Page 1 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)
ELLIOT
“ I can’t help it, I’m nervous.”
Abigail Bailey fusses at my side, and I set a reassuring hand on her arm, sparing her a quick glance as we maneuver our way through tables, laughing socialites, scrubbed-up athletes.
The woman on my arm is tall and blonde, sporting a thick Australian accent and a hatred of rainy weather, clouds, anything but sunshine and high tide.
She’s the kind of woman you can easily imagine on a surfboard, soaking wet, in a stark white bikini that stands out against her tanned skin and looks even better on the floor of a hotel room.
Which is where I wish we were right now, instead of making our way through this bar, surrounded by the sound of light chatter and the twinkling of fake laughter.
“Abigail,” I murmur to her, dipping my head so she can hear me. Her nose wrinkles at how I address her. Her friends call her Abby. But I’m not her friend, and I don’t intend on seeing her after I leave London. “In the absolute kindest way possible, he’ll barely notice you. Take solace in that.”
Despite my best efforts, I’ve been roped into having drinks with my father, which means those drinks will be with at least half a dozen of his business “friends.” Abigail, unfortunately, has interpreted this as a meet-the-parents situation, despite the fact that we’ve only been spending time together for a few weeks, and I would never subject a girl as nice as she is to meeting my parents.
Currently, my strategy is to be in and out of here as quickly as possible. Show my face, appease my father, and get back to my hotel room.
I don’t even want to be in this country . Let alone in this bar.
“Elliot!”
One always hears my father before seeing him, his loud, booming voice much bigger than his actual frame. I have several inches on him, but you’d never guess it by the way he says my name.
“Dad.” I shake his hand when he holds it out to me, then gesture to Abigail. “This is Abigail. It’s her first time in London.”
He ushers us over to a table, summons a waiter to take our drinks, and the moment we’re settled in, Abigail leans forward, both elbows on the table, her blond hair swinging.
“I swear,” she says, all bubbles and frenetic energy, “Wimbledon is the only reason I’d come to London.”
Beyond the glass walls of the rooftop bar, a slight drizzle mists the sky, blurring the lights from the taxis and businesses below.
Big Ben is faint in the distance, barely visible through the fog.
Down on the street, honks ring out, shouts bounce through between the buildings.
But those sounds are shielded by the glass, muting the city for the patrons of this bar. To be seen, and not heard.
Dad quirks an eyebrow, apparently wanting to humor her. He and I both know he’s only waiting until he sees someone worth talking to, but Abigail seems pleased to have gained his attention.
My father is the type of man who always wears a suit — he’s not interested in fashion, or dressing to look younger — and a pair of sunglasses.
Now that it’s dark, those sunglasses are neatly folded and tucked into his front pocket.
His beard turned white ten years ago, and he keeps it in the same style as always, trimmed at a precise cut along his jaw.
“Come on,” he says, swirling his whiskey in the glass and flashing Abigail a winning smile. For all the world, he sounds like a used-cities salesman, about to tell Abigail why London is the exact perfect match for her, despite the price. “There are plenty of things to enjoy here.”
“Oh, sure,” Abigail laughs, waving a hand dismissively at the window beside us, which is streaked with the quicksilver rivulets, racing down the side of the building. “Starting with the weather.”
“It’s not so bad — think about it.” His thick eyebrows lower, and he eyes his drink again.
Our drinks arrive, and Dad continues on as the server sets them down. “Perfect weather for a fish and chips.”
Abigail wrinkles her nose, and I stifle a laugh into my shoulder. For all his people-reading skills, leave it to Frank Altman to completely misunderstand the woman beside me.
We haven’t talked about it, but Abigail hasn’t touched a single piece of meat in the entire time I’ve been seeing her.
So she’s — what? Vegan? Vegetarian? Besides, it only takes one glance to know a woman like this would never touch a food that greasy, meat or not.
Right now, she’s drinking a cucumber vodka, her lipstick not leaving a single print on the glass.
Dad’s eyes are on me when I straighten and take another drink. “Talked to anyone, Ethan? I saw you talking to Hemsworth down on the grass. Anything there?”
Kyle Hemsworth and I went to Harvard together.
He spent fifteen minutes boring me with stories of his twin sons, then I managed to come up with an excuse to get away from him.
