The Billionaire Game 2

by Lila Monroe

  Maybe I was doing a poorer job of hiding my emotions than I thought, because Lacey did what she almost never did—what she was almost physically incapable of—and let it go. “All right.” Then she did a patently obvious fake double-take at the beginnings of a brassiere I had tacked up on my dressmaker’s model, and she swiftly switched the topic. “Oh my God, this is gorgeous!”

  Well, but I guess it really was. I’m not one to brag or anything.

  The fabric was gossamer, spun into tiny interlocking loops of lace so finely that at first glance the cloth seemed simply iridescent, the light reflecting and refracting off its surface. Only a closer look showed the infinitesimal gaps between threads, the lace forming patterns like the petals of roses.

  “It’s strapless, and check out that color,” I said proudly. “Completely invisible under the thinnest and lightest of clothing. And it’s way stronger than it looks, thanks to the underwire and reinforced seams.”

  Lacey was barely listening to my shop-talk, her eyes glazing over as she traced the fabric with a careful finger.

  I rushed ahead. “And I know you haven’t decided what kind of wedding dress to get yet, but this should pretty much cover all your bases. So.”

  Lacey’s jaw dropped. “This is for my—but you’ve been so busy, Katie, you shouldn’t have—”

  I let her stammer on for a few more seconds like a faulty tape recorder before I took pity on her and gave her a gentle punch to the shoulder. “Girl, there’s business, and then there’s friendship. What, you thought I was going to back out of designing your trousseau just because it’s a little inconvenient?”

  Lacey shook her head disbelievingly, eyes still wide with wonder. Her hand stole up to stroke the fabric again, as though she expected it to disappear like fairy gold.

  “A little inconvenient? Katie, you’ve been working eighteen hours a day on the rest of this stuff. I know because you called me up and told me, in between begging me for coffee and crying about how the bluebirds outside your window needed to shut up, fucking bluebirds, what the fuck did they have to complain about when you were this tired, etc., etc., ad infinitum. People have had to remind you to eat, to sleep—hell, I’m surprised people haven’t had to remind you to breathe! And you still found time for this?” Her eyes were wide and moist. “For me?”

  If she got anymore sappy I was going to start crying myself, and I have a strict rule against crying unless I’m reading or watching the scene where Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty tumble together over the falls. Hey, when you’re the sassy best friend with a heart of gold and skin of steel, you gotta protect your rep.

  “Don’t sweat it, Lacey,” I said as casually as I could, not quite looking her in the eye just in case that started the waterworks going like Niagara Falls. “You’re my BFF. Whether for bad boyfriends or sexy underwear or hiding the bodies of those who’ve hurt you, I’ve got your back. Wait, what are you—oof!”

  Lacey had ambushed me with an aggressively heartfelt hug, wrapping her arms around me with a strength that a boa constrictor could only envy.

  “You are the actual, literal best,” she whispered in my ear, her breath hitching. “When I think about how you stood by me through the whole thing with Grant, and gave me advice, and told me I was worth it, and let me make my own decisions—God, Kate, when I think where I would be without you—”

  Open displays of emotion make me more uncomfortable than itching powder in a pair of sandpaper panties, so I laughed awkwardly and patted her back.

  “Hey, this is all part of my master plan. Lacey Newman-Devlin’s wedding is going to be the fashion event of the century for the rich and easily parted with their money. Little did you know, ever since kindergarten I have carefully cultivated this friendship with you for one reason: because I knew that one day a billionaire would get the hots for you and throw a wedding so fancy that Louis the XIV spins in his grave with jealousy, and when that time came, you would order lingerie from me! It was tough tolerating your Goth phase, but I kept my eyes on the prize.”

  Lacey laughed through her grateful tears. “You were the one with the Goth phase! My parents wouldn’t let me get anything darker than a rainbow.” She squeezed me tight once more before releasing me. “Can I peek at the rest of it? Please please pretty please?”

