Dial B for Billionaire (Curves & Capital #1)

1. Layla

LAYLA

“ T hree months of running the place, and your dad finally made it official!” Serena says, waving her sangria dangerously close to my white dress.

“I know.” I take a sip of mine and feel the tart sweetness dance across my tongue. “But I still can't shake the feeling he'll wake up tomorrow and realize his horrible mistake.”

“You need to stop overthinking and just enjoy yourself for once,” she insists, the deep red liquid sloshing near the rim like it has a personal vendetta against my outfit.

I take a step out of the splash zone before disaster strikes.

“I am enjoying myself,” I protest, though my tone probably isn't convincing anyone, least of all Serena Morgan, who's been my best friend since Northwestern and can read me like one of the medical journals permanently stacked on my nightstand.

I glance around, needing a distraction, and luckily, this place delivers.

The street festival buzzes around us. It's the perfect Chicago evening, with a warm breeze, string lights glowing overhead, and the scent of tacos, noodles, and kettle corn in the air. Crowds move like a lazy current, riding the high of Friday night freedom.

“Layla Carmichael, Chief Operations Officer.” Audrey raises her cup in a toast, her curls bouncing as she gives me a solemn nod. “The title carries a statistically significant increase in corporate authority and a seventy-eight percent probability of ulcer development within the first year.”

I clink my cup against hers, laughing despite the grip my anxiety has on my chest. “Definitely terrifying. It’s like I got handed the keys to a spaceship and everyone’s acting like I’ve had flight training.”

“Oh, please,” Serena groans, rolling her eyes so dramatically she might strain something.

“You’ve been piloting that thing solo for months while he plays mad scientist in the engine room.

I've seen enough corporate disasters at Luminous to know that your dad's company would have flatlined without you. This promotion just makes official what everyone already knows.”

She's not wrong. Carmichael Innovations is my dad's baby, his legacy, and lately he's left all the actual operations to me while he tinkers away in the R&D lab. The promotion just made official what I’ve already been doing—navigating the cockpit while he disappears into the engine room to invent warp drive.

“I want to prove I earned it,” I admit, tracing the rim of my cup. “That it's not just nepotism.”

“Anyone who's worked with you knows that's crap,” Audrey says, adjusting her glasses. “You’re the only one in that building who understands both the tech and the business. Your dad’s lucky to have you. ”

Before I can argue, Serena stiffens beside me and clamps a hand around my arm with surprising force. “Three o'clock. Don't be obvious.”

My stomach flips as I follow her line of sight. Subtlety has never been my strong suit, so I make it weird immediately, whipping my head around like I'm watching a tennis match with one player.

And then I see him.

Holy. Hell.

He’s standing alone near the food trucks, taller than everyone around him, like the universe got bored and decided to make just one guy inconveniently hot.

Dark jeans. Gray henley pushed to the elbows.

Lean, broad-shouldered frame that looks like it was hand-selected from a military romance cover shoot.

And a jawline sharp enough to qualify as a weapon in at least twelve countries.

His hair’s dark, neat but tousled in that infuriatingly perfect way that screams effortless sex.

But it’s his eyes that short-circuit my brain.

They’re cool, focused. Like he’s analyzing the entire scene for classified intel.

And now he’s locked onto me, like I’m the variable that doesn’t fit the algorithm.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, snapping my gaze back to my friends. “He's unreal.”

“Go talk to him,” Serena hisses.

My stomach executes a full Olympic-level gymnastics routine—ten-point-zero on the dismount. My palms go instantly damp, like my body's decided to start its own personal humidity system in honor of his jawline.

“Sure.” I bark a laugh. “Right after I grow a new personality, lose a solid twenty pounds, and stop sweating through this dress. ”

“Layla.” Audrey gives me her calm-in-a-crisis voice. “Your curves are hot. Your brain is hotter. He’d be lucky to breathe the same air as you.”

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “He probably wasn’t even looking at me.”

“He was definitely looking at you,” Serena insists. “I swear on my entire collection of vintage Louboutins.”

“He was not—” I glance again.

He's watching me.

Holy shit.

Our eyes lock.

Everything around us—the music, the crowd, the flutter of paper lanterns—fades to white noise.

I forget how to breathe. My heart thunders in my ears, but everything else dims, like someone turned down the volume on the world and cranked him up to full blast. His lips curl, just slightly. Not a smile. Not smug. Just… intrigued.

