Page 4 of Luck of the Draw

“It’s positivelysinful,” Orson hissed, casting a considerate glance at Brennan’s mother, Constance. She silently sipped from a fine china teacup, wearing a serene expression, and Orson tugged at his collar and adjusted his jacket. “I’m not paying for your gambling habit anymore.”

Brennan maintained his pleasant expression as he slid away his plate, picking up the folded papers and wiping them with his cloth napkin. He set the papers and napkin aside and rested his forearm on the table’s edge. “Now, Dad. You know more than half of my annual spending is going to Jimmy Hall’s record label.”

“Which is just fine.” Orson adjusted his tie and smoothed back his salt-and-pepper hair. “Mr. Hall’s business is a fine institution that contributes to maintaining the cultural fabric of New Orleans. You shoveling enough money into Harrah’s to fund a small country is not.”

“Well.” Brennan offered a devil-may-care grin and an arched eyebrow. “It could be argued that Harrah’s is contributing to the cultural fabric of New Orleans as well.”

Orson leveled his stone gaze at Brennan for a beat and then shoved back his chair, threw his napkin on his plate, and stood up. Brennan knew the posturing well and half-expected his father to snatch up his ear and drag him away from the table.

“Get up, son.” Orson leaned down to kiss Constance. “I’ll be back later, sugar.”

Brennan stood and pushed in his chair. “I gather that means I’m leaving as well, Mama.”

Constance folded her hands under her chin and offered Brennan a patient smile. “Try to behave yourself, sweetheart.” She gracefully tilted her head, offering her cheek, and Brennan kissed it. “Money doesn’t grow on trees.”

He buttoned his jacket and adjusted his tie as he stood up straight. “Of course, Mama.”

Bull.Shit.

Between owning Crescent City Coffee Traders, the second most successful coffee company in the world, and approximately a third of the properties in Downtown New Orleans, the Riley dynasty had more money than anyone would know what to do with in five lifetimes. This wasn’t aboutmoney. It was about control.

After all, Orson didn’t exactly approve of Brennan’s lifestyle.

But never mind. Orson would throw this little fit like he did approximately once a year or so, and then he would forget about Brennan’s spending habits. After that, Orson would revert to simply offering a sigh and an eye-roll when he caught wind of Brennan’s gambling or heard through the upper-crust society grapevine about his latest casual romantic encounter.

Brennan was known in the aforementioned upper-crust society as New Orleans’ resident gentleman rake—a title Constance Riley had vexedly bestowed upon him years ago. And Brennan claimed it with no small amount of pride.

“I wish you would settle down already,” one or both of his parents would often say.

“It’s not respectable.”

“Haven’t you gotten that nonsense out of your system yet?”

Well,no, of course he hadn’t gotten it out of his system yet. He never would either. After all, Brennan had already met his soulmate, and she was married to his best friend.

So,no, he wasn’t going to settle down.

Who, exactly, would he settle down with if not his soulmate?

Since she wasn’t available, Brennan had settled into something else.

One-night stands. A lot of them. On purpose.

No expectations, no harm, no foul, no additional little aching holes in his heart, and nothing but carefree fun in the City that Care Forgot.

Brennan followed Orson through the large foyer and out the front doors of the sprawling, lakefront house, the family’s in-town residence. Bishop, Orson’s middle-aged driver, was leaning against the hood of the pearlescent white sedan, staring at the screen of his phone.

Brennan patted his shoulder before opening the back door and sliding in. “How are you today, Mr. Livingston?”

“Just enjoying this crispy March weather.” Bishop slipped his phone in his pocket and strolled around to the front door just as Orson aggressively dropped himself in the backseat and slammed the door. Bishop glanced at them in the mirror. “Where we headed, Mr. Riley?”

“Frenchmen Street Records,” Orson clipped.

Brennan resisted the urge to groan and drummed his fingers on his lap. “Think we should maybe give Mr. Hall a heads-up before barging in?”

“It’s Wednesday afternoon.” Orson cut a seething glance at Brennan. “You’re supposedly an employee of his. You should already be there.”

“Mr. Hall’s employment practices are…” Brennan turned his palm over. “Untraditional.”

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