Mr. Important (Honeybridge #2) Read Online Lucy Lennox

Categories Genre: Billionaire, Gay, GLBT, M-M Romance Tags Authors: Series: Honeybridge Series by Lucy Lennox

Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)

One New Year’s masquerade. One anonymous hookup. One billionaire-sized mistake.

Once upon a time, someone looked at my scrawny, impetuous eight-year-old self and nicknamed me Mr. Important… and I believed them.

That was my first mistake.

Two decades, a dozen failed careers, and a thousand meaningless hookups later, I’ve made more mistakes than I can count. My parents have decided I’m purely decorative, my brother thinks I need pep talks, and the gorgeous billionaire who hired me as a favor to my dad? He’s forgotten I exist.

So I’m done with mistakes.

Call it my New Year’s resolution. From now on, I’m going after what I want… starting with the mysterious silver fox in the Roman warrior mask who approached me at the charity gala and offered me a scorching, anonymous one-night stand.

Unfortunately, when our masks come off I realize mistakes are not done with me.

Because the bossy guy who blew my mind? He’d thought I was someone else. Worse than that, he’s my father’s friend. A supposedly-straight workaholic. The person I’m stuck on a road trip with for the next two weeks. And, oh yeah, my actual boss.

The farther we get from New York, the closer we become, and the harder it is to pretend I’m not falling for him. But I can’t see how someone as brilliant, controlled, and successful as Thatcher Pennington would risk everything to be with someone like me… even if he makes me feel like I’m finally Mr. Important.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter One


“Mask stays on. Clothes come off,” a deep, male voice rumbled in my ear. “You’re going to be good for me tonight, aren’t you?”

The man’s indecent proposal sent a trail of goose bumps washing over my skin, and I froze in shock.

Before he’d spoken, I’d been watching various couples twirl across the floor at the masked charity ball, wondering what the hell I was doing there on New Year’s Eve when there were so many other, more fun, places I could be. When I’d moved out of my parents’ house in tiny Honeybridge, Maine, I’d left my designer tuxedo hanging in the closet for a reason: glad-handing at society galas wasn’t supposed to be on my agenda anymore. But I’d underestimated how hard it was to break the habits of a lifetime—namely, my parents’ habit of thinking they ran my social calendar and my habit of letting them. Just a couple of months into what should have been my personal renaissance, there I was, doing my best impression of a politician’s silent, smiling second son while the cameras flashed, wearing a black feathered mask atop a stifling mask of bland politeness and praying someone (not me this time) would do something interesting before midnight to save me from death by boredom.

Fortunately, the Universe had heard my plea.

Unfortunately, it had sent excitement in the form of a creepy whisperer… which was really on brand for the Reagan Wellbridge Renaissance Era, whose tagline seemed to be “be careful what you wish for.”

Under other circumstances, being approached by a creepy whisperer might have been outrageous in a fun way. A hilarious tale to trot out to my friends at parties, or maybe even a story for my Instagram followers. But the last few months had been… well, difficult.

When I’d moved to New York, I’d vowed to be a new Reagan. A different Reagan. Not an immature twenty-something socialite whose parents controlled his bank account or a pretty, wholesome-looking doll who posed at campaign rallies.

But nothing had quite worked out the way I’d planned, and New Reagan was frustrated as fuck.

All the career disappointments I’d been pushing down for weeks, all the snarky retorts I’d choked back while making my way around the party tonight, sat in my chest like a heap of dry kindling, and the creepy whisperer was the spark.

I turned around to spew all of my anger and resentment in a verbal torrent sharp enough to flay this rude, outrageous man’s flesh from his bones…

And then choked on my own saliva.

Rude and outrageous he might be, but the creepy whisperer was… built.

He was tall—well over six feet—and his perfectly tailored black tuxedo lovingly cupped his broad shoulders and chest. Dark hair swept cleanly back from his brow. Though I couldn’t make out his eyes behind the burnished gold of his Roman warrior mask, especially in the “atmospheric” faux candlelight of the ballroom, I could feel the intensity of his gaze as he watched me.

Not creepy but sexy. Sexy enough to shoot a bolt of lust down my spine that left me shivering in the overheated ballroom. And so very much my type.

Maybe the Universe had done me a solid after all.

“Pardon me?” My words came out husky and flirtatious. “Do I know you?”

One black brow lifted over the top of the man’s mask, and his plush lips set in a firm, unsmiling line that made my pulse race with arousal… and then with a sudden fear as I remembered exactly where and who I was.

Think, Reagan. How likely was it that a man who resembled a Roman warrior even without his mask was trolling for an anonymous hookup with another man at a stuffy event like this one, where every third guest was a politician, a reporter, or a society gossip? More than likely, I’d misunderstood, or⁠—

“Not interested in games,” he growled, leaning closer. A muscle ticked in his perfectly smooth jaw.

—or maybe I’d understood perfectly. I blinked. How the hell did his voice feel like it was wrapping directly around my balls, firm as a physical touch?

His earlier words seared through my brain like a flash fire, burning away all other thoughts: Mask stays on. Clothes come off.

Well, shit.

Back when my father had been on the cusp of his political career—which was, sadly, right around the time I’d begun transforming from a sweet child into a snarky, opinionated teenager who Needed to Be Managed—my mother had signed me up for formal etiquette lessons. I’d loathed them, of course, but they’d come in handy over the years. These days, I could chat with anyone, from a sultan at a polo match to nice, elderly ladies in retirement homes, and most of the time, I even enjoyed it. I was never, ever at a loss for words.

Until now.

“I, uh…” I stammered, face on fire. “That is… When you say…? Are you asking me to…?”