Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club #2) Read Online Jasinda Wilder

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Billionaire Baby Club Series by Jasinda Wilder
Advertisement

Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 88829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
<<<<1231121>93
Advertisement

Read Online Books/Novels:

Autumn Rolls a Seven (Billionaire Baby Club #2)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Jasinda Wilder

Language:
English
Book Information:

Autumn Scott is the second woman at Six Chicks Real Estate to fall victim to The Ad: “Beautiful, successful single woman in search of a wealthy, handsome man to help her get pregnant the old-fashioned way. Financial validation a must. Serious inquiries only. DM for more info.”

Problem number one? It works, a little too well, one could argue.

Problem number two? Autumn has a dark, tragic past keeping her from trusting men at all, let alone wanting a baby with one.

Problem number three? Seven St. John doesn’t take no for an answer, in the sexiest possible way.
Books in Series:

Billionaire Baby Club Series by Jasinda Wilder

Books by Author:

Jasinda Wilder



1

My cell was ringing, somewhere.

I’m not a morning person. It was early, and I hadn’t had coffee, and who would be calling me at…I cracked an eye and squinted my alarm clock…eight on a Saturday morning? What kind of sadistic, masochistic jerkwad would even be awake this early on a Saturday, much less calling me? Everyone who knows me knows my Saturday mornings are sacred to me.

I blinked my eyes open, reluctantly, begrudgingly, crankily. My cell was across the room, plugged in to the charger and sitting on a little table in my reading nook. I stumbled blearily to the chair, plopped down into it, picked up the phone: the number on the screen was an LA area code, so likely a realtor sniffing for a last-second showing.

I cleared my throat, tried to sound awake as I slid my finger across the screen to accept the call. “Hello, this is Autumn Scott.”

“Good morning.” A deep, rough male voice. It sounded like someone who’d spent the night smoking, drinking, and fucking. It was a smoky, gravelly voice. And…possibly familiar?

“Yes, hi. This is Autumn—how can I help you?”

“I’m calling in response to your ad.” A cough, clearing his throat. “On Instagram. I saw it last night, and I’m calling to see if it’s for real.”

“Ad?” I sounded faint, even to myself. And horrified. “What…um—what ad?”

A slow, syrupy, gravelly chuckle. “Beautiful, successful single woman in search of a wealthy, handsome man to help her get pregnant the old-fashioned way. Financial validation a must. Serious inquiries only. DM for more info.” His tone indicated he was reading.

“No. No. Hell no. They didn’t.”

“Pranked by some friends, huh?”

I should have said yes, it was just a prank.

But that voice. Holy hell, that voice. Each syllable positively caressed me. The very sound of his voice promised long nights of wild pleasure, promised dirty secrets and tangled sheets.

I should have said yes, it was just a prank.

But his voice alone had me saying something else entirely.

“Possibly.” I paused. “But possibly not. Tell me about yourself.”

“My name is Seven St. John.”

Seven St. John. Retired heavyweight boxer and multiple-time world champion, a sports commentator on ESPN who was starting to dabble in Hollywood…and the ultimate bad boy.

Perennially on TMZ and in the tabloids for his wild antics and debauched ways, associated with an endless parade of stunning women ranging from A-list actresses to supermodels, with a trail of broken hearts in his wake. And one of the most gorgeous men to walk the planet, if you go in for brutally powerful, scarred, tattooed, with features hewn from granite, piercing eyes, and a wicked mouth.

Seven St. John was a name synonymous with Sin, capital S.

And he was calling me.

“Seven St. John,” I repeated.

Another of those slow dark laughs. “That’s me.”

Get it together, Autumn. Too early—my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders yet.

“The ad. Um…” Not much better. Something smart. “I, um…”

“You aren’t a morning person, are you?”

“No. Not at all. Especially on Saturdays.”

“I got you. So how about instead of continuing to bother you on a Saturday morning, we just get together for drinks tomorrow.”

“Drinks?”

“Yeah. Like, I pick you up, and we go somewhere and sit down together and have a couple drinks and we talk.”

“With you.” Jesus, Autumn. Smarten up, girl. “Drinks tomorrow.”

He chuckled again. “Drinks, with me, tomorrow.” A pause. “So, you in?”

“Yeah. Yes, that sounds good. Drinks with you, tomorrow.”

“Great, so I’ll pick you up at…seven?” A hint of humor in his voice.

My turn to laugh. “I bet that gets all the girls, doesn’t it?”

“It’s a good time. Not too early, not too late.”

“Right. Seven, then. With you, Seven.”

“Address?”

I relayed my address to him. “We’re not going anywhere super fancy, are we?”

“Nah.”

“Okay.”

“Well, Autumn Scott, it was a pleasure talking to you. I’m excited about tomorrow.”

“Good talking to you, too. And, same.”

“I’ll let you go, now. So you can get back to sleep.”

I groaned. “I wish. But no, once I’m up, I’m up.”

“Sorry to have woken you. I’m an early riser by nature.”

“It’s okay.”

Okay? It was more than okay. I had a date with Seven St. John.

“Bye, Autumn.”

“Bye, Seven. See you tomorrow.”

I ended the call and stumbled in a daze to my bed, flopped heavily backward onto it.

I had a date with Seven St. John.

Why had he called me? I mean, the ad, obviously. But this was Seven St. John: one of the boxing greats, already spoken of in the same breath as Mayweather, Foreman, Louis, and Ali. He retired at thirty-eight, after his third championship belt, undefeated. Immediately upon retirement, he was snapped up by ESPN as a commentator on those talking head sports shows, and obviously as an expert announcer for boxing matches. More to the point, he’d been associated romantically with a who’s-who list of actresses, household names, supermodels, influencers, and even at one point an elegant blond woman who everyone said was some kind of European royalty. Granted, he never stayed with any of them for long, but it was clear he was capable of snapping his fingers and having any woman on the planet drop her panties for him.


Advertisement

<<<<1231121>93