Page 35 of Perfect Assumption
“Obviously.” A heavy silence lies between us before a rough laugh escapes. I lean forward and place my head in my hands. “Christ, Lynne. What the hell are we supposed to do with more? We could never spend the money we have now in six lifetimes.”
“There are a lot of people who would be grateful,” she begins.
“Eight hundred and eighty million dollars. I’m just grateful the amount is still speculation.” I shudder, thinking about the constant eyes trained on me.
“Just until someone hacks your tax returns.” Her voice is cheerful.
“You’re such a bright ray of sunshine.”
“But I have an idea.”
“Does it involve making more money?” There’s a note of disgust in my voice I can’t quite hide.
“Yes—”
I groan loudly.
“—and no.”
I peek out at her from in between my fingers.
“You look ridiculous, for what it’s worth,” she declares.
I sit back in my chair and smile, really smile, for the first time since I stepped foot in the restaurant. “I thought you were supposed to pander to your clients’ egos.”
“If that happened, we might need to float you down Fifth Avenue for the Macy’s Day Parade in a few weeks.”
I press my lips together to hold in my laughter. “Do you want to tell me more about this investment now?”
“No.”
“No?” My brows lower to a V. “You want me to just blindly trust you to sink…”
“One hundred million,” Lynne announces as if I was going to give her my card to make a run to the nearest ATM.
I can’t even mouth the number back at her. My mind can’t even wrap around the figure she tossed out so carelessly. This wasn’t the lifestyle I grew up with. I lived in Manhattan, yes. I went to private schools, sure. Birthdays and holidays were special, but there weren’t keys to a yacht under the Christmas tree. Or even a Jet Ski for that matter. I wholeheartedly support why our parents raised Carys and me under a cloak of normalcy, but for us to have inherited such immense wealth upon their death with no warning still leaves us both reeling. “You’re out of your mind,” I finally manage to get out.
“I’m not telling you anything because it’s part of a Lockwood Industries deal. And Jared suggested you be brought into the pool of investors.” Lynne sits back as our waiter leans past her to place a plate between us. “Thank you.”
I mutter my thanks. “Oh.” Ryan Lockwood is one of the world’s youngest billionaires, having inherited his father’s shipping empire and grown it exponentially since his death. His husband, Jared Dalton, used to be my boss at Watson, Rubenstein, and Dalton, the firm I left to go work with Carys a few years ago. We’re not only fellow Harvard Law grads, albeit different years, but we’re neighbors, our condos located in adjoining buildings in Tribeca. “I feel like I’m being set up.”
Lynne reaches for a piece of baguette with some kind of fish on it. “You are.”
“Tell me this won’t involve some kind of media coverage with our names all over the place,” I warn her.
“They’re not stupid.” She rolls her eyes.
“Shit.” I reach over and squeeze her hand. “You can say it. I’m not thinking.”
“Why would I sayI’mnot thinking, Ward? Especially when that’s clearly the problemyou’rehaving today?”
It takes me a second before I grin at her refusal to parrot my words back at me. “How does your significant other handle your smart mouth?”
“You’re assuming I have time for one.” A look of amusement enters her eyes.
“Well, if you find one, they should consider themselves damn lucky to find someone like you.” And I’m not saying that because the woman seated next to me could drive me and Carys to financial ruin with a click of her fingers.
Lynne rolls her eyes. “Save your charm for someone who will appreciate it, Ward. Now, let me give you your annual indigestion while I talk about your portfolio.”
