Page 17 of Billion Dollar Mistake

Jeremy: Are you calling me pretty? Didn’t we talk about names?

Nova: Okay. How about Doctor Lincoln...is that better?

My dick hardens at the thought of how that would sound leaving her mouth. Doctor Lincoln.

Jeremy: Much.

Nova: Why aren’t you going?

I attend several charity gala’s every year, which may surprise some, but I genuinely enjoy them. It’s not the type of event I loathe, like a party; rather, it’s an opportunity to support a cause, celebrate achievements, raise awareness and leave feeling incredibly inspired.

Jeremy: I have work in Boston.

Nova: I was hoping to read about the non-playboy…playboy.

Jeremy: Sorry to disappoint.

Nova: Yeah, I am a little disappointed. Plus, I was hoping to get an invite.

I sit up straighter as my desk phone rings. I pick it up and Kirstie is letting me know my brother Evan is here. I tell her to let him in. Kirstie has been with me for the last five years. She’s in her forties and keeps me organized. I’d be lost without her.

I hang up and type back quickly.

Jeremy: Maybe next year?

Nova: Will we still be talking next year?

I turn my head away and rub the back of my neck in thought before I type back.

Jeremy: Sure. We’re friends.

My office door opens as I put my phone away. My older brother appears wearing his usual serious face. I’d scowl, but he scares me.

“You work too much.”

My body tenses. I’m used to hearing that. Especially from women. They sneer or roll their eyes at me every time I grab my phone.

Maybe it’s my fault. I never actually had my heart in the same place they did.

“You work more than me, dickhead,” I reply defensively. He closes the door behind him.

“Touché.”

They all try to rile me up. But being one of four brothers, it’s bound to happen.

“Are you coming to dinner on Sunday?” he asks, making himself a drink.

“I don’t know. I’m in the middle of a big deal.” I exhale.

He strides over from the drink trolley to the large windows overlooking New York City. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

He cradles a crystal glass with amber liquid and ice. My mouth suddenly dries. I stand and stroll to the cart, pouring my own. “It is, if the guy wasn’t a clown.”

Evan turns around and leans his hip against the window frame. “What do you mean?”

I suck in a breath, recalling the meeting––or lack thereof, I should say.

“This guy is just––” I fill my glass and cradle it back to my office chair, tapping the glass with my fingernail. “An unprofessional amateur. He doesn’t take other people's time seriously.”

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