Bad Bridesmaid (Billionaire's Club Book 11) by Elise Faber (hot novels to read .TXT) 📗

go too far down the rabbit hole of feeling sorry for herself and/or feeling guilty for needing to call in backup. “Tell me all about what it’s like to be twenty-two and living in the city. What do all the cool kids do for fun?”

She laughed. “What makes you think I’m remotely a cool kid?”

“Because you’re twenty-two,” Heidi pointed out.

“Trust me,” Maggie said dryly. “That’s not nearly enough.” But she did share a funny story about a bar called Bobby’s she’d gone to with girlfriends the previous weekend, and how the front room was super fun with cool décor and fun music, but that the back room was filled with outdated tunes . . . and people.

“I just was looking for the bathroom, and I swear, it was like the middle-aged club had unleashed a party back there. There was dancing and drinking, and the noise was intense. I swear, they were having more fun than we were in that front room.”

“How old were these middle-aged people?” she asked, well-familiar with Bobby’s and definitely knowing that she and her friends were relegated to the back room.

Far away from the cool kids out front.

“God,” Maggie said, turning into Heidi’s complex. “They must have been like . . . thirty-five, some even forty.”

Heidi choked on a laugh.

She was thirty-three, nearing thirty-four.

Apparently, that was almost middle-aged.

Heaven help her.

“Thanks again,” she said when Maggie stopped in front of her condo. “I’m so glad I didn’t have to wait for an Über.”

Maggie smiled, nodded. “Thanks for being so cool about the lab.”

With a quick goodbye, she closed the door and headed up to the front door of her place. Oh, she’d been cool with Maggie—one, because it wasn’t her assistant’s fault, and two, because even if it had been, people made mistakes.

But the cleaning staff going into her lab wasn’t a mistake.

Or it wasn’t a mistake any longer.

She’d had to have a conversation with occupational health about not allowing the general cleaning company into the room three times already since she began at the company less than a year ago.

This would mark a fourth.

And the fourth broken promise, and one that had nearly jeopardized everything.

So no, she wouldn’t be the cool boss. Not any longer. In fact, she and several people were going to have a very stern conversation, and then if that didn’t work, she was installing a fucking dead bolt herself, with a lock and key only she and her team had copies of.

In fact, she was looking up said locks and keys, just to be preemptively prepared, when her phone buzzed with a text from Stef.

Why the hell did you send tall, dark, and handsome to look after me? Just saying, if he was my man, I’d have him under lock and key.

The mirroring of her own thoughts should have been funny.

Except . . . what? Sending tall, dark, and who?

But before she could ask that, Stef sent a picture of Brad, a vase of flowers in his hand as he placed snacks on a rolling table.

He says you arranged everything. Surgery is over, obviously. Apparently, it was less complicated than they thought.

Heidi blinked, her fingers starting to type out a reply. But her cell buzzed again before she got there.

Thank you. I know I said I was fine, but even though I didn’t want to admit it, I was scared. Knowing that someone was out there in the waiting room, looking after me, even though you’d sent him, made me feel better.

She’d typed out another reply, something that probably barely made sense, because her mind was spinning. But that was okay, because she still didn’t get to send it.

Her cell vibrated one last time.

Tell me all about it in the morning. Visiting hours are over, and I’m going to zonk out.

Heidi stared at her phone screen for several moments then shook her head. And . . . then her gaze alighted on something else, something she’d missed when she’d first stumbled her way inside.

Her books were on her bookshelf. On the proper bookshelf—that being her To Be Read shelf. In the proper order—that being separated by genre then alphabetized by author name.

All except the title she’d been waffling about purchasing. The pretty US cover was slotted right next to the UK one on her already read shelves.

The hospital.

Her condo.

The books.

Her friend.

Brad, the Unicorn known as Brad, had some explaining to do.

Seventeen

Brad

The knock at his door made him frown.

It was late, and even though his family was pushy, they would definitely call first, especially considering it was nearing midnight.

Someone must be confused, knocking at the wrong apartment.

Maybe a DoorDash had gone wrong.

Sighing when the knock came again, he set aside his book—the thriller he’d picked up earlier that day, and one that also had him wondering whether it was Russian mafia men or a terrifying serial killer on the other side of that wood—and made his way to the door.

He checked the peephole—because Russian mafia men and terrifying serial killers—but when he saw who was on the other side, his mouth dropped open, and he scrambled to release the dead bolt.

“Heidi!” he exclaimed the moment he’d wrenched open the door. “What are you—?”

She poked a finger into his chest. “You,” she snapped then slipped by him, striding into his apartment, her shining brown hair fanning out behind her like a cape. “You!” she exclaimed, spinning around to face him while he locked up. Her hands were on her hips, her legs were clad in pajamas, and her eyes flashed.

“Me?” he asked when it appeared that was all she was going to say.

Her lips pressed flat. Her chin lifted. “Why?” she asked. “Why did you do it?”

His brows drew together. “The books?” He figured it was time to fess up. “I borrowed your spare key that night when you were hurt. It was there on your little organizer thing, and I didn’t want you to be sleeping with an unlocked door, and I know it was probably an invasion of your privacy