Page 81 of Wildest Dreams

I scowled. “What are you talking about? This is an office building. You don’t have a private suite.”

“I have a private suite on every block in this city.”

We made our way down to the fourteenth floor—a half condo, half office setup with sleek, modern couches, sexy lighting, and sparse, modern furniture. Tate fixed us drinks, and we settled in recliners on the balcony, both of us staring at the view.

“My date caught you fucking Row’s baby sister when she went to the restroom.” He cut straight to the chase.

Shit. When I did an inventory to check who was at the table, I forgot Tate’s latest conquest.

“We weren’t having sex,” I said wryly, twirling the tawny liquid in my beaker, watching the golden glow of it intensifying like the heart of a flame. “And if this is about upsetting your business partner—”

“Christ, no.” Tate’s facial expression was carved in stone. “If you think I give a fuck about anyone’s feelings, you haven’t been paying attention. I’m talking strictly business.”

“This fling between us is constructive to my deal with Bruce,” I lamented.

“It is,” he agreed brashly, “and I’m not opposed to you fucking her a few times before whatever this thing is runs its course. But it is my duty to warn you that you don’t want to get tangled up with someone with a kid and a bag full of issues.”

I snorted. “You can’t be serious. Me? Monogamy? Kids?”

“I see the way you look at her,” Tate said tersely.

“Yeah, and how is that?”

“Like she’s a pied piper about to lure you to the edge of a cliff.”

Clicking my tongue, I shot up to my feet. “Is that all?”

“No.” Tate remained seated. “Bruce is playing you. There’s no reason for you to sit around and wait for him to sign the contract. For fifty-five percent of the company, I’ll offer you the same seed money as Bruce and ten million in ad budget.”

My jaw nearly hit the granite of his balcony. It was a good offer. And it was an offer that could pull me out of the financialtrouble I was currently swimming in. My fridge was emptier than Tate’s chest. It took me a second to think it through.

“No,” I said.

“Fifty-one percent,” he bargained, standing up now too and looking at me like I’d just pissed in his soup.

“Tate, I want Bruce. He can take me to the next level.”

“I can do that too.” Tate, like all billionaire playboys, had a really hard time hearing the word no.

When I got into my car, I noticed a few text messages I’d missed when I was with Tate.

Mom: Where are you, Rhyland? We need you.

Mom: You’re so irresponsible for ignoring our calls.

Mom: We know where you live, you know.

Nothing said motherly love like Mafia tactics.

Mom: Fine. Have it your way. You’ll regret not answering us.

DYLAN

Aday later, I woke up to the chime of the doorbell. I dragged myself to the door, still half-asleep. Mama was already in the kitchen, making herself and Marty sandwiches ahead of her scheduled flight back home later that morning. I tossed the door open, expecting a package or a neighbor in need of a cup of sugar, only to find a delivery guy holding a peculiar bouquet.

“Dylan Casablancas?”

“Unfortunately,” I groaned. Damn hangover.

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