect face-plant into a passing server. Drinks fly. The server pinwheels.

Tatiana’s lounger becomes the unfortunate landing zone...

She goes down with a yelp, hitting the deck in a tangle of limbs. Her blue drink explodes outward across the deck like a small paint bomb. She scrambles, slipping, and her hands latch onto the nearest solid object, which happens to be the very solid, very tanned legs of Dominic Rossi, who has materialized poolside like some kind of deity of disastrous timing.

“Dominic!” she stutters, trying to push herself up.

Her hand, wet with spilled liquid, slips. She lurches and she throws out an arm to steady herself against his thigh. And in a moment of pure, unadulterated slapstick horror, the back strap of her borrowed bikini top gives way with an audible snap .

Oh. My. God.

Tatiana slaps a hand across her chest, trying desperately to salvage some dignity while simultaneously pitching forward directly into Rossi’s ridiculously sculpted torso.

He catches her, hands gripping her upper arms. The man doesn’t even flinch.

“I’ve had people throw themselves at me before,” Rossi says dryly, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes, “but this is certainly the most colorful approach I’ve seen.”

Tatiana is frozen, mortified. “I—swimsuit—broken—sorry—” she stammers, sounding like a malfunctioning robot.

Rossi, to his credit, handles it like a gentleman. He signals one of his lurking security guys, who looks less like security and more like a retired linebacker, who grabs a crisp white linen shirt from a backpack. Rossi slides the over-sized shirt down over her torso, providing more coverage than the bikini ever did.

“Thank you,” she mumbles, her face bright red.

“So how are you, Tatiana Cole?” he asks. The casual use of her full name seems to snap her back to reality. “The gatekeeper no one gets past.”

“Except you,” she replies softly, her cheeks reddening.

He grins, a flash of white teeth against tanned skin. “Does Christopher know his perfect assistant is in Vegas corrupting the youth of our country?”

Tatiana bristles. “I’m hardly corrupting anyone. And I’m allowed to have a personal life.”

Go Tatiana!

Rossi holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I was joking. I’m well aware that even the most dedicated employees occasionally escape their desks.”

That’s when Blondie saunters over, that trouble-making grin firmly in place. Up close, he’s devastating . Every taut ridge of his abdomen is a merciless provocation, carved as if by some vengeful god determined to test my self-control. Sunlight glides over the defined V leading south of his hips, each muscle flexing with the predatory ease of a man who knows exactly what that body can do.

His skin glows like burnished bronze, begging my fingertips to trace the sweat-slick valleys between those abs... hard enough to grind against, soft enough to bite. He doesn’t just have a muscular body; he’s a living, breathing dare to surrender.

My thighs unconsciously press together.

Focus, Sabrina.

“Dom, aren’t you going to introduce us to your... damp new friend?” Blondie asks, his gaze sweeping over Tatiana before landing on the rest of us.

His eyes linger on me for a fraction of a second longer.

Or maybe I imagined that.

Rossi gestures to Blondie. “Leo Maxwell, Tatiana Cole. Tatiana, this is Leo, a walking HR complaint who happens to be one of my oldest friends.”

Leo clutches his gorgeous chest dramatically. “You wound me. I prefer ‘enthusiastic socializer.’”

Rossi gestures to the other men with them, one quiet, observant guy, and another Italian who looks slightly overwhelmed. “That’s Sam and our groom-to-be, Marco. He’s getting married here tomorrow. Vegas baby.”

Tatiana, regaining her composure, introduces us. “And these are my friends. “Sabrina...”

I quickly offer a hand I pray isn’t clammy.

Leo’s handshake is warm, lingering half a beat too long. I catch a whiff of him: black tea, fig, ozone. My gaze lingers on his lips. They look so... kissable.

Stop it, Sabrina.

“Jess,” Tatiana continues. “And Amara.”

While the introductions are made, I study Leo while pretending to adjust my hair.

Hot hot hot.

Trouble trouble trouble.

Stop it!

“We’re celebrating Amara’s promotion,” Tatiana finishes.

“Congratulations,” Rossi says to Amara, who practically beams.

“Let me buy you ladies a drink,” Leo declares smoothly, his green eyes locking onto mine again. That smile is lethal. He knows it. “To celebrate both Amara’s promotion and the most entertaining collision I’ve ever witnessed in Vegas. And that’s saying something!”

“Oh, that’s not neces—” Tatiana begins, ever the professional.

Jess cuts her off enthusiastically. “We accept! But Tatiana really needs to fix her wardrobe situation first...”

Rossi’s gaze drops briefly to the shirt covering Tatiana, and something unreadable flickers in his expression.

“Our cabana has a changing area,” he offers. “You’re welcome to use it.”

And just like that, we’re being swept into the orbit of a billionaire.