Page 1 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)

DAMIEN

“ R ead ‘em and weep, gentlemen.”

I scowl at my friend’s cards as he lays them on the table. “It’s damn impolite to gloat, Finn.”

The group of us are gathered at our private poker room at the Retreat, one of New York City’s most exclusive social clubs—one that caters solely to members of a certain financial status, like me and the five other billionaires at the table.

Tonight in particular, the Retreat lives up to its name.

It’s one of the few places left where I can escape the constant pressure of running Langley Enterprises and dealing with an increasingly hostile board.

Finn Bardot smirks, leaning back in the leather chair as he tilts a glass of single malt Scotch to his lips. “Can’t a man be excited about winning?”

“Damien’s right. Gloating is rude,” Alec Beckett says. A small smile brings out his dimples, even as he folds. “Besides, you haven’t won yet. What’ve you got, Wyatt?”

Wyatt Reed lays his cards down and we all raise our eyebrows at his royal flush. “Pleasure doing business with you, boys,” he says in a smooth drawl. His black, wavy hair and come-hither smile make his brown eyes sparkle, clearly pegging him as the Casanova of our group.

“I don’t even know why I come here,” Bradford Hayes grumbles, tossing his cards so they scatter across the table. “Reed has the devil’s luck.”

Wyatt grins. “At least this time you didn’t accuse me of cheating.”

“Night’s not over yet,” Gabriel Sinclair says. Quiet and mysterious as always, he simply raises an eyebrow at all of us and takes a measured sip of scotch. His intense gray eyes miss nothing, however.

I’ve been playing with the same five men since we met at a Harvard question-and-answer session about ‘successful people.’ It was a tedious, terrible experience for all of us, and we’d gone out drinking afterward.

We bonded over twelve-year-old scotch and made the decision to keep things going.

It was Finn who suggested playing poker at The Retreat.

We all agreed, got memberships, and years later, still meet up every week.

Until recently, there had been a seventh member at our weekly gathering. That is, until Mason “The Machine” Steele went off and fell in love with his temporary assistant. Whatever magic sweet Lucy Pembroke wielded on him had rendered Mason utterly insane.

Not only had the couple run out and eloped, but Mason had come back from their tropical escape a completely changed man.

Sold his company and all of his considerable assets, then retired from the business world he used to dominate in favor of living in the Turks and Caicos where he was currently making babies with Lucy.

Total madness. I shake my head as I recall how ridiculously happy Mason had looked when he came to the Retreat to tell us. God forbid I, or any of the rest of us, ever end up like that poor sap.

“Another game?” I ask, eager to think about something else. I glance at Finn. “Unless you need to lick your wounds while the rest of us play?”

He grins and flips me off. “It was only a few hundred thousand lost. Pocket change, am I right?”

We all murmur our agreement. To six billionaires, a few hundred thousand dollars is a fart in the wind. But we aren’t really playing for money. We’re playing for bragging rights.

And, as usual, Wyatt has garnered most of those. He rakes in the pot of chips to add to his growing mountain and holds his hand out for our cards. “It’s my deal, no?”

“About damn time,” Brad says. “At least you can’t possibly win while you’re dealing.”

Gabe scoops up Brad’s scattered cards and passes them and his own to Wyatt, who takes ours and the rest of the deck and begins shuffling like a Vegas dealer.

“Show-off,” Alec mutters.

Finn laughs. “Hey now. If you keep talking like an old bag with rheumatism, we might start to mistake you for Damien.”

“I do not talk like an old bag with rheumatism,” I reply impatiently.

The other five look at me and I get the strong impression they all agree with Finn’s assessment.

“It’s just the work, that’s all. I’m sure we can all agree we have high-stress jobs,” I point out. “Being a CEO isn’t exactly a walk in the park.”

Brad chuckles. “You’d have to take time for a walk in the park.”

“Is it on his schedule?” Alec asks .

“Doubt it,” Wyatt says, starting to deal the cards.

