Wicked Billionaire - Sawyer Bennett Page 0,3

lack thereof, or overabundance, doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m merely here to do my job, do it well, and collect a paycheck so I can start paying off the gobs of debt my jerk of an ex-husband left me saddled with.

After I work the morning shift here at Blackwood, I’ll drive a few hours for Uber, which is always good for a few bucks down on the Strip. Once finished, I’ll head off to my part-time casino job, waitressing drinks to cheap tippers at the slots. The moderate tippers are at the blackjack tables, thinking they have the right to grab my ass for every ten-spot thrown on my tray.

That’s right… Dicklan would never understand that it’s impossible to keep my head above water on minimum-wage jobs and high housing costs. He’s so out of touch with the common man, from where he rules from his throne atop the Blackwood Vegas, that he’d never understand that a simple ‘good morning’ can mean a lot to someone in my situation.

A woman who has to hold down three jobs to pay off a debt that isn’t even hers while caring for her two disabled parents, I mean. I’d give anything for him to spend five minutes in my shoes. I bet His Royal Prissy Pants would be crying in less than four.

I spend time dusting the expensive furniture, devoid of any personal decorations or knickknacks, which makes my job easier. I’ve heard Dicklan doesn’t stay in one place more than a few years before moving on, ensuring his hotel is in peak condition before turning it over to a manager. I guess it explains the lack of personalization in this penthouse suite. Rumor says it will go for close to four thousand a night after he vacates the premises.

That type of wealth boggles my mind.

Four grand a night to stay in a bed. Have a fancy espresso machine at your fingertips. Have the softest toilet paper to wipe your butt.

I’d kill to be able to make four grand a month at a job. Most people would.

After dusting, I make my way into the kitchen and start to clean. Of course, Dicklan left his dirty dishes out just two feet from the empty dishwasher. I bet he’s never loaded one in his life.

I replace the cover on the fruit bowl before putting it back in the fridge. Nabbing the dirty fork and empty coffee cup, I turn toward the dishwasher.

“You can leave the cup out,” I hear from behind me.

I usually don’t startle easy, but the deep voice that belongs to Declan Blackwood is right behind me. He’s so close I feel his breath on the back of my neck. It’s bare because I pulled my hair into a bun, which the job requires.

I whirl to find six-foot-five inches of solid, practically naked, muscled man. His hair is wet and slicked back, water droplets on his shoulders. As I do a quick rake down past a ridged abdomen, I follow a dark trail of hair starting below his navel and snaking down to a minuscule white towel around his waist.

There is no missing the bulge—not an erection—just a lot of big stuff beneath that towel pressing against the damp confines.

My face flushes hot as I whirl back around. “Of course, Mr. Blackwood.”

Dicklan.

“Can I have my cup please?” he asks. I’m surprised to hear “please” come out of his mouth. He certainly doesn’t have to use it with me.

At that moment, I realize I have the mug and dirty fork clutched to my chest like a maiden who’s never seen a half-naked man before.

Because I have.

But not one like the Blackwood heir.

Holy cow, he’s hot.

Beyond hot.

Is he really packing that much… size… beneath that towel?

I take in a breath, pivot back his way, and hold the cup out while resolving to maintain eye contact.

For a moment, he merely studies me, seeming to pay close attention to my face—surely noting the stain of blush still there—before asking, “What’s your name?”

I try to give the man some credit. My name tag is pinned to my chest. He could have looked himself, but maybe he didn’t want me to think he was staring at my breasts? He could just be lazy, not wanting to make an effort. Perhaps he is just demanding.

“Bailey, sir,” I reply demurely. “Bailey Robbins.”

“Hmm.” Not even a ‘pleased to meet you’. Just a low hum in his throat as if he found my name slightly interesting, but he couldn’t be bothered to