Page 2 of No More Billionaires

Still keeping my eyes down, I worked to make my voice steady and even. “I’ve got the fire chief in Carutherstown lined up for a phoner. I’m working on a possible iReporter.”

“Okay, great. Thanks.” A pause. “You look lovely tonight, by the way.” He rose and sauntered off toward the studio.

I resumed breathing and finally looked up, watching his retreating form—tall and lean, wide shoulders, perfectly-cut dark brown hair. As he did every weeknight, he wore a beautiful suit that probably cost more than my car—designer label, without a doubt.

Not that WNN was famous for its high salaries. No, Larson didn’t need the money. Everyone here knew he was the only son of Warren Overstreet, the president and CEO of Overstreet Resources, one of the oldest and largest asset management firms in the country.

His mother was Corina Videau, the famous clothing designer and heir to the Vivienne Videau cosmetics fortune. Larson didn’t have to work a day in his life if he didn’t want to.

Maybe he hadn’t been satisfied with being obscenely rich—he needed to be famous, too. It had probably taken Mom and Dad one or two phone calls to get him on air here, hosting his own show. At twenty-eight years old.

Hmph. Rich boys.“You look lovely tonight,” I lowered my voice and mocked his compliment, certain it wasn’t sincere. “Smooth-talking jerk.”

Deb’s fingers paused on her keyboard. “You should be nicer to him. He’s just being friendly. And he’s not a jerk. He’s really sweet once you get to know him.” She gave me a reproving look, her sharp brown eyes seeing right through me.

Though we’d known each other only a month, she was one of those people who lured you right past the shallow end of small talk and into the deep end of real life before you’d even had a chance to acclimate to the water. We discussed far more than work during our long hours here.

And Larson might as well have been Deb’s second son, as much as she doted on him. In fact, pretty much everyone around here kissed his privileged butt.

He’d been deemed WNN’s rising star and potential ratings savior, the embodiment of the network’s hopes of bringing in the coveted younger demographic.

“I won’t be ‘getting to know’ him, and he could be made of pure sugarcane for all I care—he’s not my type,” I muttered to Deb, unrepentant.

“What? Single, handsome, and rich?” She laughed.

“Single and handsome I have no problem with.”

“Oh, so it’s the whole double-heir-to-the-wealthiest-families-in-America thing that bothers you. I can see how that would be a huge turnoff.”

She looked up from her monitor and smirked at me.

I had to laugh. “It is actually. I know—I’m weird. Do you know anyone nice from the feed room, maybe? Any twenty-five-year-old unpaid interns still living in their parents’ basements? That’s more my speed these days.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, kiddo. You could totally land a guy like Larson.”

The muscles between my shoulder blades tightened. Deb had no idea what a nerve she’d hit.

“I’m not selling myself short. I just don’t happen to like rich men.”

Ihadliked one, loved him in fact. But three weeks before our enormous society wedding, he’d informed meGodhad told him to break up with me.

Apparently, the Almighty already had His divine eye on someone new for Hisdevoutfollower because Mark had immediately shown up in public with a new girlfriend.

They were now quite in love, or so I heard.

Deb leaned back in her chair and stretched, then scrubbed her fingers through her dark, short-cropped hair before sitting up straight again.

“Well, all I’m saying is you should take it easy on Larson—give the guy a chance. He doesn’t have too many real friends here. And underneath that silver-spoon, Park Avenue exterior is the kind of boy you want to bring home to Momma.”

I literally shuddered at that thought. “Mine would marry him herself if he looked at her twice.”

The only person more distressed than me by my broken engagement had been my mother.

Mark Fitzsimmons (of the Buckhead Fitzsimmons) hadn’t just been my fiancé. He’d been her trophy, a wealthy future son-in-law to parade around at social events, a name to drop among friends at the country club my parents couldn’t really afford.

He was living proof she’d done her job—made her daughter desirable to a man from Atlanta’s highest social echelon and married her off to money—almost.

My phone rang, and I checked the screen—Missouri area code.

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