“That means it’s never going to happen,” Alec says. “Speaking of which, Damien, I’ve switched my usual Wednesday golf game to Tuesday so we can all make it this time.”

I frown. “You know I like to know these things at least a week in advance.”

“That’s a ‘no’ from Mr. I-Can’t-Do-Anything-That’s-Not-In-The-Itinerary,” Finn says.

Alec scowls. “But I remember a week ago you said you couldn’t make it Wednesday, but might be able to Tuesday. I managed to clear my schedule…”

I hold up my hand. “Tuesday is tomorrow. I can’t possibly do it now.”

“No advance notice, no Damien.” Brad smirks.

Alec rolls his eyes. “You know I made the arrangements specifically so you could come.”

I frown, growing irritated at the pressure to upset my entire week just for a golf game. “You should have cleared this with me a week ago. I’m sorry, but I can’t make it work.”

“Fine.” Alec picks up his cards and glares mutinously at them.

It irks me to see him so pissed off. I had given him plenty of advanced warning about my schedule, after all.

And everyone at this table knows I don’t change my schedule for anything.

Hell, with the big fish we’ve just landed at Langley Enterprises, it’s enough for me to be devoting any time at all to these knuckleheads I consider my closest friends.

But we have a weekly standing poker game, and it’s in the schedule.

And that makes it more sacred than a High Holy Day.

“Hey, crankypants, it’s your turn,” Finn says, interrupting my brooding .

I don’t like having a good sulk interrupted, either. I look down at my cards, then at the cards lying on the table. “Bet,” I say, tossing a few thousand dollars’ worth of chips into the middle. I already have two pair. With any luck, I might get a full house.

“Call.” Gabe tosses in his chips.

“Has anyone heard from Mason lately?” Alec asks.

"Raise." Wyatt adds more chips to the pot, his expression carefully neutral. "And yes, actually. Got an annoyingly cheerful postcard from him yesterday. All about how amazing island life is and how we should all come visit."

Brad snorts into his scotch. "Visit? Who has time for that?"

"According to an email I got the other day from Mason," Alec says, studying his cards, "we all work too hard and need to 'find balance.'" He makes air quotes with his fingers, nearly dropping his cards in the process.

I arrange my chips while weighing whether to call Wyatt's bet. "Balance is overrated. The Machine used to understand that."

"The Machine is officially retired," Gabe remarks quietly. “He made that pretty clear.”

I grimace. "Mason Steele, the man who made billions in mergers and acquisitions, is now spending his days watching sunsets and drinking rum punch."

Alec shakes his head, folding his cards. "At least he's consistent. When Mason commits to something, he goes all in."

"Out," Brad declares, tossing his cards down. "And speaking of out, that's what Mason is. Out of his mind."

"Remember how he looked at Lucy that night?” Finn asks. “Like she hung the moon and stars. "

"I remember him drooling like a Saint Bernard," I mutter, finally deciding to call. "Two pair."

"Three of a kind," Wyatt counters with a grin.

I push back from my cards in disgust. "The man sold his penthouse to live in a beach hut. A beach hut! What's next? Is he going to start wearing hemp clothing and teaching yoga?"

"According to the postcard," Wyatt says, collecting his winnings, "he's learning to surf."

I snort. “A thousand bucks says he’ll be back to the city a single man before the year is out.”

“Such a cynic,” Finn says, but his expression indicates he agrees with me.

Brad shakes his head soberly. “Did you see his face when he brought Lucy around to meet us after they eloped? He’s deliriously happy. That man is a goner, and he’s never coming back.”

Alec nods. “I’m not willing to take that bet either. The Machine is out of commission for good.”

Finn looks thoughtful. It’s always very dangerous when Finn looks thoughtful. The last time he looked like this, he persuaded us all to go BASE jumping. “I have a better idea for a bet. Gabe was actually the one to originally suggest it. Remember what you said that night Mason and Lucy were here?”

