Sexting the Boss (Billionaire Baby Daddies #13)

Chapter 1

LILA

My phone buzzes, and my stomach drops before I even look.

Overdraft Alert.

I don’t have to open the app to know what it says, and I don’t have to open my email to know what’s sitting there, either.

Rent, past due.

I exhale through my nose, lock my screen, and keep my smile on, because the receptionist desk at Cross Enterprises is basically an aquarium and I’m the fish they all get to stare at.

Eight fifty-seven a.m., Monday, and I’m already losing.

A man in a charcoal suit strides past my desk with a coffee that costs more than my groceries. He doesn’t look at me, because men like that don’t look at women like me unless they’re deciding something.

I adjust my blazer, smooth the front of my blouse, and ignore the tiny, petty voice in my head that wants to say, If I wore less fabric, would you see me then?

No. I’m not doing that today.

Today I’m going to be professional, I’m going to be efficient, and I’m going to get through eight straight hours of being Ethan Cross’s assistant without setting anything on fire.

Which is good, because if I lose this job, I’m not “between opportunities.”

I’m homeless.

My inbox is screaming. My calendar is packed. My heels are already pinching, and I’ve only taken two steps from my chair.

I click through Ethan’s schedule again, I check the boardroom reservation, I verify his car pickup, and I scan the notes I typed last night because he’d emailed me at 11:48 p.m. with one word.

Fix.

No hello. No please. No acknowledgment that I’m a human being and not a function.

Ethan Cross isn’t a warm or casual man. He’s the kind of man who looks like he was born in a suit and the suit learned manners from him.

He’s also the kind of man who makes my stupid body react even when my brain is trying to be employed.

Forty-two, give or take. Silver threaded through dark hair, sharp jaw, broad shoulders, and eyes that always look like they know what you look like in your underwear.

I’ve been working for him for eleven months, and I’ve learned two things.

One, Ethan Cross doesn’t miss meetings.

Two, Ethan Cross doesn’t tolerate mistakes.

My desk phone rings.

I answer on the first buzz. “Good morning, Cross Enterprises.”

His voice comes through the line, brief and clipped. “Where is she?”

Not “hello.”

Not “good morning.”

Not “who is this.”

Just that.

I straighten. “This is Lila Bennett.”

Silence for half a second, then, “Where are the revised numbers for the Larkstone acquisition.”

My spine tightens. “In your folder, sir. The updated projections were printed and delivered to your office at 8:41, and I emailed the spreadsheet at the same time.”

Another pause, then a faint shift in his breathing, like he’s recalculating.

“Bring them to the boardroom,” he commands. “Now.”

My eyes flick to the clock.

8:58 a.m.

The board meeting starts at nine.

“I’m on it,” I say, and I don’t let my voice shake.

I stand fast, and my skirt rides up a little as I move, because my hips don’t do “sleek and invisible.” I chose this pencil skirt because it makes me look capable, and it does, but it also makes every step feel like a statement.

People act like curves are an invitation, and I’ve spent years learning how to make them mind their business.

I grab the folder, check that it’s the right one, and start moving toward Ethan’s office.

Two steps in, my elbow bumps the corner of my desk and a pen rolls off, clattering to the floor.

A man near the printer glances over. His eyes track down and back up with the kind of lazy interest that makes my skin itch.

I don’t slow down.

Ethan’s office door is open, and his executive assistant chair is empty, because he never sits when he can pace.

He’s at the window, phone to his ear, suit jacket buttoned, tie perfect, and he’s saying, “No, you’ll handle it,” like the concept of refusal doesn’t exist.

He turns as I enter, and his eyes land on the folder in my hands first, then my face, then lower for a beat that’s too long to be accidental, then back up again.

Maybe I’m just reading too much into things.

He ends the call with one tap and holds his hand out without a word.

I give him the folder, and my fingers brush his for a second.

His skin is warm, but mine is not.

His gaze doesn’t shift. “Larkstone,” he says, flipping it open as he walks. “The revised EBITDA assumes a staffing reduction.”

“Yes,” I say, matching his stride, because if I fall behind he’ll pretend he doesn’t know me. “But it’s presented as restructuring, not layoffs, and the PR language is already drafted.”

He stops in the hall, and I stop with him. We’re close enough that I can smell his cologne. It’s delicious, just like everything else about him, damn him.

He looks down at the page then up at me. “Why is the tax line different?”

