The Billionaire Game(6)
“I second the motion,” Grant said, raising his glass as if for a toast.
Tonight’s dance/banquet/concert/general purpose give-us-your-money event was to raise funds for Grant’s latest favorite charity, a group that bussed kids in homeless shelters to the library every day, and watched over them while their parents were out working or looking for jobs. This time last year, the only charity Grant Devlin had been interested in was the Society for the Relief of Young Bimbos, but Lacey had made him a changed man. These days he actually sought out opportunities to do good on his own without any prompting, and when he encountered a cause that didn’t have a fundraiser—or even one that did, but didn’t seem big enough or glamorous enough to raise the necessary awareness or funds—he made one.
“So, how much are we getting so far?” I asked Grant.
He pulled up some numbers on his phone. “Oh, about seven million,” he said off-handedly. “But I think we can get it up to nine million by the end of the night, maybe even eleven. Thanks for donating those items to the auction table, by the way.”
“Well, I just hope you guys aren’t counting on me for that last two million,” I joked, trying to cover up my blush. Anything close to a compliment about my work tended to do that, and being asked to donate an item for a high-end auction definitely counted as a compliment. “I mean, I’m good, but I’m not sewing blood diamonds onto the fringes or anything.”
“Every little bit helps,” Lacey put in. “And don’t underestimate yourself, Katie. I’m pretty sure I saw Mariska Hargitay giving them the eye at the auction table earlier.”
“Detective Benson from Law and Order: Special Victims Unit?!” I squealed, traveling up the scale in about three seconds.
Grant rolled his eyes fondly. “I’ll leave you two ladies to the fangirling. I’ve got to circulate, press the flesh.”
Lacey made a mock-warning face. “Press the flesh, huh?”
Grant kissed her cheek. “Only of the oldest, ugliest, and most wealthy couples in the western hemisphere, I assure you.”
Lacey gave his butt a little swat. “Well, alright. As long as they don’t press back.”
They gave each other a lingering kiss on the lips before Grant headed out, and I looked steadfastly away, trying not to feel the jealousy worming up inside me. It was easier with Grant and Lacey than it had been with Dove and Asher, probably because I knew and liked the former. But it was still hard, to see that affection and to know that it was going to be awhile before I had that level of ease and comfort and love with another person again.
Lacey turned around just quickly enough to catch the chink in my armor, and her eyes went wide with sympathy. She patted my arm and lowered her voice. “How are you, really? Is Stevie still being an ass?”
“Calling that douchebag an ass is an insult to both donkeys and human anatomy,” I snapped, boiling over like Mount Vesuvius. “I can’t believe what I ever saw in that guy! I want to find a time machine and travel back in time and slap myself in the face the second I said yes to a date with him, and then slap him, and then slap him again, and then maybe push him in front of some oncoming traffic!” My volume had reached the point where people around us were pricking up their ears, so I took a deep breath and continued, slightly more quietly: “Or maybe just leave an anonymous tip with his advisor that half his thesis is plagiarized from the undergrad kids he T.A.’s.”
“It’s not too late to do that, is it?” Lacey asked, righteous indignation lighting her face up. “He shouldn’t get away with that!”
That’s my Lacey: valiant champion of underdogs everywhere. I felt a rush of affection for my best friend, and gave her a little shoulder-shove.
“Ah, that smarmy jerkwad would just have an excuse ready and waiting. Believe me, he’s agreed with so many of his advisors’ opinions that the man thinks the sun shines out of his ass and is responsible for our temperate California climate.”
Lacey made a sympathetic noise. “That sucks. Sorry it’s so hard right now.”
“He’ll get what’s coming to him eventually,” I prophesied, though I wasn’t sure how that was ever going to happen, especially when I had trouble getting him to just leave me alone. Maybe an intervention by the United Nations? “I don’t want to spend this whole evening moaning about Steve the Thesis Hunter. Let’s talk about something happy, like kittens or my imminent business success or how fly you look in that dress. Present from Grant?”
“Bought this one myself, actually,” Lacey said proudly. “From a designer I discovered while we were in Milan. Although—” and her eyes sparkled with mischief—“you could say that what I’m wearing underneath is a present for Grant. From me, and indirectly, from you.”
“You go, girl!” I said. “Damn, but I remember when it was like pulling teeth to get you to wear my designs for a man. It was all, ‘Kate, he’s an *,’ and ‘Kate, I don’t like him like that,’ and ‘Okay, yes, Kate, we slept together and it was amazing but now he’s brooding at me like he thinks he’s Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights’—”
“I never said that,” Lacey said, laughing and giving me a playful shove. “You’re the one with all the fancy literary references; I just go for my spy shows and the occasional movie. Though if you’re looking for a Heathcliff, I think Mr. Dark and Broody over there has been giving you the eye.”