“Remind me,” Gabe says, smoothing his finger along the rim of his glass.

“Last Billionaire Standing,” Finn says, framing the words in the air like a billboard. “I mean, that’s not exactly what you said, but you did ask if anyone was willing to put their money where their mouth was, after we all mocked Mason for falling into the oldest trap known to mankind: love.”

I frown. “Come again? ”

Finn grins mischievously at all of us. “We make a bet that the last of us to fall in love wins a big pot of money. And not some chump change like hundreds of thousands of dollars, either. Millions.”

I chuckle. “Finn, not a one of us is ever going to have time to fall in love. We’re far too busy.”

“I’m a confirmed bachelor for life,” Brad says. “Never making that mistake again.”

“Hear, hear,” Alec agrees.

“None of us will ever win the pot,” Wyatt says, laughing. “There are too many lovely fish in the sea to settle on just one.”

“It is an interesting idea,” Gabe says.

“That’s the spirit!” Finn crows.

Gabe shrugs. “But if none of us have met our Miss Right within the next ten years, the bet should be null and void. As Damien says, none of us are probably ever going to win this bet anyway.”

“Hmm.” Finn nods. “The man has a point. Okay, if there’s more than one man left standing at the end of ten years, they get to split the kitty. Deal?”

“What’s the wager?” Alec asks cautiously.

“A million each,” Finn says. “So the last man standing will get six million dollars.”

“Or, rather, five million dollars and his own investment back,” Alec corrects him.

“Fine, fine. It’s not about the numbers, though,” Finn goes on. “This is for pride, gentlemen. I, for one, am never going to let some woman grab me by the balls.”

Wyatt smirks. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried?—”

“Agreed,” I say, holding out my hand .

Finn places his on top of mine, then Wyatt, then Alec, then Brad, and finally, with some hesitation, Gabe.

“All right, we’re all in.” Finn grins. “May the best man win.”

My cell phone buzzes with an incoming text and the other five groan.

“I thought we agreed to turn those off?” Alec sniffs.

I grunt. “My board is all the way up my ass. If I don’t show them I’ve read my texts, they send out a search party. The last thing I want is Rhonda showing up here to drag me back by my hair.”

“He’s got to put in his million right now.” Finn laughs. “He already has a work wife.”

“Ha-ha.” Rhonda was my father’s assistant and is now mine.

She’s deep in her seventies with failing eyesight and only the most basic of computer skills, but that doesn’t stop her from being a force to be reckoned with.

Especially when it comes to tracking me down.

“The woman is a bloodhound,” I grumble under by breath.

The others laugh heartily.

I check my messages and let out a curse.

Alfred the Asshole: Where r u?!

I’m not sure a man educated at Princeton should be able to use the phrase ‘r u’ in a text, but I’m not going to question it.

Me: What do you want? It’s Monday evening.

Alfred the Asshole: Get back 2 the office. Emergency board mtg!

I frown at my phone. As I recall, I’m the CEO of the company and, since my father’s death, the Chairman of the Board.

But somehow, Alfred Rothchild has taken it upon himself to call board meetings and drum up votes to his side.

And he seems to take particular delight in calling unscheduled board meetings just to piss me off .

He and his cronies hate me. Which is why I absolutely need to be at this board meeting. “Sorry, guys. I’ve got to go.”

Finn rolls his eyes. “Alfred the Asshole?”

“Got it in one.” I stand.

“Aren’t you going to cash out your chips?” Brad asks.

I shrug. “Keep them. Add them to the pot. Fifty-thousand won’t hurt me, and I was losing, anyway.”

“You were at that.” Finn chuckles, raking my chips to the middle of the table.

“Give ’em hell,” Wyatt says, raising his glass to me. “Don’t let them walk all over you.”

“That’ll be the day,” I mutter. I’m the CEO of Langley Enterprises, I tell myself sternly as I walk out of the Retreat. Me.

And there is not one good goddamn thing Alfred Rothchild can do about it.