“He's absolutely looking,” I squeak. “What do I even do?”

“You walk over there and use your words,” Serena says, already plucking my cup from my hand. “Now. Before I catch fire from secondhand lust and they have to report a spontaneous human combustion to Wright Media.”

“You're all insane,” I mutter.

Audrey shrugs. “It's a festival. Talking to strangers is legally allowed. I checked the municipal code.”

With a deep breath, I smooth my hands over my hips and take a step forward before I can overthink it.

Each step toward him feels like balancing on a wire strung over a shark tank. He watches me come, that same steady, unnerving attention in his eyes. When I finally stop in front of him, I swear the air shifts, like the oxygen molecules are rearranging themselves around us.

Up close, he's even more devastating. Those steel-blue eyes lock on mine first, steady and unblinking. Like he’s double-checking I’m real before the rest of me even registers.

It throws me off balance, a strange gravity pulling me toward him, making it harder to think straight.

My usual arsenal of confident one-liners evaporates like raindrops on hot pavement.

I can’t speak. I’m just standing in front of him. Staring.

His eyes dip. Slow, deliberate. He takes in the curve of my hips, my belly, the shape of my dress, the flush rising in my chest, the shoes on my feet.

But he’s not leering. Not rude or crude.

He seems almost analytical. Like he's gathering data for some private calculation, and I’ve become the only thing worth studying.

My breath catches. My brain? Offline. Fully crashed.

And then, because my mouth never got the memo... it opens.

“You have a very symmetrical face,” I blurt.

Oh no. No, no, no. Why did I say that? Who leads with symmetry? What’s next—complimenting his hair follicles? Maybe I could comment on his teeth, suggesting he has amazing flossing skills like I’m some sort of deranged dentist? Jesus. Someone muzzle me.

There’s a pause. Just long enough for me to seriously consider faking a coughing fit and running.

Then he laughs—an actual, full-body laugh that makes his eyes crinkle and reveals a devastating dimple in his left cheek that should come with a warning label.

“Thank you?” he says, voice deep and rich, like velvet-dipped bourbon poured over gravel .

“I just meant… it's a compliment. In, like, evolutionary biology terms. Symmetry equals attractiveness.” I nearly reach out to touch his jaw but catch myself. “Oh god, never mind.”

Still smiling, he shifts his weight, stepping in just a little.

The crowd surges around us, and suddenly he’s close .

Six inches of space, maybe. I can smell cedar and something warm underneath, like sunbaked leather.

My brain short-circuits again. “So… was this your idea, or are your friends holding something over your head unless you say hi?”

I let out this weird half-giggle, half-scoff. “What? I don’t even have friends. I just walk up to attractive strangers for fun.”

“I’m good at reading people,” he says, a little amused. “You might not claim to have friends, but the two women behind you are giving off very ‘mission control’ energy.”

I glance back. Serena and Audrey are failing spectacularly at pretending not to stare. Serena gives me a thumbs up so enthusiastic she nearly takes out a passing reveler. I wince.

“OK, fine. Maybe I have one or two,” I mutter. “But subtlety isn’t really in their skill set, but they mean well.”

“No kidding.” He steps a little closer, and my skin prickles with awareness. His voice drops just enough to make my breath catch. “Do you usually take their advice?”

“Only when it involves symmetrical men and fermented fruit.”

That earns me another smile. A real one this time, transforming his face from merely handsome to absolutely breathtaking.

“What are we drinking?” he asks .

My heart stutters, like it's forgotten the basics of maintaining a steady rhythm. Maybe I should be concerned about that, but I'm too busy trying not to stare at his mouth.

“Sangria. The good kind. Spanish. Possibly lethal. Definitely responsible for my sudden ability to form sentences around you.”

“I'm more of a scotch man, but I've been known to indulge in the occasional sangria if the company’s right.”

The way he says it sends heat sliding down my spine, pooling low in my belly. My mouth goes desert dry.

“We're celebrating,” I say, suddenly shy again, acutely aware of his height, his presence, his… everything. “I just got promoted.”

“To?”

“COO.”

“The person tasked with making everything run smoothly.” His eyebrows lift, genuine surprise crossing his features. “Impressive.”

