Billionaires Dollar Series

“I can’t fly a plane or a helicopter myself,” he says. Are the words spoken through gritted teeth? I bite my lip to hide a smile.

“So you only trust people when you have no other choice.”

He shakes his head. In profile, the rough cut of his jaw stands out sharply, as does the dark stubble on his cheeks and jaw. “You’re impossible.”

“But correct?”

“Potentially.” In the silence that follows, his voice softens, but it’s not with kindness. “I trust you won’t say anything about our game in Whistler.”

I cross my arms. “Do you think I would?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you’re worried about Cole, don’t be. I’m not in the habit of telling my brother when I get undressed with a man.” I pull open one of the binders at random, opening it in my lap. “Let’s focus on the day instead. Do you know who we’re going to meet?”

I don’t let him answer. I dive into an explanation instead, preparing him in short, concise sentences. Be Gina, I tell myself. If Nick wants to kill whatever attraction exists between us with professionalism, well, two can play that game.

We arrive at the store with time to spare. Pulling into the backlot, he reaches for his phone. “They might not like us here,” he warns me.

I frown at him. I’d had email contact with the head of this warehouse. She had been nothing but accommodating.

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“They have a hiring freeze, same as all the others,” he tells me. “They will have been working double shifts. They know bankruptcy is looming.”

A response blooms on my tongue but dies as it reaches my lips. But we’re here to save the store. That might be my intent, but I know it’s not Nick’s, not really. The endgame for him is profit. If it’s by saving the brand or by eventually selling the individual stores and supply chains to the highest bidder, it’s all the same to him.

Nick turns, as if he’s read this and more in my eyes. I follow him into the warehouse with steel in my spine. If he expects me to fail, I won’t. The binder Gina’s prepared?

I’d written most of the content.

Nick and I emerge nearly an hour and a half later in tense silence. I’d kept my sentences short, but civil, and straight to the point-not an extraneous word.

He didn’t comment much, either, apart from a few questions here and there. We’ve been civil to the point of rudeness, and as we get back into the car, the tension between us has in no way lessened.

We’re halfway to Seattle, deafening silence reigning, when the car begins to slow. I look over at Nick. Has he forgotten where the gas pedal is?

He steers to the side and turns on the warning light of the car. “Damn.”

“What’s happening?”ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

“Must have blown a tire.”

I turn around to check, but there’s no one behind us. The road is empty in both directions and nothing surrounds us but trees, pines standing tall and straight. I step out into the cold.

“Do you have a spare?”

“Of course I do.”

I wrap my jacket tighter around myself and start inspecting the tires on my side. My mood sours even further, but I refuse to let it show in my face or in my tone. Let him be the one stuck in a constant bad mood.

Watch me be civil.

“It’s this one,” I call out, seeing the small rubber tear. How had I not felt it when it happened?

“Damn.” Nick runs a hand over his head, across the short crop of his midnight-black hair. “Stay in the car while I change it.”

The order is barked. It’s clearly not for my benefit-I bet he just wants me out of the way.

“I can help,” I offer, anything to get us moving faster. I’ve never changed a tire before, nor seen anyone do it. But I have two hands and I’m willing to use them.

He speaks from the trunk of the car. “Oh, I doubt that very much.”

The words slice through me. I’m tired of this. Hadn’t we made progress this past weekend? “Why are you rude to me? We agreed to civility.”

He doesn’t respond. The only sound I hear is that of him unfolding something in the back, pulling at plastic and rubber.

I walk around the car to face him. “For me, the reason was the old poker game, and we settled that. But what’s your excuse, huh?”

He lifts the heavy tire effortlessly, his arms straining against the fabric of his suit. “Why do I have to like you in order to work with you? Is it necessary?”

“Of course not. I just thought-”

“Thought what? That because I find you beautiful I somehow like you, too? Plenty of women are attractive.” The fierceness in his voice burns, humiliation creeping up my cheeks. I feel like I did all those years ago-dismissed.

He shakes his head, as if he’s disgusted by our interaction, and begins changing the tire with furious movements.

I stare at him for a long moment.

And then I take a seat in the passenger seat, slamming the door behind me. We don’t speak a word the entire way back to the city.

My brother’s house has been transformed. The event organizers have gone all out, with string lights around the wrap-around porch. The marble floor in the entry is polished to a shine and drink tables line the walls. Rooms on the second floor are locked and closed off, and below, staff filters in and out of the house in preparation.

Skye comes to stand next to me as we watch cars slowly roll up the long driveway. She’s barely started to show, and in the dress she’s wearing, the faint bump of her stomach is well-hidden.

“Right,” she says quietly. “And so it begins.”

“Do you feel ready?”

“To play hostess? I’ve learned a thing or two over the past year.” She leans against me, our shoulders touching. “Your brother hosts more than his share of events.”

I smile crookedly. Cole has a fine appreciation for parties like this-for the networking opportunities they present. He knows that he can extend an invitation to the right people and most would come on the basis of his reputation alone. A smile here and a handshake there and he paves the way for future business ventures.

In many ways, I want to be like him. It’s that quiet desire that once drove me to start my own fashion brand. Watching the cars being carefully parked by the hired valets, I let my mind trace the contours of that old failure again.

For a long time, I hadn’t wanted to be seen in public. The headlines had been that scathing. Unfinished and unformed, they’d called my collection. Derivative. One reviewer had written a sentence that made my heart stop. She’s clearly wasting her brother’s money, but then again, he has money to waste.

I had prayed for Cole to never read that article. But it little mattered if he did-the truth had been there anyway. Not that he had ever once breathed a word of that sentiment to me.