Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 106150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Sweet fucking fuck. It was possible that Joey had a point about my nervous babbling.
“Bonjour, Mika, darling!” A woman nearby gave air-kisses to another woman before flashing perfect, bright-white teeth. “How long has it been? Eons. I haven’t seen you since Joplin’s wine tasting in SoHo.”
I resisted the urge to rub my damp palms against my thighs, feeling immediately and hopelessly out of place. My magician’s tux felt too tight despite being at least a size too big, and I doubted the name on my badge was the fakest thing in the room.
This glittering, champagne-bubble world was not one I’d ever dreamed of navigating, growing up in rural Indiana. In Linden, the richest family around were the Timmonses, who owned the local chicken operation, and Bucky Timmons hadn’t put on airs despite his dad always driving a tricked-out Ford F-350 that was never more than three years old. The only things I knew about the ultra-wealthy came from reality TV and the grocery store tabloids my mother sometimes read.
Now here I was in New York City, trying to get my project funded before I ran out of money entirely, which meant connecting with people as disconnected from my reality as aliens from another planet. And, I noted, hardly any of them were wearing their name badges.
I ducked behind a “Support the Coalition for Children” sign propped on an easel, took a deep breath, and used my fingernail to remove my name badge—or tried to, anyway. The damn thing snagged on the shiny material of Joey’s tux. The harder I tried to pick at it, the more it refused to budge, and I was afraid I’d end up destroying the tux if I kept trying.
My pits were noticeably wet by that point, my forehead damp with perspiration, which meant my curls were probably bouncing all over the place. I needed to find the man I was looking for before I ended up looking like a demented clown and smelling like something worse than Fritos.
I stood on tiptoe so I could peek over the sign to scan the crowd, but I didn’t see anyone who looked like Justin Hardy’s picture on his website because that would be too easy.
“You’re not going to find the handsome billionaire by hiding in the corner, Prince,” I grumbled to myself. “Get out there, pretend rich people aren’t incredibly intimidating, and get this done.” I tugged my tuxedo jacket down, set my shoulders back, and stepped out into the crowd of laughing socialites with an entirely put-upon confidence.
Immediately, someone bumped into me from behind like I was invisible, shoving me into the sign and setting it rocking on its flimsy stand. I grabbed it, terrified, but ended up knocking it off its perch and overbalancing myself at the same time. My foot came down on the sign—the slippery, slippery sign—and while my other foot dangled in the air, I sailed several feet across the black marble floor, only stopping when I managed to catch myself on a support pillar and duck into a shadowy alcove behind a potted fern.
“Good. Fucking. Fuck,” I panic-panted, bending over with my hands on my thighs so I could catch my breath.
Lay low, Joey had said. Be a quirky billionaire. I wasn’t sure skateboarding across the shiny floors of the Museum of Modern Art on a charity poster was what he’d had in mind.
Who knew fundraising galas could be so damn dangerous? Who knew one human could be so freaking awkward?
I hadn’t injured myself, though, so that was an improvement. I straightened up carefully and assessed the situation. No sprained muscles. No need to call an ambulance. Not even a rip in the tux. Best of all, no one in the crowd on the other side of the plant even seemed to have noticed, so I could still blend in—
“Impressive dismount,” the deepest, sexiest voice I’d ever heard said from behind me, laughter lurking in every golden syllable. “But I’m afraid you’re going to need to find your own potted plant to hide behind. This one’s taken.”
TWO
BASH
I was supposed to be climbing Mount Kinabalu this week.
I’d been prepared for some physical discomfort, for long days navigating unfamiliar terrain and communicating in a foreign language, but I relished the challenge and unpredictability of extreme adventures. Climbing icy peaks, diving out of airplanes, and rafting turbulent rivers pared a person’s existence down to their most important qualities: intelligence, courage, strength of will. That was what made them fun.
Then I’d made the mistake of answering my mother’s phone call.
One brief convo later—“Sebastian, darling, the Dayne family has donated hundreds of thousands to the Coalition for Children over the years. Your father and I are in the South of France and can’t possibly attend, but it wouldn’t do for us to snub the organization at their largest annual fundraiser. Can’t your trip wait?”—my expedition to Borneo had somehow morphed into a world-class guilt trip.