The Billionaire's Feast: Secret Billionaire's Club, #8

By Tracey Pedersen

Billionaires can be thankful, too...

Wyatt Fletcher knows he can't win the silly dating game Danny concocted eleven months ago. Why couldn't he get a holiday earlier in the year to plan his date? Faced with a wedding rehearsal, a Thanksgiving feast, and an actual wedding, all within a few weeks of each other, he decides a fake date will help him sneak through the season without too many questions being asked.

It doesn't matter that it's not real. He's just hanging out for the holiday at the end of the year.

For Lauren Hunter, art is everything. Whether it's painting, sculpting, or knitting, she attacks every new project with gusto. She's a woman with a low income, and even lower expenses, all in the name of pursuing her art. She'll take any job as long as it pays well and it's low on commitment.

When Wyatt offers her a one-night gig she sees a chance to add to her casual work schedule and buy more art supplies. It doesn't matter that it's not real. Weddings and Thanksgiving feasts make great inspiration for her art.

Can Wyatt and Lauren discover how much they have in common before the Macy's Day Parade is a distant memory?

 

The Secret Billionaire's Club Books:

The Billionaire's Heart
The Billionaire's Luck
The Billionaire's Treat
The Billionaire's Duty
The Billionaire's Spark
The Billionaire's Club
The Billionaire's Scare
The Billionaire's Feast
The Billionaire's Gift
The Billionaire's Surprise

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracey Pedersen
• Release date: Dec 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780648584070

Tracey Pedersen

Tracey Pedersen is an Australian USA Today Bestselling author who has finally accepted that she is meant to write, write, write! In 2016 she released her first romance novel and hasn't looked back. Now writing full time, and fighting the urge to write every second of the day, she loves travel, crocheting, replying to reader emails and spending WAY too much time on Facebook!

Book preview

Chapter One - Lauren

Are you one of those people who agrees to go to an event weeks ahead, then tries to think of dozens of valid excuses to pull out once the date rolls around?

Yeah, me too.

It’s a definite character flaw and I can’t seem to shake it. Which is why I’ve ditched my friends three hours into a long-anticipated night out.

I don’t say goodbye. Instead, I wave from across the crowded room, and do my best impression of driving with my hands above my head, which is meant to indicate I’ll get a taxi home. Several people glance at me and roll their eyes, but I don’t care one bit.

I pretend I don’t see the scowl on Gia’s face or the shake of her head and frantic waving for me to come over to her. A smile and a last wave later, I breathe a sigh of relief as I step into the cool night air, glad to escape the grabby hands that have been tonight’s defining feature.

I loathe being manhandled in nightclubs.

The line for a taxi stretches around the corner so I make my way to the front of the adjoining building, my phone vibrating madly in my hand. Gia fills my screen with angry-face and middle finger emojis, which make me laugh. She has a particular way with words and that translates to her text messages. She should know by now that she can’t shame me, though. Once I make up my mind to do something, that’s it. There’s no going back.

And I’ve decided I’m going home.

A couple of people are near the kerb, all looking at their phones, and I stop near a guy dressed in a tuxedo. He catches my attention because his shoes have been shined until they reflect everything around them. I bet if I bent over, I could see my face staring back at me. I take a secret moment to snap a photo of them, then open an app to find myself a share ride home. A moment later I let out a loud groan and stare up at the sky.

Tonight is not my night.

Not having a good time? His voice so close to me makes me jump, a squeak slipping from my lips.

I clutch at my chest and let out a strangled laugh. You scared the shit out of me.

Sorry. I was just making conversation. Had a difficult birthday?

I frown, his question grabbing my full attention. Did I meet him inside? I’m pretty sure I’d remember if this guy had spoken to me. I might even have stayed in the club. He's dressed for a formal event, though, and sure doesn't fit in where I’ve spent the night. Or out here on the street. I glance behind me to see which hotel he came from. That must've been one fancy event for him to be looking like he does.

That's not just any old rented tux, either. I don't think tuxedos fit like this one unless they are very expensive and personally tailored to the wearer. In my sphere of influence, I don't run into many people who look, or dress, like him. His hair is cut in a recent style and is so sharp it could have been trimmed this morning.

My attention switches from his clothing to his face while my heartbeat works on dropping to a sensible level. He has interesting eyes—I can’t tell if they’re grey or blue with the streetlights throwing shadows. Blonde hair flops over his forehead and his ready smile puts me at ease. I don’t get any scary vibes from him, so I shrug and ask, How do you know it’s my birthday?

He chuckles and raises a single eyebrow, his eyes flicking upward then back to my face. His eyes widen as though it should be obvious, and then I remember…

I’m wearing the pink birthday tiara that Gia bestowed on me when she arrived at my door to drag me out tonight. She shoved it in my hair declaring thirty-year-old women should be proud of their age.

He must think I’m mental.

I think I’m mental to still be wearing it, especially when it announces a giant three and an enormous zero in shiny silver bling for everyone to see.

Oh. I can’t think of anything else to say so I go back to staring at my phone. He doesn’t say anything either, but I feel a need to defend myself. I forgot about that. It explains the attention I was getting inside.

Birthday girls are meant to be the life of the party, the stranger says.

I snort. Not this girl. I gave up on this night when the last guy lip synced to me how I didn’t know my own mind, and to just join him on the dance floor because he said so. I’m paraphrasing but you get the idea.

Song lyrics. The last frontier of men avoiding the #MeToo movement.

Why do guys always mention #MeToo?

I want to ignore his comment and concentrate on getting a lift home, but that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen. The app shows I’ll be waiting over an hour and paying double this late at night. I shrug and slip my phone into my pocket. I was a birthday rebel tonight and wore jeans with my high heels.

Okay, I’ll bite. I tip my head and stare at him. What does that mean?

Song lyrics.

He tips his head to catch my eye and I finally stare up at him, annoyance making my eyes blink quickly. What lecture am I about to receive about what women need to learn, or remember? I can really do without any of this tonight. I just want to get home, crawl into bed, and sleep the rest of my birthday away.

What about them?

"Well, it seems song writers can say anything they like and get away with it. Things that are no longer acceptable in polite society. A lot of