Page 24 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)
ELLIOT
“ E lliot!”
My dad booms my name, his face bright, his smile wide as he slings his arms around me, pulling me in close. I freeze, surprised at the contact. He is not usually a hugging kind of guy, especially not with me.
The restaurant is the kind that serves too little and charges too much, with a wine list that could unfurl across the floor of the place, out the door, and down the street, but Mom chose it, so I try not to hate on it too much.
“Hey, Dad.” I pat him on the back, noticing the familiar scent of his ever-presence cologne. He’s a bit thinner than the last time I saw him, and I realize, with a start, that he’s getting old, his beard gray, more wrinkles on his face than before.
When I move to give my mom a hug, I notice the same about her, a slight hunch in her posture, her frame looking a little smaller than the last time I hugged her.
She’s wearing a flowery blouse and mustard orange pants, a bright outfit for her birthday, and something that contrasts with my dad, who’s in a simple navy suit.
“Happy birthday, Mom.” When I pull back, I pass her the little box with a ribbon around it. She smiles, but doesn’t have time to open it because the hostess arrives, showing us to our table.
We settle into the chairs, and that smile is still plastered on my dad’s face as he unrolls his napkin, lays it over his lap.
“I was surprised to see you selling that soccer team, son. Glad to see you have some good sense in you.”
I bite my tongue, look down at the table, realize I’ve been copying his movements, unrolling the napkin and putting it in my lap, just like him.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the expression of fury on Sophie’s face when she burst into that meeting room. Hear the angry, shaking tremor of her words.
Don’t worry about it, Mr. Altman. You and I don’t have a reason to talk, ever again.
To my father’s left, my mother sits quietly, her fingers working the edge of her napkin. It’s her birthday — the entire reason I’m in Manhattan — and for some reason, we’re talking about me.
“Right,” I force a laugh.
The last thing I want to do right now is talk about the team. Sophie isn’t answering my calls, and when I tried to find her at the practice facility, the players and Molly ran interference, all glaring at me with the same sour looks.
I wanted to snap at them, tell them all that I hadn’t sold the team yet — that they were still technically under my employment.
But the only person I really wanted to talk to was Sophie. And so far, she’s shown no interest in hearing what I have to say.
Now, just wanting to get out of my head and away from thoughts of Sophie for a second, I clear my throat, shift in my seat and turn my attention to Mom. “Are you doing anything fun for your birthday? You know, other than lunch with me?”
She brightens up, looking surprised that I asked. “Actually, the girls and I are going to take a trip out to Martha’s Vineyard and stay a few days. Felicity — you remember her? From Friends of the Library? She’s going to be making a trifle with?—”
The server arrives, and my mother pauses so we can place our orders. When the server moves away, I turn my attention to her again, but my father starts to speak.
“Derrick Mowlam, he was thinking about getting into that world. Buying a sports team of his own, but all his advisers warned against it. Especially with the way the economy is looking right now.” Dad blows a puff of air through his lips, shaking his head.
“People just don’t have as much disposable income. That means ticket sales go down.”
“Sure, sure.” I nod, wait for him to finish. He didn’t mean to interrupt Mom — he’d just forgotten she was talking when the server arrived.
But when I turn back to Mom, to ask her to go on, she’s looking down at her napkin.
Dad laughs a little, something sour in his voice. “I only hope you didn’t lose too much when you sold.”
This is the exact moment I thought about when I saw the amount, the offer, on paper. I sit up, meeting his eye.
“Actually.” I straighten my fork on the table. “I’ll be making a pretty return on it. Someone is offering five times the amount I paid for it.”
His eyebrows rise cartoonishly. “Is that so? Well, good for you.”
I pause, waiting for something more, but he just launches into a discussion about a Business National article that he read, the implications of work-from-home on the modern workplace.
The food comes, and he’s still going on, talking. No more mention of the team, of the sale, of the profit that I’ll be making.
My brain is still hovering five minutes before, waiting for a different feeling. The satisfaction of proving him wrong, showing that my investment actually did have a great profit tied to it.
But he just goes on, and I realize something: I really don’t care about the money.
What I wanted was some shred of recognition from my dad. For him to be proud of me. But, like always, he can only recognize a win for three seconds before moving onto the next thing.
If I don’t care about the money, and I’m not going to get his approval, then what am I doing this all for?
“Mom,” I say, interrupting my dad, who looks so shocked to be the one cut off that it takes him a moment to even realize what’s happened. “Open your gift.”
She glances at Dad, then smiles and goes on, pulling the ribbon loose and opening the box to reveal two things — first, a little necklace in the shape of a lightning bolt, and second, a season’s pass to next year’s games.
“What?” My dad’s brow wrinkles, and he sits up, finding my eyes. “What is that? I thought you were selling the team.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I say, shaking my head. “But, whether I sell or not, I’m still a fan. And I’d like Mom to come to a game with me.”
“But—” He’s still composed, but for my father, this is practically sputtering. “Elliot. What are you talking about? Why would you turn down an offer like that?”
“I haven’t made a decision yet,” I repeat. The server brings the receipt over to the table, and my dad glances at it, eyes widening when he realizes I already beat him to paying the bill.
