For a second, as she watched Montana bring the mike to his lips, her mouth went completely dry. He was gorgeous. And she recognized the song: the one he’d played the first night she’d known she was in love.
* * *
She remembered sitting next to Bobby Jo, the bonfire hot against her skin. Bobby Jo’s mother insisted Montana play a song on his guitar for them. At first Lily had only listened because Montana was so cute. His slow, sweet smile, the way his blue eyes lit up when she entered a room, and the magnet-like pull she felt for him got her attention.
But when she heard him play and then sing, she’d been lost.
He was good. More than good. It was like one of the times she’d been in art class and seen a picture of Starry Night by Van Gogh for the first time. Immediately, she’d recognized greatness. Montana had it.
The indescribable quality of greatness, even at sixteen, singing a song she’d never heard before—one he’d made up. The words had been so raw, so vulnerable, so everything. They’d made her feel like the first time she’d tasted peach ice cream when she was five at her grandmother’s house—surprised, delighted, wanting more.
When he’d ended, two of her friends had sat on the ground staring up at him, completely star struck. The same look they had when they watched MTV and Bon Jovi. But it didn’t matter, because the only one Montana looked at…was her.
The music ended and the crowd went wild, bringing her back to the present.
Finally, she let out a sigh of relief. She would give him the envelope and be done with Montana Crew—forever.
The Lucky Billionaire
The screens mounted around the room flashed to commercial and the spotlights dimmed. Ty Epperson ground his teeth.
“Thanks, Ty,” host Ginelle Beckett turned her dazzling white smile on him. “We appreciate you coming all this way.”
“No problem,” Ty tried to return her smile. The interview had been a disaster, he didn’t need to see Ginelle’s strained smile or read the trepidation in the camera operator’s eyes to know that.
He stood and made his way off the raised platform, across the black painted floor, and between the huge cameras that perched like a couple of prehistoric birds, their rounded lenses seeming to stare at him accusingly.
The studio floor buzzed with people—directors, producers, lighting and sound techs, camera operators—and a bunch of other people who were there for reasons he didn’t know. An upcoming guest was surrounded by an entourage in one corner, it looked like she was reciting some kind of tongue twister, while a short woman with bright purple hair dabbed makeup on her nose.
Ty hadn’t even thought to bring a makeup person; shoot, he didn’t even have a makeup person. He’d assumed the show would have that handled. Thank goodness his sister, Misty, had a small bottle of hairspray and a tiny pot of some kind of powder in her purse to take the shine off his face. He’d probably looked like a ghost up there next to Ginelle, but at least his nose wasn’t shiny.
Ty glanced back at the set for Wake UP LA, a homey looking arrangement of easy chairs, end tables stacked with books, rugs, and tall fake plants. He supposed the decor was designed to make viewers feel comfortable, but it’d done the exact opposite for him. Ginelle was still in her easy chair, her eyes focused on her tablet—probably prepping for her next guest.
“We’re back in two,” someone yelled and the noise level in the room decreased considerably.
Ty dodged a tangle of extension cords behind the cameras as a producer shuffled the next guest forward, the woman with the entourage. She flipped her bright red hair as she settled into the easy chair he’d just vacated. She looked a heck of a lot more comfortable than he’d felt.
He reached the line of folding chairs at the back of the studio and extended his hand to help Misty stand up. At seven months pregnant, his little sister wasn’t looking so little at the moment. “That was great,” she said, keeping an iron grip on his hand as he pulled her to her feet.
“Yeah, right. Were we at the same show?”
“It was fine,” Misty rolled her eyes. “You worry too much.”
By Ty knew better. The studio crew hurried about their jobs, but he wasn’t imagining their sideways glances, a discreet look of pity and mixed with antipathy. In this world, he’d committed the ultimate sin—not being good on TV.
“Ty, thanks for coming.” Rudy, one of the producers, came toward him with his hand outstretched.
“Thanks for having me,” Ty muttered as they shook hands. “Sorry it wasn’t a great interview.”
He waited for Rudy’s meaningless assurances, but instead, the producer gave a helpless shrug. “Well, not everyone is cut out for TV.”