Unlike my father, I’ve never found my business pursuits through networking.
I prefer to work alone, but if I don’t do a certain amount of showing face, he gets agitated enough to pester me about social events.
Lifting my glass to my lips, I shake my head, eyes practically on the ceiling. When I set it back down, I say, “No. Hemsworth is still dull, just like he was at school.”
Abigail giggles at that — she giggles at everything. It’s part of the reason I’ve liked having her around. An uncomplicated piece of Australian sunshine in my back pocket, everywhere I go.
“Ah, well. London is teeming with opportunities, Elliot. Keep your eyes open.” My father turns and surveys the room, eyebrows rising when he sees some of his buddies. “Here we are now!”
After a long day of sitting in the grim weather, watching tennis and making polite conversation, the last thing I want is to be in this bar, talking to a British version of the same twenty guys my father is always chatting with.
I glance at my watch — only fourteen more minutes left of the time I’ve allotted before leaving.
“We can make some room here,” I say, easing my hand onto Abigail’s thigh under the table, sending up a prayer that he’ll happily let me go this time. “Head back to our rooms for the night.”
“Ha.” He darts his eyes to me, letting out a quick laugh. “ That attitude is exactly what’s wrong with your brother. That’s why he can’t find success.”
“Your brother?” Abigail asks, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
That’s how I like it to stay. I wish Dad hadn’t brought him up — talking about Brandon always puts him in a bad mood.
“Yes.” My father abandons his scan of the room and turns back to us, that familiar pinch in his brow appearing, as it always does, at the mention of his other son. “A cautionary tale — you give a kid too much, and he gets it in his head to give it all away.”
I squeeze Abigail’s thigh, a silent plea for her to find a different topic of conversation, but she doesn’t catch it. “Give it all away?”
“Yes.” Dad turns back to the party, bringing his glass to his lips but not drinking.
“Got it in his head that divesting his money is going to make him a good person. This family has worked hard for centuries to amass that wealth — it’s not like it was handed to us.
And if you ask me, it’s just a cop-out after none of his own ventures panned out for him.
Brandon never learned how to work for anything. ”
“Oh,” Abigail says, nodding, though it’s clear she’s not really following. “Is Brandon here tonight?”
“No,” my father laughs, meeting my eyes. “We’re not entertaining him during this little phase.”
I bite my tongue, thinking of my father’s directive not to answer Brandon’s calls or texts until he comes to his senses.
Abigail glances at me, then opens her mouth to ask something else, but is cut off by the arrival of a pack of older men, all wearing suits and carrying their own drinks.
They stop with a rush of cologne, a different mix of scents from the luxury boutique, gifts from their wives they’ve been using faithfully for fifty years.
I’d be thankful for the interruption if it was anyone else.
But this group means talking about ventures, mergers, and investments, and I just don’t have the energy for it tonight.
I’m doing more than well enough for myself without the advice from men forty years my senior, those who know nothing about where the market is going — only where it’s been.
And, I notice, among them is Mr. Eddings — a British man my father’s age. My first introduction to the idea that someone could maintain a relationship with someone while hating their guts.
“Eddings,” my father says, grinning and shaking hands with the man.
There’s already a sour taste in my mouth — the Eddings travel in packs.
The men instantly devolve into talk of business, and I’m searching for an excuse to leave that won’t disappoint my father, when he nods his head at me, pulling me from my thoughts.
“See, Elliot,” he says, gesturing between one of the men and me. “I’ve been telling you, you should get into microchips. The demand is there.”
“Sure.” I raise an eyebrow and take a sip of my whiskey, glancing over at Abigail, who looks even more bored than I am.
Turning my attention back to my dad, I say, “But the barrier to entry is high. High enough that the industry could take a turn by the time you pour all your money into factories, right?”
“See, that’s why you contract.”
I’d recognize that voice anywhere, and it immediately sets me on edge. Where one goes, the other follows. I should have known there was no way I’d go to Wimbledon without running into Clark Eddings.
When I turn, I see him standing just at the edge of our table, a martini in his hand. Clark looks, annoyingly, exactly the same as he did while we were attending school together.
Black hair with far too much styling gel curls over his forehead. When he smiles a dimple pops in his cheek, and his voice is the same — annoying, posh, with rounded vowels.