Page 9 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)

DAMIEN

S ilver forks clink delicately on fine bone china.

Crystal water and wine glasses flash in the chandelier light.

My mother looks small at the other end of the long table, but then, she has since my father died.

My sister and brother-in-law sit on either side of her.

Our mother ought to be holding court at the family estate, like a true matriarch.

Instead, it’s my Park Avenue residence, my table, my dinnerware, and my chef we use every Thursday evening when we have family dinner.

Cynthia was seven minutes late getting here with her husband, Martin, and Mother.

Miraculously, this irked the chef even more than it did me.

It was unusual for them to be late, and outwardly I forgave them, but inwardly all I hear is the ticking of the minutes and wonder if I will have to carve out seven more minutes at the end of the evening to accommodate them.

“How have you been lately?” Cynthia breaks the silence of our formal dinner.

I like the formality of it. The tradition.

We’ve had dinner this way for as long as I can remember, with Father when he was alive, and now without him—though sometimes Mother forgets that last part.

I try to imagine Willow here and the idea almost makes me laugh aloud.

With her warm personality and hippie garb, I imagine her freezing to death in a stiff and cold atmosphere like this.

Thinking of Willow inevitably also makes me think about that unsettling moment when I was nearly overcome with the impulse to kiss her. I mean, what the hell is wrong with me? I’m never at a loss for control, least of all in my personal relationships—such as they are.

But something about Willow makes me act out of sorts.

Makes me feel out of sorts. It must be the happy chaos that surrounds her.

Is it rubbing off on me? Impossible, I reassure myself.

That momentary near lapse in judgment was just an isolated incident.

One that, fortunately, I was able to nip in the bud before I crossed a line I damn well don’t intend to cross.

Least of all with her, the woman who’s supposed to be my ticket to restoring my public reputation.

No, it is for the best that I was able to control myself and not kiss her. Control. Schedule. These are the pillars of my world.

“Yoo-hoo, Damien! Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Cynthia presses.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, you’ve been rescheduling a lot of appointments lately. Are you all right?”

I frown as I push my julienned vegetables around my plate.

“The board says I’ve damaged the company’s image with that damn article and that Guardian Productions are considering pulling out of our agreement.

They insist I restore our image by getting involved with a charity.

Apparently, donating money isn’t enough anymore. ”

“Oh dear. So, you’re doling out food in a soup kitchen somewhere?” Cynthia asks.

I snort. “Hardly.”

Talking about my unwanted assignment only makes me think about Willow again.

Still. I shake my head, mentally ticking off the list of things that aggravate me about her.

She is disorganized, flighty, and stubborn.

Exceedingly cheerful and indefatigable. Curvy in a most maddeningly attractive way. And those lush, pouty lips…

“Damien? Care to elaborate on what they’ve got you doing? You seem to have drifted off there for a moment.” Cynthia grins at me. “You’d think you’d met a woman or something.”

“She has no sense of time. No respect for a schedule. If she wasn’t running a successful charity, I’d wonder if she had a modicum of discipline in her at all.” I stop my rant only long enough to realize I’m continuing my list of Willow grievances out loud now. My family is staring at me, confused.

“Oh, my God, you have met a woman,” Cynthia squeals.

“What now?” I ask impatiently.

“Who is she?” my sister presses. ”Tell us all about her.”

My mother actually perks up a bit at this too, so it pains me to have to defuse the enthusiasm. “No, it’s nothing like that, I assure you.”

“Liar.” Cynthia gives me a knowing smile, which annoys the hell out of me.

“Look. I’ve been doing charity work for the elderly, all right?

And the Executive Director of Silver Hearts is the most maddening woman I have ever met.

I’m only thinking of her now because we need to work together, and she drives me up the wall.

Trust me, she isn’t my type at all,” I explain testily.

Cynthia raises an eyebrow at me. “You’re not the best judge of that. I’ve seen some of the women you’ve dated, Damien.”

I snort. “I’m not dating Willow Harper, so don’t give me that look.

She’s disorganized. She’s passionate about what she does, but she refuses to set a schedule for anything.

She has this attitude that things take as long as they take.

