Page 59 of Resisting the Billionaire

Gabriel

When Mackenzie said she was a one-woman business… she really meant it.

“Where does this go?” I hold up a red and yellow banner with a cartoonish circus tent on the front that readsHappy Birthday Jaden. They do know the kid can’t read, right?

She points over to the snow cone machine, knocking a party popper off the table in front of her. “Damn it,” she mutters, bending down, ass in the air, to retrieve it.

I watch her as she wiggles, her red dress acting like a beacon to my hyperactive imagination. Mackenzie underneath me on all fours, bent forward, begging me to take her. Sinking into her warmth, surrounded by her, her scent filling my nose…

The sharp yap of a dog brings me out of my daydreaming, a blonde in her mid-thirties right outside the gate of Worthington Place waving in my direction with a tiny fluff ball tucked under her arm.

“Hi, there!” she waves. “Can you let me in?”

There’s a loud thud as Mackenzie bangs her head from underneath the table, letting loose a soft four letter word I’d love to hear from her under different circumstances, and quickly backs out and hands what she had dropped to me, rushing to greet the woman. This must be the entitled mom she’s been grumbling under her breath about all morning.

Now I’ve seen my share of elaborate parties, but that’s with an unlimited budget. And from what Mackenzie said they’re paying, she really should have asked for more considering they expected her to set everything up herself.

They took the carnival theme to the extreme, complete with a face painter and balloon artist for a freaking one year old child. What are they going to do when the kid’s older? Actually rent out a circus?

I helped put together a ring toss, cornhole game, and balloon dartboard for the kids, and a dessert buffet table that includes a snow cone machine and cotton candy spinner in addition to the two-tier cake and matching cake pops decorated in the circus theme. Get ready for cavities, children.

The juggler dressed like a clown is already setting up his stuff across the way but I pay little attention to him as I watch Mackenzie and her client, the woman’s face attempting to frown but unable to manage it with the amount of Botox she’s had inserted.

“Everything okay?” I ask, wiping off my hands on my jeans as I join them.

“Actually, no,” the woman spits out. “The face painter-” The words die from her mouth as she makes eye contact with me, her body language transforming frompissed off and about to do something about ittototally chill.

“The face painter…” I helpfully supply, wondering if she’ll finish that sentence.

“You’re Gabriel Bishop,” she breathes, clutching the dog under her arm tightly to her chest.

I nod, not sure where she’s going with this.

“Are you- Do you live here?” She smooths her hair in place, giving me a flirtatious smile. “What brings you to my party?”

“He was the one that got us access to the garden here,” Mackenzie says, stepping in closer. Almost like she’s worried this woman might jump at me any second. “He’s a friend.”

I smother the sarcastic laugh that arises. As much as I’m hating the wordfriendright now, it’s the only thing I have to cling to.

“You’re friends with Gabriel Bishop?” the blonde asks, turning to Mackenzie with what appears to be newfound respect. “I had no idea.”

Well, hopefully she’ll tell everyone she knows and send business Mackenzie’s way then.

“So about the face painter?” I ask, trying to bring us back to the original topic.

“He called in sick,” Mackenzie sighs.

“So find someone else,” the woman says, a bit of a snap to her voice. But she then turns to me, ingratiating as she adds, “Not thatyouneed to worry about it. I’m so honored you would even stop by.”

She acts like I came because of her.

“Here’s the birthday boy,” a cheerful man in his early forties announces, opening the park gate with a chubby baby tucked securely in his arms. Thank God for a distraction.

I pull Mackenzie aside as the woman coos at the baby, sufficiently occupied. “Does she seriously expect you to find a replacement? Guests are arriving in ten minutes.”

“I guess.” She blows out a breath as she rolls her eyes. “I’m beginning to think the commission on this wasn’t worth the headache.” I eye the lines bracketing her mouth, her normal can-do attitude replaced by fatigue. And the party hasn’t even started.

“I’ll take care of it,” I tell her, pulling out my phone and bringing up Google to search for New York City face painters for hire.

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