“What—”
“Sorry,” I stand, feeling antsy suddenly. “I have to run. Happy birthday, Mom. Hope you have a great time at Martha’s Vineyard.”
I lean down to give her a kiss on the cheek then straighten, pushing out the door and not giving my father a backwards glance.
The hotel bar is quiet, nothing but the sound of soft music and clinking glasses filling the space. I half expected my father to follow me out of the restaurant, demand answers about the deal, push like he always does.
But he let me go. I didn’t actually have anywhere to be, but I couldn’t stand to sit in that restaurant for another minute.
“Mind if I sit here?”
At first, I bristle at the sound of the guy, asking to sit in the stool right next to me when the entire hotel bar is open, not another soul from end to end.
Then I recognize the sound of the voice and turn, mouth falling open.
“Brandon?”
My younger brother grins back at me. Sometimes, looking at him has felt like looking at a mirror, but time has separated us, giving him a slightly large nose, a different shape to his eyes.
Others might not notice, might even confuse the two of us, but I can see the exact places his genes dipped more heavily toward Mom, toward Dad.
Now, his hair is longer than he’s ever kept it, shaggy enough that it brushes against the collar of his shirt.
“Hey,” he says casually, like we just saw each other yesterday. He slides onto the barstool, gestures to the bartender for a drink, turns to me. “Crazy running into you.”
“Did… did Mom send you?”
Brandon actually laughs, the sound breathy. “Are you kidding? Mom isn’t talking to me. Up until three minutes ago, I didn’t think you were talking to me either.”
“I…” I think of all the calls I ignored — and for what? Not talking to my brother to make my dad happy? Now that I’m facing the situation directly, it feels foolish.
“It’s okay,” Brandon says, glancing at me.
“If nobody sent you — I mean, how did you know where to find me?”
“I didn’t,” he laughs, taking his drink and sliding a twenty onto the bar. I realize his drink isn’t actually a drink at all — it’s just a Coke with a wedge of lime on the glass. Brandon jerks his head toward the large glass window behind us. “I was walking by. Looked in and saw you.”
I suck in a breath. “No way.”
“Total truth,” he says, and that phrase punches me in the gut.
I face my drink, stare at the amber liquid. “That’s wild.”
“So, you in town for Mom’s birthday?”
Glancing at my brother, I wonder about that question. We haven’t spoken, so how would he know that I’ve been out of town at all?”
“Search alert on your name,” he says, rolling his eyes, as though I’m slowing down the conversation. “Congrats on the soccer thing. Never thought you cared much for sports.”
I think of my conversation with Steven and Rhett and say, “I guess I caught the soccer bug.”
Brandon pulls back, considers me, then nods and says, “Good for you, man.”
A long moment passes, and I just reach for it, asking what I really want to know. “Why are you doing it?”
He blinks, brow furrowing. “Doing what?”
That pulls a laugh from me, and I gesture, encompassing a tiny planet. “Everything. Pissing Dad off, divesting, dropping out. Wouldn’t it just be easier to give in, keep Dad from doing all this shit?”
“Oh,” Brandon laughs, shaking his head and meeting my eyes. “I mean, none of that is about Dad. I’m going to live my life, and what he does is up to him. Had to come to terms with that a long time ago. I realized that, with all that money…”
He pauses, looks across the room, thinking. Finally, letting out a breath, he says, “Look, I’m not going to sit here and say I don’t need money. Everyone needs money. But growing up, watching Dad always on the edge, missing our shit? I didn’t want to be that.”
Brandon pauses, rolls his cup in his hands, then goes on, “I appreciate the money, I really do. But just with that inheritance from Gramps?” Brandon slides his eyes to me, acknowledging the insane amount of money we received when our grandfather passed.
That, on top of our trusts that were released to us on our eighteenth birthdays.
“I could take a tenth of that and never have to work another day in my life. Once you have that, what’s the point of making more? ”
My eyes are still on my cup, and I think about how much money I’ve made over the years. When you search my name online, the net worth it tells you is about a billion too low.
“Like, think about it. Maybe I want to get married someday, have kids, right? I want to be there for them. See their childhood. What’s my life going to be worth if I spend the entire thing making money, grinding, losing sleep over the fucking stock market?
All when I have enough to live one hundred lives, stress-free? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
While Brandon talks, I see our father. Obsessed with his money, ignoring his wife at the table during her birthday lunch. What’s the point of all that money, all that success, if you don’t spend your life with the people you love?
“What are you even doing with it all?”
“Started a foundation in Gramps’ name,” Brandon says, and it shocks me — Dad didn’t tell me that.
“Most of it I donate to different causes. Those people need the money a lot more than I do — what do I do with it? Just leave in it in a portfolio? Let it sit? This way, kids get food. Cancer treatment. Seems like a better use of the funds to me.”
“Still.” I press my lips together, glance at him. Think about the way Dad has always talked about money. Like a single mistake could make everything disappear. “Doesn’t it… scare you? To give all that money away?”
Brandon laughs again, and I realize he looks much, much better than the last time I saw him. Clear eyes, a brightness to his cheeks that wasn’t there before.
“Nah.” He shakes his head, turns his head to look at me. “Best decision I ever made.”