by Elise Sax
“I’ve spent my entire life in the back seat. No more back of the bus for me. No more invisible woman. I’m not going to wait anymore, that’s how. I’m going to take the reins. Targeted strike. Drone attack. You should target a billionaire, too.”
Targeted strike. A billionaire.
A billionaire would probably not steal my furniture.
“I like the sound of this,” Olivia’s mother says. “Listen up, Olivia.”
Olivia lifts her head, but it seems like it’s too heavy because she plops it back down, again. “Listen to what? Target a billionaire? I can’t even target my husband.”
Rosalind stands and paces the room, zig-zagging and wobbling on her heels. She shakes her finger at the air while she talks. “This is just like a job search. We’re looking for someone to invest in who we are and what we can provide.”
“Doesn’t sound very romantic to me,” Olivia says.
Rosalind waves her hand at her, dismissing her. “Get your head out of the Gone With the Wind. This is the romance of the new millennium.”
“Isn’t a billionaire too much of a reach?” I ask. “How about a millionaire?”
Rosalind shakes her head. “No. A millionaire isn’t going to cut it. We need to go big or go home.”
“I wouldn’t mind going home. This is crazy-ass shit we’re doing.”
“It’s the crazy-ass shit that makes a billion dollars,” Rosalind insists. “I’ve got my billionaire lined up. If you can’t fight them, snag them.” She almost sounds like she’s making sense, but not quite. Still, I’m so drunk that I can’t separate the sensical from the nonsensical.
“I don’t know any billionaires,” Olivia says.
“We’re going to have to work together, help each other. One for all and all for one. These are big fish. Targeted strike. Who are you going to target, Beatrice?”
I slump down on the floor on my side, taking the M&Ms with me. I’ve eaten half of the bowl, and I’m working through the rest of it. Who am I going to target? Nobody. I’ve never targeted anyone, and…
“Holy smokes,” I say, chewing. Like a lightning bolt hitting me from the popcorn ceiling above me, I remember the billionaire in my life. Well, sort of in my life.
Rosalind wags her finger at me. “Look Olivia! Look!” she shouts, waking her up. “Beatrice has a target in mind.”
Olivia and her mother stare at me with rapt attention. I bite my lower lip.
“No, it wouldn’t work,” I say, chewing. “It can’t. He’s who he is, and I’m who I am.”
Diane turns off the television, and the room grows silent. The three women study me, waiting for me to speak. I shake my head. “No. It’s impossible.”
“Who is he?” Diane asks. She’s discovered a new show, but instead of on television, it’s me in her living room. I take some more M&Ms and pop them into my mouth. I don’t want to say any more. I’m sure that if I tell them anything about the billionaire who’s sort of in my life, they won’t stop asking me questions and pressuring me to jump all over him.
I think about jumping all over him, and I smile.
“Oh, he’s a good one,” Rosalind says. “Spill. Who is he?”
“I’ll tell you, but that’s it. We shut up about it after? Deal?”
Olivia gives me her Girl Scouts’ promise, but she has trouble getting three fingers to stay up. Rosalind gives me a Fonzie thumb, and Diane says, “Get on with it, already.”
I take a deep breath. I’ve never told anyone this before. It’s my big secret; bigger than my weight.
“Cole Stevens,” I say.
“The man who owns Idaho?” Diane asks.
“And half of Oregon?” Rosalind asks. “The aerospace king?”
That’s the one.
“And he saves abused horses,” I add. And he writes poetry. And he’s a cowboy…a cowboy in chaps and tight jeans and a big belt buckle in just the right place. Did I mention the dimple? Or the eyes…the melty, be mine, I’m-swallowing-my-tongue-looking-at-you eyes. “Give me another drink.”
We all have another drink, and this time, Diane joins us. I’m blotto, but Olivia can’t keep her head up, and Rosalind is slurring her speech, like someone cut her tongue out.
“How do you blow him?” she asks.
“Know him? I sort of work for him.” Not exactly. “I’m an event planner, and the company I work for is organizing a gala for him.”
“A gala sounds nice,” Diane says. “I’ve never been to a gala.”