  “Sure thing!” I pulled open a cabinet and slid a shelf out on its rollers, displaying the half of the trousseau that was finished, half-finished, or at least had its fabric or pattern picked out.

  Butterflies fought in my stomach between nervousness and anticipation—Lacey was my friend, and I was proud of the work I had done, but having her here in this store at this moment made her like a practice customer, and made me view everything through different and more critical eyes. What would I do if even a hint of disappointment crossed her face?

  “I took inspiration from the Heian era for the longer and more elaborate nightgowns, alternating between a wisteria layering, a spring green layering, and a kerria rose layering,” I said proudly. “For the smaller items, I’ve divided it between light colors for the wedding day itself and dark colors for the honeymoon; this carmine silk should really bring out your complexion, and the thread count on these panties here is to die for.”

  Lacey’s gaze wandered towards the back of the shelf where the products were more unfinished, and I felt worry start to wiggle its way between my shoulder blades.

  “The lines of that babydoll are all wrong, ignore that. And I’m still dithering between the wine red and the pale violet for the first peignoir. Ignore all that stitching on the teddy, I chose completely the wrong thread, I’ll redo the whole thing—”

  Lacey put a hand up to stop me. “Kate, it’s perfect.” Her fingers traced the golden thread around the bodice of the teddy, and a grin crossed her face that could only have been more wicked if she’d had green skin and a broomstick. “Oooh, I am going to give Grant a heart attack.”

  “And then you’ll inherit his billions and give me even more business as the eligible bachelors of San Francisco swoon after you!” I joked. “Lacey, you’re a genius.”

  “Since you’re already planning to take advantage of our friendship that way, can I prevail upon you to let me take advantage of you for a little bit today?” Lacey gave me puppy dog eyes that would have put a baby golden retriever to shame. “I know you’re swamped, and I feel like such a tool asking for this after seeing what you’ve already done—no, forget a tool, I feel like the entire stock of Home Depot—but I’ve got wedding dress fittings scheduled for the whole afternoon, and I could really use your eye for fashion. I’m hopeless; after the fifth one comes out they all start to blur together in my head.”

  “Please, girl, like you even have to ask.” I grabbed my purse, and quickly rooted around inside it to make sure I had my phone, my journal full of fashion notes, and the fabric samples I’d secretly been stockpiling in case Lacey needed any assistance asking a wedding boutique for alterations to an existing design. “An inside peek at what the elite are wearing to their weddings these days? Twist my arm harder, why don’t you?”

  Lacey’s reply was interrupted by a screech of tires so loud it could have been mistaken for a jet plane crashing into a herd of stray cats. Lacey and I barely had time to look at each other with raised eyebrows before Asher burst into the room, hair disheveled and breathing as hard as if he’d run here instead of pulling a wannabe Indy 500 act.

  “Holy blown car insurance, Batman, where’s the fire?” I smirked. “Is there even any rubber left on your tires at all?”

  “There’s only a little time left before the grand opening,” he said, still breathless in a way that I couldn’t help but respond to physically, my heart-rate increasing as I spotted the sheen of sweat on his neck next to his unbuttoned collar.

  Oh, but I could think of much more fun ways to bring that flush to his cheeks…Oops, Asher was still making mouth sounds. I should probably pay attention to those.

  “I finished up most of the legal aspects today
, but you and I still haven’t hammered out a long-term strategy. That’s vital if you plan to attract any other investors, or even get any good press. The nationwide periodicals won’t even use our business plan to mop up their spilled coffee if we can’t provide evidence that we’ve thought beyond the next decade.”

  “Not a problem,” I said. “Our focus is supposed to be state-wide at most, remember? Unique, not generic, so we don’t spread the brand too thin.”

  “It’s a mistake to ignore any opportunities,” Asher warned, running his hands through his hair in a doomed attempt to calm it, his efforts only making it more attractively ruffled. My hands itched to help him in that endeavor.

