Million Dollar Devil (Million Dollar #1)(3)

These millionaires are spoiled rotten, and I’m reeling from how badly these interviews went.

I tend to beat myself up for any mistake I make because I’ve been taught that failure is not an option. My father—the Harold Banks—believes that famed quote about failure being the road to growth is bullshit. He believes that aggrandizing failure is something only fools who can’t get it right the first time do.

He’s a tough act to follow, but follow him I do.

As I walk down the street after my lackluster interviews, I can’t bear the idea of going back to my father empty handed.

What did I expect? It’s not like I haven’t been around men like that all my life; they’re the same men that my father might consider worthy of me. Men like the eight I just met with are the reason I’m destined to be single the rest of my life. They’re so self-important that I could’ve offered them the world and it wouldn’t have been enough. Combine them with my dad, and I’d probably get more action as a nun.

“Are there no decent men left in the world, interested in hard work and good money?” I ask her, glaring down as I watch my feet move. “Sheesh, I offered a cool million for their troubles, and all they had to do was launch the product with me, be the face of our new menswear suits, wear them to a couple of events—and that’s that.”

“You know what . . . the ones who’ve already made a name for themselves are probably too big for your purposes.” She waits a beat. “A million dollars is chump change to Ferdinand Johnson. Maybe you should go smaller.”

She’s right about that. “Smaller. Hmm. Like . . . where do I find such a beast?”

“I don’t know. Take a walk around Midtown? Scour the wine bars? You’ll land on your feet. You always do.”

She seems to forget I live in Atlanta’s Midtown, and I’ve never seen anyone that even comes close to ticking off the boxes on my list. “Besides, I worry anyone smaller might be like Daniel.”

“Ugh,” she moans at the mention of my horrible ex, who was too afraid of my father to even show up to meet him. “Not every man will be as spineless as him. There are real men out there, I promise. So, what are you going to do?”

“Right now? I want to get hammered, like Ernest Hemingway hammered. Hemingway’s best works supposedly materialized when he had a bottle in hand. I’m giving it a try.”

“Well, I’d drink to that if I could. Right now, I can’t. One of the interns screwed up, so all hands are on deck tonight.”

I continue walking down the block with no idea of where I’m going, only certain that I can’t go home like this, and I certainly can’t go back to my father empty handed tomorrow. “God. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this job. Maybe I’d be better off working for someone else, someone easier to please.”

“You’re a Banks, lovely. Your father’s daughter through and through. You’ll think of something and make it happen, Liz.” Jeanine is trying to give me a pep talk, but it’s hard to let her words sink in.

“I have thought of something. I’m getting drunk and not going to work tomorrow,” I say.

She laughs, then says, “Okay. Have one drink. It’s on me. Then go home and put your mind to work—you’ll figure something out.”

“I see a bar. A seedy bar, which is good because I don’t want to bump into anyone I know in my hour of abject desperation. I’ll call you tomorrow—”

“Lizzy, are you sure—”

I hang up before she can protest and stare at the sign. TIM’S BAR.

Wow. I must have switched streets without noticing, and now I’m in a not-so-nice part of town, with my Hermès purse and my Louboutin shoes. I furtively scan up and down the dark streets. Something moves in the shadows of the narrow alley beside me, probably a sinister figure, like all these neighborhoods have. Oh god. Suddenly I feel naked. I might as well have MUG ME written on my forehead.

I’ve never gotten seriously drunk at a bar, for fear of embarrassing my father. At this place, however, good ole Tim’s Bar, I’ll bet there’s no one who’s even heard of him or our products. That’s just what I need.

But I can’t go inside, can I? Who knows what kind of rough, scary people are in there. Growing up, the most badass person I ever met was Sensei Tim, my Tuesday-Thursday judo instructor, and he lived in the suburbs and had a side business selling scented candles.

As I’m debating, Sinister Man steps out of the shadows. He has no teeth and slits for eyes, and impossibly, he’s even more sinister in the streetlight. “Hey, sweetie,” he hisses.

Oh, hell no.

Exhaling, I push open the door and throw myself inside, skidding to a stop and scanning my surroundings.

About fifty heads swing in my direction, like I’m the entertainment for the evening. It’s like the record playing on the old jukebox in the corner suddenly screeches off its track too.

I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. There’s a long, almost-empty bar and a couple of customers having nachos and chips and salsa at the tables.

But as I walk across the tilting cement floor, every single one of those eyes is on me.

What am I doing here, again?

Oh, right. Probably trying to get myself mugged.

No, this is a regular commercial establishment, like any other. I’m sure they’ll be happy to have my business.