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

shot the color of Windex, and danced with a little more animation. A gorgeous sandy-haired pro skier hit on her, bought her another shot, and tried to make her laugh. It took even her slightly intoxicated brain only about four minutes to register the fact that he was dumb. He wouldn’t have known Bach from a box and probably thought Tennessee Williams was a sexual position from south of the Mason-Dixon. She collapsed on a chair with Becca, laughing, and drank whatever was in her sister’s glass when Becca went to dance.
    It tasted sweet and lemony, and she ordered another one. Tugging her dress down a bit as she stood, she asked a cute guy with glasses to dance, but he was too tall. Her head never would have fit in the crook of his shoulder the right way, like that perfect niche along Jasper’s collarbone. One dance and she was miserable. With a nod to Becca, she ditched her sister and went home.
    Dialing her phone as she climbed the stairs, she called Jasper. A breathy female voice answered on the second ring, her voice husky.
    “Jasper Cates’ phone. He’s busy right now. Can I take a message?” She giggled.
    “Just put him on the goddamn phone,” Hannah snapped, ready to gag from the scene she knew was taking place. Bright flashes of what he was probably doing to the blonde (of course she’d be a blonde!): things he’d never done to her. The sound of fumbling, and then he answered.
              “Cates here.” He sounded gruff.
    “Largent here. When you’re done with dial-a-blonde, get over here,” she said, barely choking back a sob. She threw up in the sink, drank a glass of water and brushed her hair, wiped the mascara out from under her eyes.
    In under ten minutes, he was at her door, rumpled but present. The second she opened the door, his hands were on her face, in her hair. He was kissing her, shutting the door and pressing her against it urgently. Hannah’s fingers dug into his biceps. She rose on tiptoe to reach him more comfortably, his hands straying to her waist.
    “God, Hannah, you had me so scared. I thought I’d never—” He stopped talking to kiss her again. She pushed against him, wriggled away.
    “I have to say this,” she said, gesturing for him to sit down on the bed.
    “Why is there a bed in your living room?” Jasper demanded.
    “I made the bedroom into a studio, so I sleep in here. Focus,” she said, blinking her eyes hard. “I’m sorry I went batshit insane on you today. I woke up by myself and I decided you didn’t want me, that you’d lost interest. I threw the phone away. I’m sorry.”
    “I lost interest? I made you eggs. I played the cello for you and let you snore all over me last night. How is that losing interest?”
    “I panicked. I spend most of my time alone in a studio, so I’m not the best at relationships or being around people or anything like that. I’d say I’m a loner, but that makes me sound like one of those serial killers that the neighbor always goes on the news, saying ‘she was real quiet and kept to herself’. Anyway, it freaked me out and I didn’t cope with what I thought was a rejection all that well. This is new territory for me. I’m in deeper than you are here and it scared me.”
    Jasper reached for her, caught her by the wrist, and pulled her onto the bed beside him.
    “Not in deeper than I am,” he whispered and kissed her.
    There was something about being stretched out full-length beside him, a closeness she hadn’t realized she was missing. When their legs tangled together, she felt perilously close to tears of relief. Desperate to be even closer, to rip down the final barrier between them, she tore at his buttons, pushed his shirt down his arms. Wriggling and tugging, she couldn’t get her dress off. The scrap of blue was irritatingly stretchy and difficult to remove.
    “Help me here,” she slurred, turning her back so he could unfasten it.
    “There’s nothing to unzip. I think you just yank it over