  “Well, thanks for the tip,” I said, slinging my purse over my shoulder. “But since I’m the business owner and oh, also an autonomous human being who’s just made plans, I’m going to have to take a rain check.”

  “Excuse me?” Asher said, his face reddening. Oh, no, someone had refused him something; probably his entire world was turning inside out or exploding or something.

  “That was a polite no,” I said. “Well, actually, a mildly polite verging into actually rude no, but I’m in a hurry. I have some important business of my own to attend to with Lacey, so if we could just come back later to this—”

  “This is more important,” Asher said dismissively.

  Lacey piped up, “It’s really okay if—” but I cut her off and stalked toward Asher.

  “Were you raised in a remote mountain village with a linguistically fascinating local dialect containing no word for ‘no?’” I asked, my temper starting to flare. “Because in English, we have the word ‘no’ and it is super useful. Watch this: no, Asher, I cannot stick around for a discussion right now, as I have a prior commitment. Do you need any more examples? I have soooo many more examples.”

  Behind me I heard Lacey choke down a guffaw, but then she put her arm on my shoulder: “Katie, you’ve already helped me out so much. If this is really important to your business, I don’t want to ruin that. We can have our discussion another time.”

  “Thank you for being the voice of reason,” Asher said with a smile that would have melted my panties if I hadn’t been so furious with him. As it was, it only raised them to a temperature slightly below that of bursting into flame. He turned to me. “See? She’s willing to put off your little gossip session.”

  I saw more shades of red than there are in an entire upscale fabric store. “Excuse me?”

  A wiser man might have backed down at the look in my eye, but Asher went on, oblivious to my irritation.

  “I’m sure you’re having a lot of fun catching up on the latest news in your little circle, but I’ve spent the entire day taking care of the company trademarks while you two lounged around giggling together. Or should I assume you don’t mind a hundred Indonesian knockoffs hitting the shelves and gouging your profits?”

  It was a good thing he was pretty.

  I could hear Lacey’s sharp intake of breath as she drew herself up to defend us, but I beat her to the punch:

  “Oh, I’m sorry I spent a ‘gossip session’ securing an appearance of my line for the social event of the year, where everybody who is anybody will want to know what the bride is wearing. Thanks for doing that trademark favor for me like you insisted on doing, and not being super passive-aggressive about it—oh, wait, remind me of what passive-aggression is again? Is it the exact thing you were just doing? Oh it was, wasn’t it? Oops, I’m so sorry.”

  Asher gritted his teeth. “Fine. Maybe I was a little harsh. But there’s a lot to do, and not much time left to do it in.”

  “There’s plenty of time—”

  “We’re opening in three weeks.”

  I think my heart actually stopped. I stared at him with my mouth wide open enough to catch every single insect in the Bay area. “What?”

  “That’s right.”

  My heart sped up then, double time, and the edges of my vision went white as my stomach dropped. “No. Way. That’s not the timeline we agreed on. Opening was supposed to be months from now. Why the hell did you move it up?”

  I thought I saw a flash of guilt pass over Asher’s face for just a second, but then his mask of composure fell back over his features, and he looked away. “Time is money,” he said vaguely, not meeting my eyes. “It’s a moot point anyway; I’ve already sent out the invitations and scheduled a press conference.”

  I was rapidly becoming more panicked than a chicken who’d taken a wrong turn into a wolf den. I turned to Lacey, spreading my hands in abject apology. “God, I’m so sorry, Lacey, I swear I wouldn’t cancel on you but—but three weeks oh my God—”

  Lacey patted my shoulder reassuringly, but the gesture failed in its intended purpose as my heart raced even faster. “Shush. I understand. You go rock that business world.” She enfolded me in another bone-crushing hug and whispered in my ear: “Try not to murder him, I don’t want to have to lie on the witness stand.”

  “Girl, if I do it right, they’ll never even find the body,” I whispered back.

  Asher crossed his arms as Lacey left, too busy looking satisfied with himself to notice Lacey blatantly checking out his ass, before raising an eyebrow and me and mouthing, ‘Hide the body in your bed.’

