Page 40 of Billion Dollar Revenge

“Hi.” I grumble at his nickname for me. Gram calls me E and he calls me Big E.

Striding in, he closes the door. “I finished my interview with Shyla.”

“I just read her write-up about you.” I stand up and walk over to make a drink.

“Is it good?” He follows me over to the bar cart.

“Yeah, you’ll like it.”

I hold up a glass, and Oliver nods.

“Will it help drum up business for opening night?”

I pour two glasses of bourbon into tumblers. “Yeah, she’ll create a buzz with this article.”

“I need all the art to be sold at auction.”

“Your mug on the front page will surely bring in extra eyes.”

He beams at me before his brow furrows. “I haven’t gotten my photo taken yet.”

I hand a glass of bourbon to him. “Why?”

He takes the drink from me and sips the amber liquid before answering. “They’re busy at the moment.”

I can’t understand. This article needs to be finished ASAP. I don’t like work strung along; I expect it to be done quickly and efficiently.

Walking back to my desk, I lower my glass with a thud. “Wait a second.” I pick up my phone and call Bobby.

He doesn’t answer, so I hang up. Irritation prickles my skin.

My desk phone rings, and my personal assistant Gabby informs me Bobby is on the line.

“Hi, Mr. Lincoln,” he says when I answer.

“In thirty minutes, I expect someone to take a photo of Oliver Lincoln for his upcoming news article.”

“Yes, sir, we just—”

I close my eyes and try not to let my personal feelings about Bobby become too apparent, reminding myself I’m at work. But I can’t keep all my irritation out of my words.

“I don’t want to hear it. Finish what needs to be done, and he’ll be there soon.” I hang up after he mumbles his agreement.

“Look at you being all fancy and shit.” Oliver snickers, sinking into the chair.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Oliver is more of the goofy, relaxed one. He’s the second youngest of the four Lincoln brothers, and he knows how to flirt his way into anything.

“Tell me, what do you need help with for opening night?” I ask.

“Nothing, everything is ready to go. I just need to convince an artist to come.”

I frown. “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

“She won’t answer my calls, emails, nothing.”

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