“Because their previous filings were sloppy.” I can’t help the edge in my voice. “I pulled the last three years myself, and I rebuilt the model. If your finance team had done it, you’d be walking into that meeting with wrong numbers.”

A few heads turn our way, and I feel it, but I don’t care.

If I’m going to be broke, I’m at least going to be right. Ethan’s mouth tightens. “My team is competent.”

“I’m sure they are.” I keep my face neutral, even though I want to roll my eyes. “But the filings were still wrong.”

He stares at me for one long second.

Most people fold under that look. I’ve seen it happen. Men with MBA degrees and shiny watches start stammering when Ethan Cross narrows his eyes at them.

I don’t fold, because folding doesn’t pay rent. Finally, he nods once, then turns and continues toward the boardroom. “Good,” he says. “Then we’re not walking in blind.”

I blink.

That was almost…approval.

I should feel proud. Instead, my body does that annoying thing again, where it reacts to his voice like it’s a hand on my throat.

We reach the boardroom doors, and the senior execs are filing in, all expensive perfume and polished smiles.

Ethan steps through first, and I follow, because my job is to be invisible until I’m needed and then to be perfect.

I move to the side, set the extra copies on the table, and keep my back straight.

A man at the far end glances at me, then whispers something to the woman beside him. She snorts.

I catch the words anyway.

“Assistant dress code is getting generous.”

My cheeks heat, but I don’t look down at my own body, because I’m not giving them the satisfaction.

If my blouse fits my chest, that doesn’t make it a crime. If my hips exist, that doesn’t make me unprofessional. If anything, it means Cross Enterprises hired someone who can type, manage calendars, and show up with numbers that save their asses. They should be grateful.

Ethan’s voice cuts across the room.

“Start.”

Everyone shuts up.

That’s what power sounds like.

For the next hour, I stand by the wall and watch him run the room with a calm that feels unfair. He doesn’t raise his voice, and he doesn’t need to.

He asks one question, and people scramble to answer it.

He shifts one page, and someone sweats.

He looks at the wrong line item, and the CFO stammers until I step in.

Ethan’s gaze slides toward me. “Lila.”

That’s it. Just my name.

I step forward, and the room’s attention swings with me.

“The tax line change is due to their depreciation schedule,” I say, and I keep it simple. “They overstated expenses on two filings, and it affects the projected carryforward. The corrected number is in the revised model.”

The CFO looks relieved and irritated at the same time, and I don’t blame him.

Ethan doesn’t say thank you, but his eyes hold mine for half a beat longer than necessary, and something settles low in my stomach.

I look away first, because I’m not an idiot.

If Ethan Cross ever looked at me like he wanted me, it would ruin my life.

The meeting ends with a decision, because Ethan always gets decisions, and people file out with that cautious respect they pretend is casual.

As soon as the room is empty, I gather my papers, and I turn toward the door.

Ethan’s voice stops me.

“Bennett.”

I pause. “Yes?”

He’s still standing at the head of the table, jacket still buttoned, tie still perfect, and his eyes are on me in a way that feels more direct without the audience.

“You were right,” he says.

My heart stutters. “About the tax line?”

“About my team.” His mouth does something that could almost be a smirk if he were a different man. “They missed it.”

I swallow. “I’m paid to catch what’s missed.”

His gaze drops again, quick and controlled, then returns to my face. “You’re paid to assist.”

My chin lifts. “And I do. Extremely well.”

He holds my stare, and the silence stretches.

Then he steps closer, just one pace, and my body reacts like I’m being touched. “I don’t like surprises,” he says.

It’s quiet, and it’s not a threat in the usual sense, but it makes me weak in the knees.

“I don’t like them either,” I say, and my voice stays steady. “But sometimes they happen.”

His eyes narrow, and I can’t tell if he likes that answer or wants to punish me for it. He turns away first, and he reaches for his phone. “Get my afternoon moved. I’m adding a call at four.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, and I walk out before my brain can do something stupid, like imagine what his hands would feel like on my waist.

Back at my desk, I reset, I reschedule, and I handle the kind of chaos that looks boring from the outside and eats you alive from the inside.

By noon, I’ve fixed three calendar conflicts, I’ve calmed down one investor’s assistant who cried in the bathroom, and I’ve eaten half a granola bar because lunch isn’t really a thing when you work for a man who forgets food exists.

At two, I get another email from my landlord.

Final Notice.

At three, the office group chat lights up with a photo of someone’s vacation, and my throat tightens because I can’t remember the last time I left the city for anything that wasn’t a family emergency or a job interview.