My Big, Fat, Single Billionaire Daddy (Big, Fat Bigwigs #5)

Chapter 1

Jess

The bar of the dimly lit Manhattan spot screams “try-hard” with its subway tile backsplash and hanging plants connected by string lights. It’s the kind of place where a beer costs thirty dollars and they call it “craft.”

I shake off the thought.

Old habits.

“You good?” Ethan asks, sliding onto the barstool next to me. My brother has that perpetual paramedic energy. Always checking vitals, even when the only thing dying is my social life.

Almost everyone I know is either married or engaged. Sabrina bagged a billionaire. So did Tatiana.

I can’t even bag groceries without the cashier judging my wine-to-veggies ratio (thank god for self checkout). But sure, I’m totally fine being the eternal single friend. The one they’ll eventually stop inviting to couples’ dinners because I ‘wouldn’t be comfortable.’

Yep, just fine and dandy.

“I’m golden,” I lie, fiddling with my phone case. “Just living my best unemployed life.”

“You’ll land something soon,” Ethan says. “Your port is solid.”

Right. My portfolio. A digital graveyard of content that once got millions of views and now gets... crickets. The algorithm changed. The trends shifted.

And me? I didn’t shift fast enough.

Story of my life.

I shrug. “Sure. Any day now. I’m beating them off with a stick. Of dynamite.”

“That’s the spirit.”

The truth is, I only said yes to drinks tonight because I’ve been saying no for five years.

Every casual invite, every group gathering, every “just come grab drinks” text from Ethan that I knew would include Marco Fiore.

I’ve dodged them all with increasingly unbelievable excuses.

Prior commitment. Deadline. Migraine. That thing where you suddenly remember you have to reorganize your spice cabinet alphabetically.

All because of one Vegas night five years ago that I still think about when I’m trying to fall asleep. One night... the day before Marco Fiore was to marry someone else.

Marco Fiore. Ethan’s billionaire best friend.

Yes, another billionaire.

You’d think I’d have enough of them after seeing what Sabrina and Tatiana went through with theirs.

But Marco Fiore... the man I had approximately four hours with under circumstances I’m still not entirely sure were real.

It’s not like anything happened, to be honest. We didn’t even kiss.

But we... connected. Or at least, that’s what it felt like.

Probably a drug-induced connection, to be fair.

Still, tonight, for reasons I can’t fully explain even to myself, I decided to stop running.

Maybe it’s because I’m tired of hiding. Maybe it’s because my bank account is so anemic that even my dignity is negotiable. Maybe it’s because some self-destructive part of me wants to prove I can sit in the same room as him without combusting.

Spoiler alert: I’m about to combust.

Ethan flags down the bartender. “He’s a good guy, Jess. I know you’ve only met him a couple times, but you two should actually talk. He’s—” He pauses, something flickering across his face. Concern maybe. “He’s been through a lot. Could use a friend who isn’t me.”

Translation: Marco’s wife died two years ago and Ethan thinks we should be friends. Sure. I’ll just casually befriend the drop-dead gorgeous man I’ve spent half a decade dodging. Totally normal. Nothing awkward about that at all.

Great with emotional support. That’s what my LinkedIn summary has been reduced to. From “Senior Marketing Consultant, 500K+ Social Following” to “Great with Feelings, Apparently.” The algorithm giveth, and the algorithm taketh away.

I paste on a smile. “When’s he getting here?”

“Any minute.” Ethan checks his phone. “Don’t be weird.”

“I’m never weird.”

He snorts. “You once hid in a bathroom for forty-five minutes because you thought a guy from your building was at the same restaurant.”

“That was strategic avoidance, not weird. Influencer life, baby.”

“You climbed out a window.”

“Ground floor window. Barely counts.”

Before Ethan can continue cataloging my greatest hits of social anxiety, I have a moment of pure inspiration. Or insanity. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

I pull up my photos and find the meme I made last week during a late-night spiral.

It’s a screencap of Marco from some restaurant industry article, looking unfairly good in a white chef’s coat, with the eye-catching caption I came up with: “Mr. Panty-Wetting Marco.” I thought I was hilarious at 2 AM.

Now, sober and in public, it’s less funny and more incriminating evidence.

On a whim I AirDrop it to Ethan.

His phone buzzes. He glances down, reads it, and nearly chokes on his water. “Jesus Christ, Jess.”

“What? It’s accurate branding.”

“Down girl.” He’s laughing though, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

“I prefer ‘unhinged in an endearing way.’”

“You didn’t send that to anyone else, did you?”

I shrug. “Nope.”

