The Last Eligible Billionaire(45)

I blink.

I don’t have Begonia’s phone number.

How the fuck do I not have Begonia’s phone number?

I didn’t need it on the island, but I should’ve thought—and I didn’t—and fuck.

Robert, the second-in-command on my personal detail, visibly fights a smile as the car pulls away. “Got it right here for you, Ms. Therese.”

“Thank you, Robert.”

I don’t speak to either of them the rest of the ride, instead burying myself in email on my work cell phone, nor do I acknowledge when my personal cell phone vibrates with an incoming contact card from Robert.

Good man.

He’ll be finding a new bottle of his favorite brandy sitting on his doorstep this evening.

Since my parents persuaded me to come work for Razzle Dazzle on the financial side of the business a few years after I finished my master’s degree, I’ve split my time between the New York and California offices, so walking into headquarters today should be nothing new.

But it’s the first time I’ve walked in since my cousin Thomas passed unexpectedly, leaving the chief financial officer position vacant and me as the supposed best man for the job. Last week was spent communicating with the technical team, getting all the correct files unlocked and access granted, digging into active and upcoming issues, and having virtual meetings with various officers inside the company to get up to speed. Being back in the office now is the first time I’ve had to bother with things like personal assistants, a schedule full of meetings with officers and executives, and sitting in a chair once occupied by a relative I wish I’d spent more time with.

We rarely saw each other outside the office, and with my former role as associate vice president of financial affairs for parks, real estate, and development keeping me nearly as busy as the CFO position kept him, we rarely saw each other inside the office either.

It was a rare relationship that required little talking and less drama. While Keisha will forever be my favorite relative, I’ve realized I didn’t know what I had with Thomas until he was gone.

Also not helping?

Thomas’s executive assistant is out on maternity leave and won’t be returning. The one modicum of peace I’ve clung to after his death is knowing that he was able to see his daughter before the accident that claimed his life.

While my family won’t publicly claim Mirabella or her mother as Rutherfords, they’ll both be well cared for. And lest you think we’re heartless bastards who put our reputations above all else, the decision is as much Thomas’s secret girlfriend’s as it is ours.

She doesn’t want to raise her daughter in the limelight that comes with being part of my family.

God knows I understand that to my core.

But it means that I need a new executive assistant, and when I leave my office at quarter to two, there’s a wall of women crammed into my foyer who immediately leap to their feet.

There’s a damn wave going on in my office as if we’re at a baseball game.

I look at Therese. “Did you schedule the interviews simultaneously?”

She lowers her cat’s-eye glasses and smiles at me. “Of course not, Mr. Rutherford. But we did stress to all of the applicants that timeliness is important.”

I look at the wall of women again, and I turn and retreat into my office.

I don’t want to pick an assistant.

I want—

Fuck. I want to not be here.

I’m dialing Begonia’s number before I can think twice.

“Hello?”

“Begonia. I need—”

“Hayes! Hi, sweetie. Did you know downtown Albany has a performing arts center called The Egg? It’s amazing. And Nikolay said the right thing to the right person and we got this unbelievable behind-the-scenes tour that—”

“You know people,” I interrupt.

“Quite a few of them, yes.”

“Good. Come here. Now. I need someone to interview executive assistants for me.”

I can hear her blinking. “Can I—can I speak freely in front of Nikolay?” she whispers.

“No.”

She growls.

Begonia.

Begonia growls at me.

“What the hell kind of noise was that?” I ask.

“That’s me breathing very deeply before I don’t remind you that people like you don’t call people like me to do the things that you have other way more qualified people to do for you.”

“I don’t trust them.”

Fuck me.

That truly is the root of all of my problems.

I spin in my chair and peer out my top-floor window at downtown Albany. I can’t see The Egg, which is apparently exactly where Begonia is right at this minute, but I know roughly where it is and I can’t stop staring in that direction, hoping the buildings between us will disappear so that I can see her waving at me and telling me I’m being ridiculous.

And she’s right.

Powerful men from rich families don’t call the woman they found naked in their bathroom barely over a week ago and ask said woman to pick their new executive assistant.

“I don’t understand people,” I say slowly. “I don’t know if my temporary executive assistant is hitting on me or trying to annoy me, and I don’t know why everyone thinks getting married is some pinnacle event to be celebrated when it looks like shackles and chains to me. I know numbers. I was born and raised to be if not in this exact position for Razzle Dazzle, then damn close to it, and I know I can’t do my job without help, but I don’t know how to find the help, but you—you knock on doors and ask people for food not because we can’t afford it, but because you somehow know it would actually make other people happy to help. You know why people tick. You could probably tell me what Nikolay wants for Christmas, who his last girlfriend was, why they broke up, and if he has a favorite sports team, but I—”