What kind of lunacy is that? I mean, not to say she’s not a good person.

She’s a wonderful person. But she dresses like a hippie and has this untamable riot of red hair. God that hair…”

My sister starts laughing hysterically and my mother beams at me. She hasn’t beamed over anything since my father passed.

“What’s so funny?” I grumble to my sister.

“It’s so perfect you’ve found someone to balance you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

My mother is the one who answers. “Damien, darling, you’re much too serious. You always have been. You need someone at the other end of the spectrum to balance you out. You know, meet you in the middle. The way your father does for me.”

Does. Present tense. She’s forgotten again.

For the moment, at least. Cynthia and I leave it alone.

We’ve learned that correcting her only makes her more confused.

Moments like this don’t happen often, but when we’re all together in ways we used to be when Father was alive, her mind plays tricks on her.

I shake my head. “Don’t blow things out of proportion. There’s nothing going on there. Willow’s just a nice, yet frustrating, person I happen to work with temporarily. ”

Cynthia gives me a sly glance. “A nice, yet frustrating person you’ve cleared your schedule for on more than one occasion.”

I’m trying to think of a good rebuttal, and, admittedly, still thinking about Willow and that almost-kiss, when my mother gives a happy sigh, clutching her frail hands in front of her.

“It will be so nice to help plan a wedding again soon,” she declares.

I look at her happiness and can barely stand to crush it, but I have to nip this in the bud before she starts pinning all her hopes on some imaginary romance between Willow Harper and me. “Mother. Trust me. Nothing is going on there.”

She ignores me. “I think a flock of doves would be lovely. White ones. At least a dozen of them.”

“Mother, we talked about that at my wedding,” Cynthia pipes up. “I’m sure Damien doesn’t want pigeon poop everywhere during his wedding.”

My mother waves a hand, dismissing the objection. “It will be so lovely. Sunset. Flowing silks. White calla lilies.”

I’m now picturing dove handlers squeezing the piss out of doves before boxing them up for release. “Mother…”

“…and a pearl-beaded wedding dress. I do hope that will be all right with her. I’ve always thought they were so elegant,” my mother says dreamily.

I groan. There’s no stopping them now.

“You could use our venue,” Cynthia teases.

I glower at her. “Cynthia, really, there’s nothing?—”

My mother gasps loudly, her hands flying to her cheeks. “She could wear my dress!”

Cynthia places her hand atop our mother’s. “I wore your dress, Mother, remember? ”

She nods. “Oh, yes. That’s right. What about the veil? Perhaps flowers and not a veil, if what you’re saying about her hair is true, Damien.”

“What I’m saying about her hair is true,” I sigh. “But we’re not?—”

My mother’s hands shake a little as she wiggles her engagement ring off her finger. “You must propose with this. It’s been in the family since your grandfather’s great-great-grandfather proposed to Mildred.”

For fuck’s sake. I can feel my eyes bugging out of my head. “Mother, no! It’s not?—”

She gets up and glides around the table, pressing the emerald, diamond-encrusted ring into my palm. “This was always meant to be for your beloved. I’m so glad I can give it to you now.”

The gesture brings her so much joy, I can see it in her watery eyes, that I can’t say no. I simply take the ring and wrap my much larger hands around her frail ones. “Thank you, Mother.”

She smiles and reaches up to pat my cheek. “I always knew you’d find her.”

Cynthia isn’t grinning anymore. She’s staring in shock and so is Martin.

“I’ll just pop off to powder my nose now,” Mother says amid sniffles. “Excuse me, please. I’ll be right back.” She wanders off to the bathroom.

Cynthia gives me a sharp look. “Did you see how happy you’ve made her? You had better marry that girl.”

“What? This isn’t my fault, it’s yours!” I burst out angrily. “I can’t believe what just happened.”

“Look at the life this has breathed back into her. She hasn’t been this lively since before Father died.” Cynthia stabs a finger in my direction. “You better make it work with this girl.”

I rub the bridge of my nose. “Her name is Willow. And I couldn’t possibly.”

