Read Online The Billionaire's Hotline (Men of the Capital Series Book 1) by Cara Nelson - Free Book Online Page A

successful, his application for expansion in the UAE was approved, and the VP even remarked that he seemed to be feeling better. He didn’t speak to her or message her again. He might have downloaded a few Nina Simone tracks and played them in his room when he couldn’t sleep, but he never contacted her. A brown-haired girl with too many opinions and a voice like hot molasses would not vanquish two decades of drive and ambition.
    When he cleared the TSA check at the airport and headed for the exit, she was there. Hannah, standing with a paper sign that read “Virgo.” He didn’t rush to her, swing her into his arms and kiss her until she was laughing and crying with relief. She saw him and broke into a run, nearly knocking him over with the force of her embrace. She was there, live and warm, in constant motion, a flurry of hair and sleeves and lips engulfing him. She had on a long patchwork skirt, a tank top, a headband totally inadequate to the task of taming all that dark hair. He framed her face with his hands, looking at her as if he couldn’t believe his luck. He leaned his forehead against hers, pressed his eyes shut.
    “What?” she asked nervously.
    “Just you.”
    “Yeah, it’s just me.” She shrugged and pulled him toward a taxi. He gave the driver his address as she snuggled against him, burrowing catlike until she found the niche where she fit just right beneath his arm.
    “I liked your song,” he said finally. “I meant to say at the time, but I wasn’t sure what my linguistics professor would make of my tone. I wasn’t—myself.”
    “Well, that VP thought you were sick,” she pointed out teasingly.
    “It was lovely, but I couldn’t put it into words. I liked it.” He faltered, losing ground.
    At his apartment, he turned on the oven and set her to slicing enoki mushrooms. He took a shower, returned with a white t-shirt clinging damp and transparent to his back, droplets of water flicking off the ends of his wet hair as he moved. He grated cheese, his arms flexing.
    “What are we making?” she asked.
    “Omelet.”
    “Isn’t that eggs with maybe some cheese?”
    “No, this is a good omelet. Not something you ate at Denny’s,” he chided, putting the mushrooms in to roast, rinsing and chopping the spinach.
    Hannah sat at the table, watching him cook. When he turned to offer to make her coffee, her head was cushioned on her arms and she was asleep. He quietly took black truffle oil from the cupboard, whisked the cheese and mushrooms into the eggs, and put the mixture into a skillet. When the omelet was done, he sliced it and put it on a plate, which he slid in front of her. The clink of his fork against the china plate stirred her. She inhaled the nutty Parmesan, the earthy mushroom, and the truffles’ rich odor, and her mouth watered.
    “I had you pegged for someone who ate out every night,” she said around a mouthful of food.
    “You were wrong, Miss Singapore Noodles.”
    “You ridicule me, but if they had an award for that, I would win. For, like, most frequent customer. They’re delicious…curry. I love curry,” she enthused. He wrinkled his nose. “What? The idea of curry…the very name of curry disgusts you?”
    “Eat your eggs and give me my phone back.”
    “What would you have done in Dubai if I hadn’t had that phone?”
    “Paid attention in meetings, more than likely,” he said, forking a mushroom and examining it. “Slice them thinner next time. Too thick and they overwhelm the truffle flavor and they don’t roast evenly.”
    “It’s a good thing you’re cute, because sometimes you’re begging to be punched, do you know that?” she said, flicking a mushroom at him playfully. It landed on the table with a greasy slide and he swiped it into his napkin and threw it away.
    She rolled her eyes. “You got in trouble with the foreign office, but I got yelled at by my sister,” she offered. “She says I’m acting like a moron over you.”
    “I thought that