Page 2 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)
Beside me, Abigail shifts, taking in this new addition. I wish, desperately, that I’d included her in my plan, asked her to fake being sick. Take a faux emergency call. Anything to get me off of this rooftop.
“Oh, Clark,” says my father, raising his eyebrows but not sounding surprised. “I didn’t know you were in the microchip business.”
“I’m not,” Clark says, taking a quick sip of his martini, his gaze darting past me and to Abigail. I’m not planning to keep seeing her after this, but I feel something rise up inside me, and I shift between them, scowling. Clark grins at me, then finishes, “But anyone knows that’s the right move.”
To the outside world, I remain collected, but the frustration curls inside me like a tendril of black smoke.
Clark has been the smudge on my windshield since we met in business school — the consistent and persistent pain in my ass.
If I entered the business proposal contest, so did Clark.
When my friend and I signed up for doubles, of course, Clark did, too.
Every extracurricular, every sport, every internship or externship.
Clark was right there, winning smile. And, even more infuriatingly, we traded wins, and the losses to him hurt more than to anyone else.
Then, as the final blow, he made sure to go after my girlfriend right before graduation. I didn’t care much — I make sure never to get too attached to the people I date — but it was still grating that he posted pictures with her weeks later, the two of them smiling on a beach.
That didn’t matter half as much as Clark getting on Business National ’s Forty Under Forty list, while I was notably left off. When I mentioned it to my father, he just shook his head, saying something like, “Look at his net worth , that’s what matters.”
“But tech isn’t the right game,” Clark says now, lifting his eyebrows, like he has so much wisdom to impart upon us. I hate how the other people at the table are waiting for him to finish, hanging on his every word. “We all know what the real investment opportunity is right now.”
When there’s a beat of silence at the table, Clark follows through on the act, raising his eyebrows and making a stupidly calculated face. “Right?”
“Clearly not,” I deadpan, hoping the meaning is clear: This is boring, can we move on ?
Clark shoots me back a grin, then says, “Oh, Elliot. Nice to see you again.”
“I’m sure it is.”
Ignoring that, Clark says, “If you’re looking to invest, the best choice right now is women’s athletics.”
He enunciates each vowel and consonant, turning his head to catch the gaze of each person at the table, like he’s a professor and we’re all his pupils, ready to drink in knowledge. Even Abigail looks transfixed, and I work hard to keep from rolling my eyes.
“Psht.” My father immediately raises his hand, waving it through the air and shaking his head.
When it comes to ventures, he has a very specific set of parameters around what is and isn’t a good idea.
“Sports investing is always a bad idea — more show and flash. No real good money. Seems every rich man thinks he needs to own a sports team instead of a sports car, now.”
“But yes, Altman, think about the timing.” Clark is getting excited, his cheeks flushing as he leans over the table, fixing my father with a look.
“That college girl from Nebraska, the basketball player? The entire nation was twisted up in that whole thing. Record viewership. That’s just an example of how women’s sports are about to heat up. ”
“ One girl,” my father retorts, “does not mean you should invest in a whole industry. Besides, people like college sports more, isn’t that right?
College sports are tied to the university.
They have the backing of the school, loyal fans already lined up.
Professional sports are a whole different ball game. ”
“Ha.” I laugh into my glass, then realize my whiskey is already gone. Dad doesn’t see the pun he’s made, and shoots me a strange look.
“The tides are turning, Frank.” Clark sips on his martini, the drizzle outside still coming down steadily behind his head. Across the bar, people are watching reruns of the day’s matches on the TV. “People want to see women play. Think about women’s basketball alone. Record numbers.”
Abigail shifts beside me, looking around, either bored or uncomfortable. I will her to voice that — ask to leave. That would be the perfect out. But she just looks down into her drink, letting out a quiet breath.
“And besides,” Clark says, shrugging as he pops the olive from his martini in his mouth.
“I’ve got all the evidence I need. Bought myself a soccer team in San Francisco — seen excellent returns in the previous two quarters alone.
They were nearly undefeated last season, and this one just started. We’re going to absolutely dominate.”
“Good for you,” my father, ever the pragmatist, says.
“Hey,” Clark glances over at me. “Not everyone can enter a new industry and make a profit.” He taps his temple. “Takes a special kind of business acumen.”
“Elliot,” Abigail says, tapping me on the arm. “I’m tired. Can we go back to the room?”
I just barely keep myself from saying, Thank God , and instead say, “Yeah. Just let me settle up.”
She walks away, collecting her coat and waiting at the elevator, and Clark gives me a knowing look, glancing between Abigail and me as I pay our bill.
“Pretty girl,” he says, still playing with the olive toothpick between his teeth. “Where’s that accent? Sydney?”
Leaning in close and throwing a few bills on the table for the tip, I manage to hiss, “Fuck off, Eddings,” between my teeth without anyone else hearing it.
Clark throws his head back and laughs as I walk away.
While Abigail and I are in the elevator, she runs her hand up my arm, but I can hardly focus on her. Instead, I drag my thumb over the edge of my phone, mind racing.
“Aren’t you coming?” Abigail asks when we get to the door of the suite, already pushing the sleeve of her dress over her shoulder.
“In a minute.” I clear my throat, waving her ahead into the bathroom while I uncap the whiskey in the room and start to pace. “I have a phone call to make.”
Ten minutes later, I’m on the phone with my assistant, Skylar, directing her to find me a women’s soccer team to buy — forget the price.