Page 10 of The Billionaire's Proposal

“I assure you that I operate legally, but yes, I have a business name. One of my clients unleashed his attorneys on me.” She pulls out her phone and taps on it. “Here. Do you think you could help with this?”

Cameron hands me her phone. As the video loads, it’s déjà vu. Then I realize I’m watching myself on her phone. I press the end key with my thumb.

“What is this, Ms. Darling? A shakedown?” Anger rushes through my veins. She has manipulated the situation to get on this show. “Are you trying to humiliate me?”

I feel the cameras zooming in. I knew she felt familiar, but I had never seen her with her legs covered or with her hair down, and the other two times, she wore Ray-Ban sunglasses.

“Me? I had to use my savings to hire a lawyer to defend against this nonsense.” She leans forward. “You, Mr. Worthington, signed a contract, agreeing for me to use your name, image, or likeness on any promotional materials. So, why is your company threatening me and my livelihood?”

Yeah, I had her all wrong—not sweet. Not innocent. She may be the devil in a sundress.

“I’m not sure you realize how big my company is. Twenty thousand employees. Five hundred in legal alone. It’s their job to protect me and my assets. If you can’t understand that, then you don’t have a clue how to run a business.”

“I know how to catch tuna. Do you?”

I push off against the picnic table and say, “We’re done here. I came here to give you advice. Work with you at your job, but God knows I’m not getting on a boat with you again.”

One cameraman keeps the focus on Cameron, and the other one follows me back to the car.

The producer slides in beside me. “What the hell was that?”

Jaclyn responds, “You picked the five women. What are the odds?”

Pinching my nose, I shake my head. Indeed. Do I believe in coincidences? Not usually.

“Mr. Worthington, if we’re not going to use her segment, we’ll need to go to the next contestant tomorrow to make up for it. We have a show to do, and we can’t dump it… the ratings are too good.”

“Pull up Margie’s number and send it to me.” I need to see her and ask her advice. Obviously, Cameron is cut from a blue-collar cloth like Margie. Maybe she’ll help me understand her better. “Then drop Jaclyn back at work.”

Margie is in Fort Myers and won’t be back for another few hours, so my driver drops me off at home. It’s inconceivable that she received a million dollars, and she’s still driving, but I have a thousand times as much, and I work every day, at least twelve hours a day.

Once Margie returns, she returns my call and invites me over as long as I bring the tequila. I don’t know where to turn for advice—she’s the only middle-class, blue-collar person I know.

“Winslow, you go back and apologize. Give her a choice to continue doing the show. You may get better ratings than you did with mine.” Margie pours us another shot while setting me straight.

I just hope I remember her words of wisdom because I haven’t drunk that much tequila since college.

The next morning, after drinking a mixture of avocados and egg to relieve the hangover, I immediately head for the legal department.

Chapter Seven

CAMERON

Ithought it would feel good to bring him down on camera. When recognition of who I was occurred to him, it left an awful taste in my mouth. His face reddened, but he didn’t clench his fists. Instead, he looked hurt and offended. I wanted to make him mad and show him what an asshole he looks like to regular, hard-working people. Although I achieved my goal, it left a sour taste in my mouth.

For two days, I’ve taken people out on the boat. One client catches a big tuna. I suspect it’s the same one from Mr. Worthington as it has multiple hook marks on his silvery blue skin. Another client, we take scuba diving along the reef. And one client books a champagne engagement party. For those types, I wear a dress—the same one I wore to meet Winslow Worthington.

As always, when I return home, I make dinner for one, pour a glass of wine, and watch the news. I had no idea they would still have a segment on trying to make the billionaire seem humble or normal.

He’s working with a female construction worker who flips houses. But she doesn’t do the designing and decorating; this woman takes down walls. Jackhammers floors. Tiles bathrooms.

Emory does all the things I wish I had time to do.

The video fades into them discussing how she ended up in construction.

She rubs her lips and hands together at the same time as they sit, eating sandwiches and drinking from a thermos. He seems normal when he’s not with me.

“Construction was the only job I could get when I got out of state-sponsored rehab. This job saved my life. When I was sad or angry, I could demolish shit.” They bleep over the word as the camera focuses in on her face; you can see her eyes watering. “In high school, I didn’t make any of the school teams, and my friends did. I no longer had as much in common with them, so I naturally found new friends. Bad influences. It started out with occasional pot or alcohol use until I seized at a party one night. Luckily, someone had enough wits about them to call an ambulance.”

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