“Cole puts on a charity rodeo every year,” I explain. “It draws people from everywhere, and this year, he’s having a gala, too. I’ve been planning it for four months. I have to go to Idaho next week.”
Rosalind says something, but I can’t make it out. Either she’s completely lost her ability to speak, or my ears aren’t working. Then, my eyes stop working, and it all goes dark.
Chapter 3
Beatrice
My tongue has sprouted hair, and my mouth tastes like something has crawled in it and died. I try to crack my eyes open, but the sliver of light sends a searing pain through my head, as if I’m being hit with a hammer.
Somebody moans. I think it’s me.
“Get off,” a gravelly voice says. I manage to open my eyes and see that I’m lying on the couch, half of my body on top of Olivia, practically smothering her. Rosalind is snoring under the coffee table, and the room looks like it’s been hit by a liquor store tidal wave.
Sitting up, I breathe through my nose to fight off my hangover nausea. “What happened?” I ask. My memory is fuzzy, like my tongue. There’s something about American Airlines and horses, but my brain won’t give up any more details.
The children make noise in their bedroom, and Olivia drags herself off the couch to attend to them. I’m struck by the weight of being a parent, and I decide to help her out by making her family breakfast.
My head pounds with each movement as I hobble to the kitchen. I find eggs and bread and start to make toast and scrambled eggs. The noise finally rouses Rosalind, who is still lying prone under the coffee table.
“What happened?” she moans. So much for filling the gaps in my memory. Alcohol is an unforgiving lover. At least I’m reasonably sure I didn’t dance naked on the table or embarrass myself too much.
“Coffee,” I say, unable to form full sentences. But Rosalind understands me. She struggles to stand and comes to the kitchen. Like a freak of nature, her clothes aren’t wrinkled, her hair is done perfectly, and her makeup is still in place.
“I hate you,” I mumble, but I don’t mean it. Despite Rosalind’s perfect wardrobe and Birkin bag, she’s kind and has adopted me like a best friend, big sister. She also knows how to make coffee. By the time I finish preparing breakfast and Olivia comes out with the kids, Rosalind pours me a cup, and I take a much-needed sip.
“What happened?” Olivia asks, making all three of us wondering the same thing. I help her get the children seated around the table, and I serve breakfast. She adds cereal and milk to the menu, pouring out four bowls.
Rosalind’s phone chirps, and she fishes it out of her purse. “This says that my seven tickets on American Airlines to Idaho this week are confirmed,” she says, showing us the phone. Her eyebrows knit together, and I can almost see a giant question mark appear over her head.
“That’s weird,” I say. “I’m going to Idaho this week, too.”
I freeze so suddenly that my coffee flies out of the cup, sending a stream of hot liquid over the kitchen floor. My brain whirrs to life, and the memories spill out. I slap my cheek.
“Oh God. What did we do?”
“Seven tickets?” Rosalind asks.
Olivia’s mother walks in, wearing another housedress and slippers. “I thought I smelled coffee,” she says, pouring herself a cup. “Are we all still here?”
“Diane, do you have any idea why I’ve bought seven tickets to Idaho?” Rosalind asks.
“’Cause we’re all going when Beatrice goes,” she says
.
I sit down on the couch. It’s all coming back to me, as if my brain in on rewind.
“All of us?” Rosalind asks, eyeing the children.
They finish eating, and Olivia turns on the TV to something educational and animated and sits her kids in front of it. There’s a look of panic on her face, and she herds all of the adults into the kitchen.
“What did we do? What did we do?” she demands.
We turn our heads to Diane, who is the only one not reeling from the effects of evil liquor.
“Operation Billionaire,” she says with a wide smile. She’s obviously delighted.
“Operation Billionaire,” Rosalind repeats. “I think it was my idea.”
“A genius idea,” Diane says with glee. “Three women. Three billionaires. Finally, my daughter will get the man she deserves.”
“Yes, Olivia deserves a good man,” I say, deflecting the attention from me because now I remember everything. Operation Billionaire is supposed to start with me. I’m the goat, the virgin for sacrifice, the poor patsy who’s going to make a fool out of herself.
