My Big, Fat, Billionaire Bosshole (Big, Fat Bigwigs #8)

Chapter 1 Bree

Bree

Imess with the hem of my borrowed cocktail dress and try not to look like I’m calculating exactly how many months of rent this fabric could cover. Sora swore the wrap style was “universally flattering,” but right now it feels like some big sign screaming I don’t belong here.

Speaking of Sora, she’s vanished into the crowd of the massive Tribeca loft, leaving me clutching a glass of something bubbly. I’m supposed to be her moral support while she networks, but mostly I’m hiding near a sculpture that looks suspiciously like a giant metal uterus.

Art, right?

The keynote starts.

At least it gives me something to stare at besides the women dripping in diamonds.

A polished brunette in a navy sheath dress takes the stage.

According to the printed program, that would be one Elspeth Caine.

COO of... I squint at the tiny font... something-something. My eyes are already glazing over.

She launches into what has to be the most corporate savior TED Talk I’ve ever heard.

I sip my champagne but I’m already tuning out. I catch phrases as they drift past: “transformative impact” and “changing lives” and “leveraging innovation for social good.”

It’s all very noble, very shiny.

But I’ve been in enough of these rooms to smell this particular brand of billionaire philanthropy before. You know, the kind that functions mostly as conscience laundering.

By the time the speaker wraps up with statistics about... patient outcomes? Donor metrics? Honestly I stopped listening three minutes ago... because I desperately need to pee.

I set my empty glass on a passing tray and weave through the crowd, dodging conversations about impact investing and someone’s new yacht.

The bathroom signage is nonexistent, because apparently when you’re this rich you know some special code that guides you to the restroom. Or something.

I spot a discreet door tucked behind a velvet rope and slip through, expecting a hallway. Instead I walk into a private lounge. It’s cozy... you know, the dark leather, low lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the city lights kind of cozy.

Then I spot the single occupant. A man standing by the window with his back partially to me, his jacket off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. He’s tall, with dark hair kept short and precise, and a network of scars tracing the right side of his face that twists the tissue from cheekbone to jawline.

That scar should make him less attractive, but somehow gives him this whole roguishly dangerous look, like a pirate who traded the high seas for a corner office.

He turns when the door clicks shut behind me, with one eyebrow raised in that universal expression of “what the hell are you doing in my space?”

“Sorry,” I blurt. “I was just looking for the bathroom? Or honestly just an exit from hedge fund small talk?”

He doesn’t say anything, just studies me with dark eyes that feel like they’re cataloging every detail for future reference. Then he pulls out his phone and starts thumbing.

“What are you typing?” I ask, because boundaries are apparently not my thing tonight.

“Just telling my security to give you a two minute head start,” he replies, completely deadpan.

I laugh, because obviously he’s joking. Rich people have such weird senses of humor. “Right. Because I’m clearly here to steal the silverware.”

He pockets the phone and picks up a glass of what looks like very expensive whiskey. “What do you think of the gala?”

I shrug. “Meh. All these companies with their grant programs and their ‘we’re changing lives’ speeches. It’s like corporate savior cosplay or something.”

His expression darkens. “Corporate savior cosplay.”

“Yes!” I’m on a roll now. “Like, I get it, the work matters. Helping people is legitimately amazing. But the way it’s packaged?

All these rich people pretending they’ve wiped out suffering from the world for all time.

It’s just... soul-polishing philanthropy.

They get to feel good about themselves and write it off on their taxes. ”

He takes a slow sip of his whiskey. “I see.”

I barrel on. “Honestly they should require name tags at these things so normal people can keep track of who to roll our eyes at.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and I realize that the scars make his expression hard to read. “You think name tags would help?”

“Absolutely. Color-coded maybe. Red for ‘my private jet has a private jet,’ yellow for ‘I summer in places that don’t technically exist on most maps.’”

He’s definitely fighting a smile now. “And what color would you be?”

“Oh, I’d be the one desperately trying to find the bathroom while pretending I understand what I’m talking about.

Speaking of which, do you know where it is?

” I spot a jacket resting on a chair nearby and move closer, because apparently I have zero self-preservation instincts.

It’s a staff blazer, black and sleek, with a magnetic access badge clipped inside the lapel.