“You can, possibly. And every dinner from now on, I want you shouting her praises from the rooftop, if only to be kind to our mother. Because she is finally looking healthy. And Lord knows we don’t want her following Father to the grave anytime soon,” Cynthia snaps.

“She might be confused some days, but this might be just the thing she needs to ground herself.”

“Cynthia, I can’t just—” My phone rings and I growl at the caller ID. Great. Alfred the Asshole. “I have to take this. Please try to manage Mother’s expectations while I’m gone.”

“Fat chance, golden boy,” she mutters as I stand and walk to my office, putting my phone to my ear.

“Yes?” I ask in a clipped tone.

“Tetchy, tetchy, Damien. You’d think you didn’t like hearing from me,” Alfred responds. He’s happy. Too happy. Which can only mean one thing. Something is about to get very, very painful for me. Just fucking wonderful.

“I always love hearing from you, Al. It’s the highlight of my day,” I say with false sweetness.

I can just see him bristling at my use of a nickname he abhors. “I was just calling to ask when you were going to start volunteering,” he prods.

With a frown, I lean against my desk. “I have been volunteering. Haven’t you seen the changes in my schedule?”

“It’s hardly volunteering if no one sees you volunteering. I mean, how is that going to help our image? You quietly sitting in some stinky senile person’s hovel isn’t doing anything for the company image, or your image, if there aren’t any cameras around.”

Yep, I’m right. He is sounding far too happy about something. “Cameras?” I grunt, having to sit down in my chair. “You want me to bring in cameras?”

“Of course. Why else would we have you volunteer?” Alfred scoffs.

I try to imagine the look on no-you-can’t-just-write-some-fat-check Willow’s face when I tell her I’m bringing in cameras. But Alfred the Asshole does have a point. It does nothing for the company image, or mine, if no one knows or sees what I’m doing. Damn it all to hell. “I see.”

“I thought you might. You’re a bright boy, Damien,” he says gleefully. “I knew you’d catch on right away. Now, the next time you’re at that dingey hole-in-the-wall, make sure you have a camera crew with you, at least. I’ll notify the local papers?—”

“No,” I interrupt him.

“No? What do you mean, ‘no’?” he gawps.

“I’ll bring a camera crew. But I’m not having the whole operation crawling with reporters while we’re trying to work,” I say firmly.

“Oh, Damien. It’s so amusing you think you have a choice in the matter.”

My eye tics. No, Alfred the Eye Tic tics. I’m naming it now. Because as long as this jackass is on the board, it’s going to be a permanent fixture on my face. “I’m warning you, Alfred…”

“Don’t get fresh with me, you jumped-up little shit,” he snarls.

“If I had my way, you’d be ousted by now.

The board is giving you this one chance to clean up your image.

So, when I say every newspaper from here to LA is going to be covering your charitable work, I mean the board has decided every newspaper from here to LA is going to be covering your charitable work. ”

“Did you call a board meeting without me?” I practically crush my phone in my tightening fist.

“Of course I did. You kept clearing your schedule for that damn charity. We needed to meet at some point,” he crows.

It’s official. I’m going to wring his neck. “Did you tell Rhonda about this meeting?”

“Why bother her when I can see your schedule on the company’s online calendar?” he sneers. “I saw you’d cleared several meetings to be with Silver Hearts. I simply told the board you were unavailable. It was the truth, after all.”

“I would have made time, Alfred. You know that,” I growl.

“I know. That’s what makes this all the more delightful.” He chortles. “I’ll have the press ready the next day you’re with Silver Hearts. Which is also on your calendar, so you can’t try and trick me, you little shit.”

My teeth grind together so hard I swear I’m losing all my enamel. “Watch your step, Al,” I say more calmly. “The day will come when you get everything you deserve. That’s a promise.”

He snorts. “Always quick with the threats. Your father would be very disappointed in your handling of his company. You’re never going to live up to his example.”

“We’ll see. Go ahead and send your reporters,” I reply tightly. “And Alfred?”

“Yes, Damien?”

“How’s the hair?” I ask.

A low growl emanates from the other end of the phone and Alfred hangs up.

I sigh and sit back in my chair.

This is going to be an unmitigated disaster.