The Billionaire Game 3(2)
“God, I don’t know if I’d believe you if you said the sky was blue,” I continued. “The only thing I know is that I never want to see you again.”
At first he was silent, and I could almost hear the struggle as he fought to keep from shouting, could almost hear the unsaid words roiling inside of him. When he did speak, though, his voice was clipped and cold as ice. “This isn’t just about you, Kate. There are dozens of people waiting in that store for you to make their dreams come true. Are you going to disappoint them? Are you going to scuttle your own launch? Think of the business. This is your dream.”
There was a sinking feeling in my stomach. Damn. I hated this with the fury of a thousand suns, but Asher had a point.
I took a deep breath, and rallied my thoughts. There was one thing I needed to know. There was one thing I needed him to admit. “Was this really a bet?”
A sigh sounded from the other side of the stall. “Yes, but—”
“Then shut up!” And then the fury that was holding my heart together melted under the force of my grief, and I felt myself shatter into a thousand pieces. I choked back the sob in my throat, and clenched my hands so tightly that my nails bit into my palm.
No hope. No hope. No hope.
No. There was always hope. There was.
But not for me and Asher Young.
“If you would just listen—”
“I’ve heard enough,” I said, and my voice sounded like it belonged to someone else, someone far away and powerful and confident. Someone whose heart wasn’t a broken mess on the floor of a goddamn Dairy Queen. “You—leave. I’ll go back to the party but only if I have your word that you won’t be there. Final offer.”
“Kate—”
“Do I have your word, Asher!?”
A long, drawn-out breath.
“Yes.”
#
Five minutes later, I made my way back to the party, having texted Lacey to make sure that she had seen Asher sulk off in his flashy sports car. Grant was apparently talking to him on the phone right now, keeping him distracted with a knotty business problem he was insisting that only Asher could solve, and only by dropping everything and flying to Arizona.
I doubted that Asher bought that, but he was still driving out to his personal plane to make the trip, so as long as it got him out of my hair, what did I care?
Too much, but I didn’t want to think about that now. I had panties to peddle.
“What did you tell them?” I asked Lacey as she ushered me in through the back door.
“First-day-of-business jitters,” she replied, handing me a pair of new heels. “There was an error in the receipts and you got a little upset, but Asher sorted it out for you and here you are, triumphant once more and ready to cater to their every whim.”
I slid the shoes on. “How’s my makeup?”
“Smeared all to hell,” Lacey said. She already had a wipe out of her purse, and she quickly ran it over my face before pulling out her lipstick, mascara, and eye-shadow. “There, that’s better. Now, count yourself lucky I don’t have pink eye, take a deep breath, and get out there and woo your customers.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and gave her the biggest hug I could. I whispered, “I’m luckier for way more than you not having pink-eye.”
“Give me my Best Friend trophy later,” Lacey ordered after a quick peck on the cheek. “Now go get famous.”
“I’m on it.” I nodded, took a deep breath, and summoned the most sincere smile I could muster to my face before stepping back into the spotlight.
I was immediately besieged by shoppers, their requests, queries, and compliments breaking like a tidal wave over my head.
“Ms. Jameson, I could have sworn I saw this design earlier in rose in my size, but I just cannot find it now—”
“—simply brilliant—”
“—and when will the champagne peignoirs be back in stock, your assistant says you’re sold out—”
“If you’re interested, I’d like to submit some of my own designs—”
“—the most exquisite stitching—”
“Could you sign my—”
“—to die for!”
I once again began the dance of circulation, thanking people for their praise, answering their questions about the sewing process, tracking down boxes of items and taking special orders for ones that had been sold out, and generally schmoozing up a storm, introducing myself to the customers who might one day become my regulars and the fashionistas who might one day become my investors. The pace was brutal, a thousand tiny matters demanding my attention, but I welcomed it. The more fires I put out, hands I shook, and disputes over the last item in a line I smoothed over, the more time I wasn’t thinking about Asher ‘Asshole’ Young.