  I gave her dagger eyes and she skedaddled with a mischievous grin still on her face.

  “All right,” Asher said. “You ready to work?”

  I bit down my instinctual snarky retort and just nodded, firmly. “Always.”

  Asher had thrown me a curveball, but I wasn’t going to let his foul mood keep me from scoring the business touchdown of my dreams.

  …have I mentioned that I’m not really into baseball?

  THREE

  It was only a week later, but it felt like it had been a century. One of the really busy ones with a couple civil wars and an industrial revolution or two.

  I’d been working non-stop, switching from one task to another with barely a pause to scarf down a slice of pizza or catch a thirty second nap in the ladies’ room.

  The first step had been locating and hiring the contractors who were even now busily working on the storefront, the hammering of nails and the whine of power drills making a background soundtrack to every discussion in the store, while paint fumes fought with the perfumes and air fresheners we were smell-testing.

  Next, we’d needed to find skilled seamstresses to train and produce stock. I would have been over the moon to find even one on such short notice, but we ended up landing three: Gina, an older immigrant grandmother who had spent twenty years turning out blouses at a factory south of the border; Becky, a homemaker and quilting champion looking for something to do now that her kids had left the nest; and a mid-twentysomething cosplay girl called Lilly with purple dreadlocks and a pentagram pendant who knew more about hemming than most people know about their entire lives. In a word: my dream team. Wait, that’s three words. Still.

  Meanwhile Asher and I had been releasing quotes to the press and the fashion bloggers left and right, and the internet chatter looked to be building up to a perfect storm of anticipation, with only few easily ignored trolls trying to rain on the parade.

  All in all, we were miraculously close to opening in another few weeks, but we were slowed down by Asher’s insistence on butting heads every step of the way. Far from being the silent partner he’d promised to be, he was interrupting every discussion and second-guessing my every decision.

  The first contractors we’d hired had been too expensive for him, he refused to let me hire Lilly until she proved she could show up to work in something other than a bodice and baggy low-rise pants with an entire dungeon’s worth of chains on them, and he threw a hissy fit if I so much as commented on my own business’ Facebook page without having him check the grammar first.

  Okay, so he was right about the contractors in the end, but most of this stuff? It was just really petty and annoying. Like, why had he pushed the shortened timeline so hard if he couldn’t
handle the stress of it?

  Something was clearly eating at him. He was snappish and short with nearly everyone unless he made a concerted effort to be charming. He wasn’t eating nearly enough, and judging by the circles under his eyes, he wasn’t getting much sleep either. Maybe I was paying a little too much attention to the way he looked, but hey, I didn’t want him working himself into a grave. It wasn’t like I cared or anything. Not much.

  Besides, there was shortage of perfect asses in the world. It’d be a shame to lose his.

  Anyway, twice over the past few days I’d walked in on him having arguments over the phone, though I didn’t know what about—he hung up as soon as I entered the room.

  Which made me wonder: was he regretting investing in my business? Was the clear light of financial day making him realize what a foolish decision it had been? Was he wanting to back out?

  “No, no, and no.”

  On the other hand, someone who was trying to weasel his way out of a deal probably wouldn’t be this invested in picking out the furniture.

  “What’s wrong with it?” I asked.

  We were in the showroom of Dashner & Daughters, the most exclusive furniture-makers in the entire state, surrounded by velvet, gleaming leather, embossed brass, and polished teak. With experience in crafting everything from the pillow blocks of ancient China to the beds of the sixteenth century French court to the glamorous couches of 1920s Hollywood stars, Dashner & Daughters were the most sought after creators of their kind, and it normally took a year to even get a place on their waiting list. It spoke to Asher Young’s reputation and pull that we had managed to get in with only a phone call and a persuasive speech.

  Too bad he was vetoing every single thing he saw.

  “What’s wrong with it?” he echoed. “It costs more than we’re paying all your seamstresses for a month combined. That’s what’s wrong with it.”