I’m damn good at my job.

So if I swipe my boss’s event invitations from time to time, it’s kind of like a much-earned bonus. He’ll never miss them, and I get a five-star free meal in the company of men in well-fitted suits.

But then he shows up at an award’s dinner that I’m most definitely not supposed to be at.

Lucky for me, when my boss accuses me of stealing his ticket, a hot swoony man in a tux steps in and says, “She came with me.”

Now I owe the stranger one, which is totally cool.

Until I discover the hot, swoony man is none other than Steele Sebastian, a rich man with a penchant for scandal.

And the way he wants me to pay him back?

Let’s just say that Steele Sebastian has a reputation as a dirty filthy billionaire, and I’m about to find out why.

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Excerpt: Dirty Filthy Billionaire

I have one word for the menu in front of me—fandamntastic.

Honestly, I’m not surprised. The Annual Awards for Advances in the Media has the best dinner of the year. I should know because I attend many. Every time my boss, Donovan Kincaid, declines an invitation, I RSVP in his place because, seriously. Saffron crème brûlée? Sure beats the from-the-box cheesecake at Doug’s Diner on 34th.

Not knocking Doug. He makes most of my meals these days—or his kitchen staff does—but the convenience and affordability rank higher than the taste. He’s open late, does take-out and delivery, and is only a block from my apartment. Plus, he lets me order off-menu, which is not easy to find these days.

And again, by he, I mean the staff.  Doug doesn’t know me from Eve, and still he’s the number one man in my life after Donovan.

That probably says more about me than I should admit.

Point being, I will take any chance I can to get a fancy meal for one that doesn’t require a date or using my own credit card. Particularly, when the meal has a dessert as scrumptious as saffron crème brûlée.

I’m already salivating when someone sits in the seat next to me.

This is a good time to mention that I’m not really a people person. Or rather, I’m a specific-people sort of person, meaning I can list the specific people I like on one hand:

1. Donovan.

2. His business partners, Nate and Cade (thank God Weston moved to France because ew).

3. My neighbor Ashish, who waters my plants for me when I need him to. (I return the favor with fairly satisfying casual sex).

4. And Doug of Doug’s Diner, whom I’ve never met and might not even be a real person.

I like my sister, Danelle, most of the time too, but not enough to add her to the list, and besides, family shouldn’t count.

It’s perhaps a bad quality for someone who has a people-facing job, I know, but I’m pretty good at faking it when I have to. I’ve never had any of Donovan’s clients lodge a formal complaint, and as his capital P, Personal, capital A, Assistant—do not call me secretary; I loathe the word—I interact with all of them. Whatever I lack in customer service, I more than make up for with my organization skills. I know how to hide the dead bodies, so to speak, and Donovan has more of those than many of the other rich bastards in this town.

All that to say, I do not come to these functions to socialize.

Obviously, I RSVP’d a plus one, which means that my purse is occupying the seat to my left. We’re given our table number at check-in, so I couldn’t do a speedy online stalk of whoever else is assigned to this round. So far, it’s been tolerable. The older couple across from me are too uptight to engage with anyone ambiguously ethnic. My straight dark hair and light eyes skew more toward my Brazilian Swiss side, but my darker skin, luscious lips, and bone structure give away my Afro-Japanese genes, so I’m doubting the older couple will try to engage. The couple next to them are fellow Millennials and too into posting on Instagram to have noticed me. The Latina next to them seems to be part of their party. I was prepared to ignore whoever sat in the last empty seat to my right, expecting the usual too white, too old, too out-of-touch misogynist to take the spot.

I am not prepared for the six-foot, beardy, dark blond, green-eyed masterpiece that wears a tux better than I wear a grudge—and I’m a Scorpio; I can seriously wear a grudge—that sits beside me. So not prepared that I literally choke on my water.

Thankfully, I’m smooth, and cover it up with a swerve of my head in the opposite direction, along with a subtle cough that I’m sure comes off as a reaction to the circulated air. There’s no way he notices.

“Are you okay, there?” Fuck, his voice is sandpaper. The best of all kinds of voices. “If you need the Heimlich, I’m going to have to pass.”

I almost choke again for a multitude of reasons:

1. He noticed.

2. That voice.

3. He’s going to pass?

I gather myself as quickly as possible, which is pretty quick. It’s amazing how together I can be when I’m annoyed. “You can’t pass on someone choking. What if I’d been dying?”

He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “You weren’t dying.”