“It sounds fancier than it is.” I fidget with the hem of my dress. “Mostly, I just keep the lights on while the real geniuses create things.”

“I doubt that.” He studies me, head tilted like he's trying to figure out what kind of puzzle I am. I like it more than I should. “Intelligence like yours doesn't hide well.”

Before I can ask how he could possibly know about my intelligence, a man in a navy suit appears beside him like he was conjured from thin air.

“There you are,” the newcomer says. “Tokyo’s pushing back on terms. Dominic wants to call in thirty.”

The shift in him is instant. So fast it knocks the air out of me.

One second he’s relaxed, almost playful.

The next, it’s like a switch flips. His posture sharpens.

That easy smile disappears. And suddenly, I’m not talking to the intriguing guy by the tacos.

I’m looking at someone powerful. Controlled. Dangerous, in a boardroom sort of way.

His spine straightens. Shoulders back. His eyes? Steel. Cold and focused, like he’s locked back into whatever high-stakes orbit he just fell out of.

Then he looks at me again, and the hardness fades just a little. Regret flickers behind his eyes. “I’m sorry. Business emergency.”

“Of course,” I say, already trying not to look disappointed. “Go save Tokyo.”

The other guy turns, already disappearing into the crowd.

But he doesn't follow. He stays still, watching me. For a second, I think he’s going to say something else, but then he just... hesitates between staying and going.

Then, unexpectedly, he pulls out his cell. “Can I get your number?” he asks, voice low, with just a trace of urgency threading through it. His eyes flicker between mine, and it’s as if every heartbeat stretches our moments together into an eternity.

I swallow hard. The air feels thick with everything unspoken. “You want my number?” My heart races, doing an absurd dance in my chest. This isn’t a rehearsal. This is the script of all my fantasies colliding with real life, and it’s too chaotic to process.

“Yes,” he says simply, handing me his phone. “I’d like to call you.” Something about the way he says it—deliberate, certain—makes me think he isn't a man who chases often.

“OK. ”

I type fast, nerves jangling. My hands are still damp from the heat, the sangria, and him. And I have to grip the device hard, just to keep from dropping it.

“I think that’s it,” I say, more to myself than to him.

“We’ve got to move!” the other guy calls from a few feet away.

“I should go before the vein pops in his forehead.” Before I can double-check the digits, he takes the phone back.

Our fingers brush. Warm skin against mine. Just a sliver of contact, but it sends a jolt up my arm like static and adrenaline made a baby. For one ridiculous second, I think I might actually swoon.

“Wait,” he says, blinking down at the screen. “You didn't add your name.”

I glance at his impatient friend, who’s now tapping the face of his watch.

“I guess you'll have to call me to find out.”

His smile returns. This time with full dimples. “I walked right into that.”

“You did.”

“Good.” His gaze drags over me once more, slow and deliberate. “Gives me a reason to use it.”

Then he's gone, striding into the crowd beside his colleague, disappearing like a mirage.

I just stand there for a second, like someone pulled the plug on gravity. My legs feel like overcooked noodles.

Then I turn and walk—actually, I float—back toward Serena and Audrey, who are waiting by a gelato truck like two giddy gargoyles.

“Well?” Serena demands .

I try to play it cool, but I can’t stop grinning. “I gave him my number.”

Audrey lets out a gasp loud enough to scare pigeons three blocks away.

She’s already pulling out her phone, probably drafting a flowchart for optimizing stranger-flirting success rates.

Honestly, she could write a whole manual.

Not that the boardroom bros ever give her the mic long enough to realize how brilliant she is.

“Well done.” Serena grins as she nods her approval.

“Didn’t get his name. Didn’t give mine either,” I say, grinning wider. “Figured if he wants it bad enough, he’ll have to work for it.”

“Oh my god!” Audrey clutches her chest as if my casual nonchalance struck her like an electric jolt. “Layla! You’re a walking romance novel! This is too good!”

Serena grabs me by my shoulders. “Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?”

“I don’t know. I was just…enjoying myself.”

They both scream.

People stare.

I don't care.

For the first time in forever, I don't feel like the responsible one. Or the awkward one. Or the one who has to play it safe.

Right now? I feel unbelievably alive. And maybe a little reckless. Like I've just lit a match without checking what's flammable around me. But that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight, I'm going to revel in the fire.