Ouch.
Ty leaned in, keeping his voice low. “Uh, hey, I’ve got three more of these booked. Do you have any tips that could help me do a little better?”
Rudy’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? When?”
Ty nodded bitterly. “One on Friday and two next week.” He should cancel them, he knew it, but he couldn’t. For the first time in his life, he had a chance to impact something that really mattered to him and now he was blowing it.
Rudy’s black curls bounced against his forehead as he blew out his breath in thought. “Well, you could hire someone to represent you; Los Angeles is full of actors.”
“Do I have to use a talent agent or something for that?” Ty felt a headache coming on; he massaged the back of his neck.
“Yeah, I can email you a couple of people we use,” Rudy said. “Or, if you want to do it yourself, I’ve got some referrals to a couple of image consultants. They could ... you know, maybe coach you a little bit, help you feel more comfortable on camera.”
Yeah right. Like Ty would ever feel comfortable staring into that big, gaping lens.
Rudy was obviously anxious to get back to work. “That sounds great,” Ty said. “Can you send me names for agents and also a couple of those image consultant people?”
“Sure, I’ll email them to you when the show wraps.” Rudy clapped him on the shoulder as he turned to head back to the set. “Good luck, man.”
“Thanks.” Ty said. He’d need it.
* * *
Holland Morrissey leaned toward the mirrored panels of the elevator and examined her eyes. Still red, but not so puffy, thanks to a freezing cold washcloth and some artfully applied concealer.
The elevator dinged as it reached her floor and Holland stepped away from the wall and adjusted her heavy bag on her shoulder.
“Where have you been?” Angelete demanded as soon as Holland entered the office. Angelete sat at the huge, curved reception desk made of glass and wood. Over her head the company name, Enlighten Images, was painted on the wall.
“Sorry,” Holland replied. “Lost track of the time.” No need to let the world know she’s spent her lunch hour crying in her car.
Angelete wasn’t fooled. “Your one o’clock is waiting in your office,” she said with a sympathetic look.
“I don’t have a one o’clock,” Holland objected. “I checked my schedule right before I left and I’m free until two.”
“It’s a last minute; he said it was urgent. You were the only one with an opening today.”
Holland bit the inside of her cheek. Unless they asked for someone specific, new clients were assigned to whomever was available. Since she’d never been very good at networking and selling her skills, cold clients were always a blessing. “Okay, thanks,” she told Angelete. “Did they get a beverage?”
Angelete gave her a look. Of course they got a beverage. Angelete was a professional and did not appreciate the challenge.
“Sorry, forget it,” Holland backpedaled. She hurried down the hall and pushed open the door of her office.
As a junior image consultant, Holland’s office was tiny, barely room for a desk, two chairs, and a small filing cabinet. But it was a huge improvement from the cubicle where she’d spent her first eighteen months at Enlighten as an assistant consultant. A
t least now she had a window ... and a door.
A man and woman sat in the client chairs, their knees almost touching the desk. Or at least the man’s knees were. How tall was this guy anyway?
He turned and Holland stopped in the doorway as their eyes met. His eyes ... bedroom eyes, some would call them—deep brown and luscious, like pools of melted chocolate. Her stomach flipped as she took in the rest of him. Brown hair with a glint of red, freshly trimmed but in desperate need of some product. His long sideburns gave way to a somewhat scraggly beard that was coming in a touch redder than his hair and framed a pair of generous lips. He wore a green plaid shirt, untucked over jeans and a battered pair of gym shoes.
Holland’s gaze moved to the woman sitting beside him ... the very pregnant woman sitting beside him, and her hormones took the fast track back to normal. He was married. Bummer.
“I’m Holland Morrissey,” she said. She started toward her desk with a brisk, confident stride, but stopped again as the man got to his feet, completely blocking her path in the narrow space. She was in four inch heels and he towered over her.
“Ty Epperson,” he said, his voice deep and a little hesitant. “This is my sister, Misty.”
Holland’s hormones picked up again and she turned a bright smile on not-his-wife Misty.