My brother stands. “I’m hitting the bathroom before he gets here.”

“Already? We just got here.”

He smiles. “When nature calls...” He turns away, but says over one shoulder: “Try not to embarrass yourself in the next three minutes.”

“No promises.”

He leaves, and I’m alone with my thirty-dollar beer. I should delete that meme. I should probably delete my entire camera roll, if we’re being honest.

I’m about to do just that, but then I see him.

Marco Fiore, walking through the door like he’s starring in one of those ‘the most interesting man in the world’ commercials.

Charcoal henley that fits just right, dark jeans, hair slightly disheveled in a way that probably takes effort but looks effortless.

He’s tall. Why is he so tall? And why does he move like that, all easy smile and controlled grace?

Hook idea: “When your brother’s hot friend walks in and you remember why you’ve been avoiding him for five years.” Cut to me, spiraling.

Except I’m not making content anymore.

I’m just spiraling.

For free.

He spots me. Nods. Heads my way.

Shit shit shit.

I suppress the urge to pull out my compact cosmetic case, and manage a wave.

Not a cute wave. Not a casual “hey there” wave. A full-on pageant wave, like I’m on a float in a parade.

Kill me.

Kill me now.

My face goes hot. I can feel the blush creeping up my neck, one of those full-body flushes.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I need backup. I need Ethan. I need literally anyone else here to dilute this moment.

I hold down the voice-to-text button and whisper into my phone. “He’s here! Hurry! Don’t leave me alone with him... because I might just climb him like a tree!”

Did I just say that? Whoops.

Well he’s my brother, he’ll understand.

Siri, that traitorous digital witch, helpfully converts my desperate plea into text.

On maximum brightness.

Just as Marco sits down next to me.

“Jessica,” he says, and his voice is even better than I remember. Low, a little rough, with just enough warmth to make it dangerous. “Good to see you.”

I’m staring at my phone screen in horror. The text is RIGHT THERE, glowing like a beacon of my shame:

“He’s here! Hurry! Don’t leave me alone with him... because I might just climb him like a tree.”

Swipe. Nothing happens. I’m blinking rapidly, trying to blink away sudden tears of embarrassment. My face feels like an oven.

Swipe again. Still nothing.

Press the button. Wrong button. Volume goes up.

“No no no no,” I mutter, jabbing at the screen like that’s ever helped anyone in the history of smartphones.

Marco, because the universe hates me, glances down at the screen.

He reads it.

I blink away enough tears to watch him read it.

Time stops.

The bar goes silent.

Somewhere in the distance, a violin plays a sad song.

Then his hand reaches over, warm and sure, and he presses the side button. The screen goes dark.

“There,” he says, sliding my phone back across the bar. “Crisis averted.”

Can the earth please just hurry up and open? As in swallow me whole?

Right now?

Or maybe I can go back in time and tell teenage Jess that yes, avoiding all human contact forever is a perfectly valid life strategy.

“I can explain,” I start, then realize I absolutely cannot explain.

“Trees are seasonal,” Marco says, completely deadpan. “I’m year-round.”

I blink, and wipe away a tear. Did he just...

“Also,” he continues, “I talk to my calendar like it’s a person as well. So we’re even.”

A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. It’s not a cute laugh either. It’s the kind of laugh that turns into a snort, which makes me laugh harder, which makes me blush harder, which puts the full catastrophe of my existence on display.

“I hate technology,” I manage.

“Technology seems to hate you back.”

Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve climbing under the bar (or him), phones start pinging all around us.

Mine buzzes. Marco’s buzzes. Somewhere behind us, another phone chimes.

I look down.

“AirDrop: ‘Mr. Panty-Wetting Marco.jpeg’ sent to FioreHQ-iPad (Jag), Marco’s iPhone, and 3 other devices.”

“How is that even possible?” I demand, glaring at my phone like it personally betrayed me. Which it did.

Oh God. Oh no.

When I was having my little panic attack and button-mashing like I was trying to unlock a cheat code, I must have activated AirDrop mode.

Because of course I did.

Because the universe looked down at this exact moment and thought, “You know what would be super extra hilarious?”

I would like to be struck by lightning now, please. Or a meteor. A small, targeted meteor that only takes out me and my phone.

Is that so much to ask?

My face feels even hotter than before, if that’s possible.

Marco picks up his phone. I watch in slow-motion horror as he taps Accept. I consider trying to grab the phone out of his hand to stop him.

But it’s too late.

He looks at me stunned, then back at the phone. And then grins widely.

Then he saves it.

He actually saves the meme.