One Night with the Billionaire (One Wild Night: Fling Forever #5)

Chapter 1

Ruby

Valentine’s Day at Sexy Nine Magazine feels exactly like you’d imagine: a high-gloss circus where everyone is either deliriously in love, bitterly single, or pretending not to care while wearing lingerie under their work clothes.

I’m in category three today, don’t judge me.

“Ruby, you’re on Bachelor Seven,” my editor calls across the bullpen, waving a folder in the air like she’s signaling a helicopter for rescue. “I need his interview wrapped before Friday, his assistant just confirmed.”

I groan loud enough to earn several sympathetic looks. “Bachelor Seven? The last-minute ghost who won’t even send a headshot? Fantastic. I can’t wait to interview a man who clearly thinks he’s above journalism.”

“You’ll be fine,” she says, slapping the folder into my hands. “Your Valentine’s Desire Issue feature depends on this spread. The ten Sexiest Men in the City, don’t screw it up.”

“Thank you for the pep talk,” I mutter as she walks away. “It was truly motivational.”

Behind me, Ava swivels her chair and props her boots on my desk like she pays my rent. Sexy Nine’s resident sex toy tester is wearing pink latex and zero shame.

“He didn’t send a photo?” she asks, leaning closer like I’m holding some state secrets. “A mystery man, I love that. Maybe he’s hideous. Maybe he’s gorgeous. Maybe he’s a sea captain.”

“I don’t think sea captains invest in city real estate,” I say, flipping the folder open.

The contents consist of one Post-it note.

Name: J.C. (full name withheld)

Age: 32

Occupation: Private investor

Notes: Prefers an in-person interview.

That’s it, there’s no location, no assistant signature, just arrogant energy radiating directly off the paper.

Dr. Lana, our in-house sex therapist, glides past with a mug that says Do No Harm But Take No Shit. She pauses when she sees the folder. “Ah. Number seven.”

“Why does everyone say his number like it’s a warning label?”

“Because it is,” Lana replies. “He’s known for being… difficult.”

“Difficult as in picky? Difficult as in rude? Difficult as in you’ll want to lick whipped cream off him, but also strangle him?”

“Yes.”

Great.

I snap the folder shut. “Well, he’ll get thirty minutes. Then I’m done.”

Ava props her chin on her hand. “Thirty minutes is all you need. We’ve seen you charm men quicker.”

I toss a pen at her. She catches it, laughing. “I’m not charming anyone today. I’m going home, eating heart-shaped pizza, and pretending Valentine’s Day was outlawed."

“You say that,” she singsongs, “but fate loves messing with you.”

“Fate can bite me,” I say, grabbing my bag and the folder. “I need caffeine before I stab someone with a candy heart.”

The girls wave me off, and I head for the elevator, ignoring the giant pink decorations hanging from the ceiling. The whole building looks like Cupid exploded.

The hotel bar across the street is dim, warm, and blissfully quiet. It’s a perfect place to decompress, hydrate, and plan how I’m going to bully Bachelor Seven into giving me answers.

I slide onto a stool at the bar, drop my folder, and flag the bartender.

“Vodka soda,” I say. “Heavy on the vodka. Light on the judging.”

He chuckles and starts pouring.

I let my head fall forward onto the polished wood. “Ruby,” I mutter to myself, “why do you always get the weird ones? Why can’t you ever interview someone normal? Like a firefighter who likes puppies?”

A voice beside me says, “You don’t strike me as someone who wants normal.”

I lift my head.

And blink.

And blink again.

Sweet mother of sin.

The man next to me looks like the universe took every fantasy I’ve ever joked about and layered them into one maddening creature.

He’s tall and broad. His dark hair is a controlled mess. He has a strong jaw, and his shirt is unbuttoned just enough to show a solid, tanned chest. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms like he knows exactly how dangerous veins are to women.

His eyes are the killer, though; they are stormy, intense, and focused on me like he’s reading every thought in my head.

“Sorry,” I say, clearing my throat. “Were you talking to me?”

“No,” he says. “I was talking to the vodka.” His lips quirk. “I was definitely talking to you.”

Oh, he’s trouble. Gorgeous, smooth-voiced trouble.

I try to play it cool, but I can feel my cheeks heating. “I’m actually very normal, painfully normal, so normal in fact, I could be a spokesperson for it.”

“You believe that,” he says, “but your eyes say otherwise.”

“My eyes say ‘I’m tired and need more alcohol.’”

He laughs softly. It’s deep, rich, and vibrating right under my skin. “You’re having a rough day?”

“I’m having a Valentine’s Day,” I correct him. “There’s a difference.”

“I can imagine.”

“You really can’t.”

His gaze drops to my folder. “What’s that? Work?”

“Work,” I say. “Annoying, persistent, and possibly cursed work.”

“Cursed?”

“It involves men.”

He grins as if I’ve entertained him. “I like your honesty.”

“Thanks, I practice in the mirror every day.”

The bartender sets my drink down. Mystery man signals for one of his own without looking away from me.

“You celebrating something?” he asks.

“Yes, surviving the day.” I take a sip. “What about you? You look like someone who either conquered Wall Street or broke up with his girlfriend in a dramatic restaurant scene.”

“No girlfriend,” he says. His eyes hold mine deliberately. “I’m not the conquering type either.”

“Mm, sure you’re not.” I take another sip of my drink, my eyes never leaving his.

He tilts his head, studying me. “You sound like you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t believe most men until there’s evidence.”

That pulls a full smile from him. It’s slow, wicked, and the kind of smile that knows exactly what it does to a woman.

“Maybe I’m the exception.”

“Nobody is the exception.”

“Then let me buy your next drink and prove you wrong.”

“Bold.”

“Accurate.”

I take another sip to buy time, because the air between us is doing that sparkly thing that only happens in movies or romance novels or… apparently… bars with expensive lighting.

“What’s your name?” I finally ask.

“Jaxon,” he says. “And you?”

“Ruby.”

He repeats it like he’s tasting it. “Ruby. That suits you.”

His voice wraps around me, low and appreciative, and my entire body reacts way too quickly.

“Careful,” I tell him. “You sound like you’re flirting.”

“I am.”

I choke on my drink. “That’s very forward.”

“Good.” His eyes travel slowly down my body and back up. “I’d hate to be misunderstood.”

I press my thighs together under the bar; my pulse is going wild. This is ridiculous, this is insane, and this is textbook terrible decision territory.

“You’re dangerous,” I say.

“Not to you.” He leans in slightly. “Unless you want me to be.”

My breath catches, holy hell. I should walk away, I know I should definitely walk away.

Instead, I hear myself say, “You don’t even know me.”

“Not yet.” His hand brushes my knee, subtle but deliberate. “But I’d like to.”

I exhale shakily. “And what exactly does that mean?”

“It means,” he says, lowering his voice until it slides down my spine, “I want one night with you. No expectations. No pressure. Just two people who clearly want the same thing.”

My heart stutters.

My body answers before my brain can protest.

I whisper, “You think I want you?”

His smile is pure sin. “I know you do, because I want you, and chemistry like this goes both ways.”

I should run. I should leave. I should be responsible. But his eyes are on my mouth, his fingers skim my wrist, and his breath is warm when he says, “Say yes.”

My sanity snaps like a cheap strap on lingerie.

“Yes.”