Which one of them needed the makeover? With her creamy skin and pale blue eyes, Misty could be a stunner. But with minimal makeup and her auburn hair scraped into a ponytail, she definitely wasn’t taking advantage of her looks. Her blue maternity top stretched tightly over her protruding stomach and heavy breasts and her denim capris and black flats were dated and worn.
There was definitely potential for both of them.
“Nice to meet you both,” Holland said, taking a seat at her desk. “Ty Epperson ... that name sounds so familiar.” Come to think of it, he looked kind of familiar too, in a weird, do we ride the same bus kind of way.
Ty studied his shoes. “I won the Idaho state lottery a few months ago,” he said softly. “Maybe that’s where you heard of me.”
Holland did not normally keep tabs on the lottery, but now that he’d triggered her memory, she recalled seeing a picture of him, standing in front of a splashy background holding one of those ridiculous, oversized checks. And the check had been for—
Holland gaped at Ty. That’s why she remembered, the lottery had been for a huge amount; the whole country had gone crazy with people flying into Idaho specifically to buy tickets in the days before the drawing. “That was over a billion dollars,” she finally said.
“Yes ma’am,” Ty flushed. “One point two billion.”
Holland sat back in her chair with a thump. Billion ... with a “B.”
“S—so why are you here?” she managed.
“Well, I’ve started a non-profit group that’s dedicated to land conservation in Idaho,” Ty explained. “There’s a lot of development going on and not all of it’s good. So I got invited to LA to do some TV interviews and the first one, this morning, didn’t go so well. A guy at the studio gave me your number.”
Oh. They were back on familiar territory. Holland’s experienced eye took in Ty’s casual shirt, beat up shoes, off-brand jeans... he could definitely use some polish.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Misty broke in. Her blue eyes flashed a challenge at Holland. “I mean, he needs to be himself, right?”
“That’s true,” Holland said carefully. “But I’m sure you know how important first impressions can be, especially on TV.”
“The studio guy recommended we hire an actor to do the rest of the interviews and call it good,” Misty said. “And that’s what I think. Why should Ty put himself through all this just for a five minute interview?”
“Because it’s my company,” Ty told her in a tone that meant they’d obviously discussed this already.
“Plus you have a great angle,” Holland put in. “As the lottery winner, people are going to want to see you, not just some representative, no matter how good he or she might be.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” Ty said with a sigh. He raised and lowered his shoulders in resignation. “So, how do we start?”
“Don’t you want to see my portfolio, maybe call my references?” Holland asked.
Ty shook his head. “You’re a pretty lady who looks well put together. That’s good enough for me.”
Holland blushed. She never blushed. Why did his soft drawl feel like a warm blanket?
“Thanks,” she cleared her throat and tapped her tablet to bring up her calendar. “When is your next interview?”
Ty pulled a smartphone from his pocket and maneuvered through the icons to get to his own calendar. “Monday.”
“This Monday? As in four days?”
“Uh ... yeah. Is that going to be a problem?”
She wasn’t that busy and he wasn’t that rough. Yeah, kind of disheveled and definitely in need of some new clothes, but he was clean and looked fit. He wasn’t one of those clients where a personal trainer and a trip to the dentist were her top priorities.
“Well, how about we have a brief interview now so I can get to know you, then I can spend the rest of today working on a strategy?” she suggested.
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About the Author
Lucy McConnell has always been a reader and a writer. Once caught up in a story, she disappears into a cave until the first draft is done. She writes fantasy, clean romance, Christian romance, historical fiction, and cookbooks (under the name Christina Dymock.) Her Billionaire Marriage Broker series has hit bestseller status.
When she’s not writing, you can find her volunteering at the elementary school or church, shuttling kids to baseball, soccer, basketball, or rodeo, depending on the time of year; skiing with her family; wake boarding; cycling; baking; cooking; or curled up with a good book.
You can sign up for her newsletter and get the latest news by clicking here.
Or, you can visit her website at: http://lucymcconnell.wordpress.com/
The Reclusive Billionaire (Destination Billionaire Romance) Page 12
