Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(27)

“I will be. Yes.”

He does a dance with an arm pump. “That means I’m asking for the new Xbox for Christmas.”

I laugh. “Yeah, maybe. Let’s take one day at a time.”

“Don’t fuck this up, Jimmy.”

“Hey, no. Watch your mouth.”

“Seriously, bro. This is an awesome chance for you. Sure, I’d like an Xbox, but if you do this, maybe we can afford to get real equipment for your channel. Go real places.” Another arm pump. “Maybe now you can choose your stunts a little more carefully too. Now I won’t have to worry about you getting yourself killed for a couple of bucks.”

I start to tell him that his perception of a couple of bucks and a few hundred is about as screwed up as my boss lady’s, but he’s already talking circles around me.

Charlie’s never looked happier, and for the first time in years, I see the light at the end of the tunnel. Charlie and I may make it out of the slums after all.





PROMISING

Elizabeth

I hardly slept. I was too excited, my creative juices flowing as ideas on the big launch in two and a half months flitted across my mind. Not to mention the memory of James Rowan sans beard, with that adorable dimple on full display and that mean, square jaw out in the open. Damn.

Add in what Jeanine and I talked about. I could use him and that body of his for a quick roll in the hay, and no one would have to know about it.

It was almost too much temptation to bear. It kept me writhing in bed, sleepless, all night.

Bursting with adrenaline early the next morning, I call my dad to see if he got into Minneapolis okay.

“Of course I got in okay. Why wouldn’t I?”

He sounds annoyed that I’m calling, and I stupidly realize I’m interrupting something. “Well, sometimes flights—”

“I fly private.” A meaningful silence. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Dad, take your blood pressure medicine!” I yell out as quickly as possible so that he hears the reminder.

There’s a long silence. “What?”

My stomach sinks as I realize.

“You forgot them. Didn’t you?”

His silence definitely confirms that he did.

“Dad, how can you be such a hotshot in business and at the same time not take care of the most important thing—your health? How long are you staying?”

“Couple more days,” he grumbles.

“I’ll send them over.”

He lets out an annoyed sigh. “Have you been in touch with LB? He told me you haven’t given him any of the plans for the West Coast Fashion Week, which is concerning him.”

“Oh. I was just planning to do that today,” I lie. Shit.

I hang up with my dad and call his secretary to get the hotel address as I head to his place.

I hate it when he doesn’t take his medicine. He starts getting headaches and doesn’t sleep well, and worst of all is . . . he puts himself in danger. Which isn’t like James Rowan, who does it on purpose. I know my dad simply forgets, but still.

My dad lives in THE apartment building of Atlanta, in THE penthouse of the city. Anyone would kill for this spot, but my dad would do the same to anyone who tried to take this away from him. He’s become who he is by hustling hard and often. And although he wasn’t born exactly into old money, he’s climbed society’s ladder carefully and methodically until people believe that he is the be-all and end-all of the city.

I head straight for the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom.

Pulling them out, checking each of the labels, and sticking them into ziplock bags. Aside from the labels on the bottles, I add Post-its with “a.m.” and “p.m.”—he needs two pills, twice a day, for both his systolic and diastolic numbers—and then I add one more Post-it that reads, “Take these daily!”

Once I’ve got it all perfect, I zip up the bags, stick them inside a padded envelope, and label it with the hotel address. And as I’m ready to leave, I pause as I cross his bedroom.

On the shelves lining the sides of the flat-screen TV, among books and collectibles, sort of hidden, is a framed photo of him and me. I can’t even remember who took it, but it is one of the few photographs that we have together.

Taking it in hand, I cross the room and set it on his nightstand, then step back to see how it looks. Surveying, I turn it just so, until it’s perfect. Then I organize the rest of the stuff on his nightstand—a Tiffany clock, a notepad and pen, and a tall reading lamp. Smiling when it looks good, I flip off the lights and head to the mail room.

I pull out my phone and open up an email to LB: An update for you on the menswear launch. I’m in the process of shoring up all the details for the West Coast Fashion Week launch, which I’ll send to you later today. Getting our model ready and I’ll have photos and a bio for you shortly.

I inspect the email and hit send. Good. That ought to shut my warden up.

Except he messages me right back.

Do you really even have a model or are you just buying time?

I’m fuming as I read it and decide not to reply. Images of walking into Banks LTD with a gorgeous, perfectly groomed, and to-die-for handsome James Rowan fill my head as I head home just in time to meet with James—except, forty minutes later, James still hasn’t showed.