I need a drink.
But it’s too late. They’ve remembered too. They stare at me with obvious intense purpose. “I’m not going to do it,” I say.
“We went through all this last night,” Rosalind insists. “You love a billionaire. He’s lined up for next week. You’ll be right there with him in Idaho. It’s kismet.”
“Ripe for the picking,” Diane agrees.
I cross my arms in front of me and stomp a foot. “No. I refuse.”
“Not this, again,” Diane complains. “I had to listen to this all night. Back and forth. Back and forth. No. Yes. Yes. No. I’ve got a headache from it. You’ve got the goo-goo eyes for Cole Stevens. It’s a done deal.”
“You already agreed,” Rosalind says. “Even Olivia agrees. We’re your backup team, your pit stop crew…”
“Your backup singers. Your supporting actresses. We won’t let you down,” Olivia continues. “Besides, you said you love him. I think love deserves a chance…I mean, if it doesn’t get me pregnant.”
“I don’t love him.” It’s not a total lie. I have a horrible crush on Cole Stevens, but how can I love a man without knowing him? And who cares about love? I’ve loved a bunch of men, and now I don’t have a microwave. But this was the argument all night, and in the end, I did agree to Operation Billionaire. After all, what do I have to lose? Either I plot and plan and scheme with two new friends and an adopted mother and four children, or I can stay alone and apartment shop with bad credit.
“He’s a billionaire, Beatrice,” Diane says. “Don’t be an idiot.”
And that settles it. I’m not going to be an idiot. It’s all hands on deck to Idaho.
I land in Idaho in Cole Stevens’s private jet. Not the big one with the Jacuzzi, but the small one with the aromatherapy toilet, two flight attendants, and a barbecue lunch that they touched down for in West Texas. Despite fantasies to the contrary, the jet isn’t only for me. Cole Stevens sent it for the entire Extra Platinum Events staff that are handling some of the rodeo events and the gala. Fifteen, total.
I’m a junior assistant event planner, which means that I know how to use Excel, have a passing knowledge of CPR, and can walk twelve miles in high heels. All of these skills come in handy regularly. But as the private jet taxis at the small airport attached to Cole’s ranch, I worry that I won’t be able to take a step.
‘Cause I’m scared. Not the nervous to speak publicly kind of scared. I’m the Texas Chainsaw Massacre guy is all plugged in and heading toward me kind of scared. I grab the last rib off of the table and take a bite, while my colleagues shuffle out of the plane. One of the flight attendants eyes me, and I stick a finger up while I clean the bone of tangy meat.
I wonder if the pilots would fly me somewhere less scary, like Syria or North Korea, but they’re putting on their blazers and leaving the plane, too. One of the flight attendants looks at her fingernail and then throws a pointed look at the other flight attendant. I get the picture. They’re annoyed, and I’m causing trouble. I put the rib down. I wipe my hands on a napkin and grab my purse.
“Sorry,” I mumble and step outside.
There’s blue everywhere above me, and a bright sun shining in my eyes. It’s hot with a dry breeze. In the distance are pristine mountains and a lake, and just outside the airport, there’s forest, wide plains, and Cole’s ranch. I don’t see all that…basically, I just see the airport and the mountains in the distance, but I’ve seen the photos and helped create the content matter for the rodeo gala brochures, so I know it’s breathtaking and beautiful, and at the heart of it all is a six-foot-four, hunky alpha man with a talent for making money and other things.
I blush when I think about the other things.
Yes, I’ve fantasized about the other things. Athletic, creative other things.
“I can’t do this,” I say out loud.
“One foot after the other,” one of the pilots tells me, misunderstanding. I can do one foot after the other, but I can’t hunt and catch my billionaire crush. I’ve been bullied into exiting my comfort zone. I’m the victim of peer pressure. It’s a gateway drug to other things…like heroin or bungee jumping.
Rosalind has been generous and kind, letting me live with her while I’m homeless. I passed my extra time during the past few days calling my credit card companies, while she and Olivia planned the strategy for Operation Billionaire.
Waxing was involved.