I pick it up curiously. “Cute. Even the coats here have corporate identities.”

He watches me with that unreadable expression. “You should probably put that back.”

“Why?” I notice another door beside me, with an entry panel glowing a soft blue. “Bathroom?”

Has to be.

Finally.

I swipe the badge experimentally at the panel.

“Unauthorized staff badge detected,” a friendly automated voice chimes from hidden speakers, sounding like Siri’s evil corporate twin. “Please remain in place while your credentials are verified.”

I freeze. Behind me, a glass wall slides shut with a soft hydraulic hiss, blocking the way out.

“Okay, that’s... that’s a prank, right?” I swipe the badge again, because panic makes me persistent.

“Credential mismatch,” the voice says pleasantly.

“Stupid rich people buildings with their stupid rich people security systems,” I mutter, swiping the badge again for good measure.

He takes another sip of whiskey. “Persistent. I respect that.”

I’m starting to get the distinct feeling I’ve made a terrible mistake. The way he’s watching me, like I’m the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all night. The way he hasn’t moved to help or call off whatever security system I’ve apparently triggered.

The glass barrier suddenly slides back into the wall, but before I can exhale in relief, the exit door beyond it bursts open and two very large men in suits step in.

They both look at me, then at the individual by the window. “Everything all right, sir?”

The man by the window lifts a hand. “It’s fine. She’s my guest.”

“You mean you weren’t joking about security?” I ask weakly.

He just shrugs, that almost-smile playing at the corners of his mouth again.

The security guys exchange a look that says they’ve worked for him long enough to know when he’s being difficult on purpose, and retreat. The door clicks shut behind them.

I very carefully put the badge back on the jacket, my face burning.

He steps close enough that I can smell his cologne. There’s wood, spice, and tobacco notes. So good. So distractingly, inappropriately good. If you put sex in a bottle and labeled it cologne, it would be this. If you—

Just stop right there.

“Next time you want to crash my lounge,” he murmurs, “maybe don’t play with random badges. Security systems tend to be less forgiving than I am. Though I will admit, it’s been a while since anyone was quite this... creative... in their bathroom search.”

Up close, the scars are more visible. Angry twisted tissue that speaks of something violent and painful. But they don’t detract from how stupidly attractive he is.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I tend to make questionable decisions when I have to pee.”

“Questionable decisions are at least entertaining.” He finally smiles, and it’s devastating. “Most people here are too careful to do anything interesting, let alone entertaining.” He extends a hand. “I’m Nico.”

I take his hand because refusing feels rude, considering I’m the one who intruded on his private lounge. “Bree.”

He’s staring at me, and I’m suddenly super aware of every single thing about this moment.

The warmth of his palm against mine, the way his thumb rests just against my wrist where my pulse is probably doing something absolutely humiliating, the fact that we’re still touching even though the handshake portion of this interaction should have ended four seconds ago.

His dark eyes are doing this thing where they seem to be cataloging every detail of my face, and I don’t know whether to be flattered or terrified or both. Probably both.

Definitely both.

Say something, Briana. Literally anything that isn’t just standing here like a malfunctioning android while a devastatingly attractive man holds your hand in his private lounge.

“I should—” I start, then remember my original mission with sudden, bladder-related urgency. “Actually, could you please tell me where the bathroom is?”

“There’s actually one through that door.” He nods toward the panel I’d assaulted with the stolen badge. “Staff access only, but I think we can make an exception for you.”

I notice he hasn’t let go of my hand yet.

Neither have I.

Finally he releases me, and reaches past, close enough that I catch another hit of his cologne. He presses his own badge into the panel and the door clicks open.

“Thank you,” I breathe, already side-stepping toward salvation. “And again, I’m really sorry for disturbing you.”

“Don’t be,” he replies.

I flee into the bathroom before I can do something truly stupid like ask for his number.

The “staff bathroom” is, predictably, nicer than my entire apartment. Marble everything, lighting that makes me look like a functional human being instead of an anxiety-riddled mess, and, most important of all, privacy.

I rush to one of the stalls, because of course there are multiple stalls in the staff bathroom of a private lounge, because rich people can’t just have one toilet like normal staff bathrooms.