Page 15 of Wildest Dreams

Really now, asshole? But the truth was, to strike a deal with Bruce Marshall, I was willing to drag Dylan down the aisle kicking and screaming. This was my shot at becoming a billionaire. Not a millionaire—a billionaire. I had a once-in-a-lifetime idea and a lot of background knowledge. I just needed the connections, engineers, and seed money. This deal was so much more than just money. It was prestige. It was validation. It was everything.

“You do that now, son.” He rapped the table between us, standing up. “That’s a good idea right there.”

He was glowing with pride. This was good. Fantastic, even. Now all we needed was to sign the dotted line.

Instead of doing that, though, Bruce slapped his thigh and clucked his tongue. “Welp, I definitely want to hear more about that little app of yours.”

“More?” I blinked, confused. “I thought this meeting was it?”

“Yeah, I didn’t become a billionaire handing over huge amounts of money to people I don’t know.” He shook his head. “We don’t have to rush into this so fast. We’re a family company and like to get to know our partners and their families. Let’s take this one step at a time and see if we all get along. My wife will definitely want to chat with your lil miss, and I like to spend a weekend or two with people I consider accepting into myprofessional circle.” A weekend or two? Was he freaking kidding me?

Clearing my throat, I asked, “Do you have a timeline of how long it usually takes you to make a decision?”

“A month.” He shrugged. “Sometimes two. All depends on how fast we get to know each other and you send me all the info I need on your app. It’s not just about creating relationships. I have to make sure this idea of yours is legit.”

Fuck my life.

That meant a good number of 10k-a-week salaries to keep the hellion downstairs happy.

Looked like I was going to put an engagement ring on Dylan Casablancas’s finger after all.

DYLAN

Dylan, 18, Rhyland, 22

Roses are red

Violets are purple blue

Your beauty is too much to take

Please let me be your favorite mistake

I tossed another one of Tucker Reid’s desperate poems into the trash, yawning into my arm. My high-school bully turned besotted stalker was no Lord Byron. In fact, most of his weekly poems had more cheese in them than a baked ziti, to the point that I was beginning to develop lactose intolerance. If this was all Staindrop had to offer in terms of eligible men, I was inclined to become a nun. I wasn’t losing my virginity to that.

Row stuck his head through the gap between my bedroom door and the doorframe, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. “Dyl?”

Whirling around on my squeaky desk chair, I kicked the trash can under my desk. “What’s up?”

“Are you going to the graduation party in the moorlands tonight?” he murmured around the cigarette. “Rhy and I wanna crack open a few beers, but I figured I’d ask you first in case you need a ride.”

Something melted in my chest like butter on a hot pan. “Sitting this one out.”

There was no reason for me to go to the graduation party, really. Everyone was going to get drunk and celebrate moving away to college, while I was staying here.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have the grades to go to college. My GPA was 4.3, my extracurriculars were stellar, and I had letters of recommendation from everyone who’d ever met me. I loved studying. It wasn’t that. It was just…I needed to stay. For Row.

Row had been the one to take care of our mother all these years, and now that he was off to study abroad, someone had to hold the fort. It was time for me to pay my dues. To make sure Dad wasn’t hurting her.

“You sure?” Row’s dark eyebrows knit into a scowl. “I don’t mind not drinking. It’s no skin off my back.”

“Positive.” I picked up a book from my desk, leafing through it. My eyeballs stung with unshed tears, but I didn’t let them loose. I was going to be brave, just like Row had been.

Brave when my dad beat him whenever he was drunk, which was every day.

Brave when, after nights of taking abuse from Dad, he smiled at me across the breakfast table in the mornings, passed me the cereal box, gave me lunch money, and pretended he wasn’t dead inside.

Row didn’t know I was aware of the abuse Dad inflicted on him and Mama. I didn’t know why I was lucky enough to escape his wrath. But it didn’t matter.

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