So was intense Googling. It turns out that Olivia is a talented information gatherer. With a child in one arm and another attached to her leg, she’s gathered enough intelligence about Cole Stevens so that I now know his favorite brand of cereal—Frosted Flakes—and his favorite movie—Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid—and his Aunt Polly’s birthday—October twelfth.
Could a man be more perfect?
And now I’m supposed to seduce, nab, and seal the deal with him? Ridiculous.
What am I doing? I could get fired. I could get arrested. Worse, I could get laughed at.
My mind is made up. As soon as Rosalind and Olivia arrive, I’ll lay it out for them. I’m going to work the gala as usual, Rosalind can use the hotel’s spa, and Olivia can give her kids pony rides. But that’s it. Nothing more. Operation Billionaire is officially terminated. Now that I’m free from humiliating myself, I take a deep, healing breath. That’s better. Now I can do my job without worrying.
I take two steps down, delighted by my new resolve to do nothing, but my delight doesn’t last another step. Running across the tarmac is Rosalind along with Olivia, who’s pushing a four-seater stroller. They wave their arms at me, and Rosalind points at her watch, like time is of the essence, and my essence is late.
Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and my throat gets thick. It doesn’t look like they’re going to let me off the hook. They’re definitely determined, and they don’t look as if they would be convinced by my arguments. I get to the bottom of the stairs and open my mouth, fully intending to tell them about the change of plans, but Rosalind grabs my arm and starts talking a mile a minute.
“Diane is already setting up the headquarters. We have ninety minutes to get you ready for the first impression.” I pick up my suitcase, and we march across the tarmac at a fast clip. “First impressions are everything, you know. Essential. We can’t screw up before we start.”
“We have a headquarters?” I ask.
“The Silver Spurs Inn,” Olivia explains. “We have a double suite. There’s a Jacuzzi tub and a babysitter service. I’m never leaving.”
“Rosalind, you’re too generous,” I say, slightly uncomfortable. She has shelled out a lot of money to keep our Operation Billionaire going. I get the impression that she’s got family money—maybe a trust fund—in addition to her salary, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s been more or less supporting us this week.
She puts her hands up, as if she’s surrendering. “Don�
��t look at me. Stevens Enterprises gave you the upgrade when they found out that you brought your sisters and mother with you.”
“Oh,” I say, catching on to the lie. Of course, I’ll be so fired if my boss finds out that I’ve defrauded our client out of a double suite with a babysitting service. But it doesn’t matter because I’ll probably get fired, anyway, considering what we’re about to do.
“Ready?” Rosalind asks. I search my body for an ounce of the bravery I had on the plane to stand up to them. Nope, nothing there. I’m a lemming. A cow in the herd. I’m doomed to try to seduce a billionaire hunk…and fail, miserably.
“Ready for the cray-cray,” I say.
There are two vans waiting to take us to the Silver Spurs. The rest of my colleagues eye the four kids and decide to cram into one van, leaving me and my new family to fill up the second one. It takes Olivia fifteen minutes to pack her kids into the car seats, while I try to remember if I took my birth control pill this morning. It’s a toss up. I either took the Pill or a Claritin. I’ve been worried about hay fever around the rodeo horses, so the Claritin is a definite possibility. It’s not that I don’t want to have children. In fact, I want three, and I’ve already named them Kyle, Jason, and Betty. But that’s in the future when a miracle happens and I find a man who wants to marry me. For now, being near Olivia and her children make me believe that I could spontaneously get pregnant at any moment with four at a time, and the thought terrifies me too.
“Ready,” Olivia announces, plopping down on a seat and exhaling loudly from the exertion. The van drives off, but it’s a short ride to the inn. It’s all part of Cole’s vast ranch, which includes a main house, convention center, community center, and an equestrian center.
Lots of centers.
I could use some center. I’m totally off-center. I wouldn’t know my center if it hit me on my head. I’m probably leaning in my seat right this second and don’t even know it.
The van stops in front of the inn, and we shuffle out. “Every time we have to move five feet, it’s like planning the Normandy invasion,” Rosalind complains, as we help Olivia get the kids out of the car and back into the stroller.
