Page 6 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

He laughs, tone lightening slightly. I picture him as he probably is, shirtless and on the side of a mountain somewhere. Cave diving, kayaking, bouldering or flirting with the local women. “Thought I got Travis. Apparently, I’m speaking with Mr. Oakley.”

“You’re not going to be speaking withanyonefor long with that bullshit,” I say, but I can’t stop the corners of my mouth from curling up.

“I’ll be in town soon for a thing with the non-profit. That new park.” Now I’m picturing him on a plane or maybe boating across the Atlantic to get home. It’s always something with him. “Was hoping I could borrow one of your spaces for it. Big charity event, should look good for you.”

“Sure. My assistant will be in touch.”

“Travis.”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll get drinks, too,” Graham says, matter-of-factly.

“You got it, man.”

The car pulls up outside Onyx, and I drop the phone from my ear, typing quickly. First, to text my assistant about finding a space for Graham. Then, I send a text to Ryan.

Travis:Still on for tonight?

Ryan:Better be, I wore my nicest shirt today

Ryan:;-)

Shaking my head, I climb out of the car. Security is at my side in an instant, walking me into the building. My assistant meets me in the lobby.

“Good morning, Mr. Oakley,” she says, passing me a green tea. I take it and use it to wash away the taste of the green smoothie I forced down. My nutritional choices are just that—nutrition over taste. And most days, I hardly think about what I’m eating or drinking.

But today, I tasted the kale in that smoothie. Not my favorite…

As we walk, my assistant runs me through my meetings for the day. It’s harder to sink into my tasks and duties because there’s something in the back of my mind reminding me thatsheis going to be here today.

Which shouldn’t matter.

There are a million reasons to avoid thinking about her at all. She’s a contractor for my company. Likely at least a decade younger than me. And most importantly, she’s dating my brother.

My assistant follows me onto the elevator, reading out objectives, meetings, and current projects. We step off theelevator and onto the top floor, and she trails me right up to the door of my office.

“Hold my calls until noon. I have some business to straighten out for the hotel launch.”

“Of course, Mr. Oakley.”

Turning, I walk into my office—dark woods, matte gray paint, a calming, minimalistic environment in which I can do my best work—and try to center myself. There’s too much going on at Onyx right now for me to be distracted like this.

I pride myself on being the kind of man who’s always in control, thinking and acting in accordance with my goals, but this is one area in which I’ve found myself floundering. Since the day my creative director swept Serena MacKenzie in here for an introduction, I’ve been unable to keep myself from fixating on her.

It was at the end of last summer, the beginning of autumn, when the days were sweltering at noon, but frosty overnight. Serena was wearing a long white skirt, the kind that looks almost like a table doily, paired with inky black combat boots and a long-sleeved black top. Her hair, a waterfall of copper and gold, fell down over her shoulders in waves.

“This is Serena MacKenzie, the new photographer we’ve brought on,” the creative director said, his voice tight and nervous. He had the right to be—I’d never usually involve myself with something as granular as a photographer, but our past two portfolios had not been up to my standards. And that was on him.

Onyx is different from most other real estate companies. Rather than grasping at any property we can, we’re more selective. Marketing, branding—they’re essential here. There’s a reason Apple is so valuable. It’s the brand that customers recognize. Trust. Onyx takes that approach with NYC properties.And, if the hotel launch goes well, we might just expand outside the city.

So, marketing and visuals are important. That’s why I tasked the creative director with either hiring a competent photographer or finding himself a new position at another company. “I think you’ll find her adequate.”

Serena let out a sharp, quick laugh, glancing first at the director, then at me. My first thought was that her laugh sounded like a wind chime my mom used to have on our back porch.

“Better than adequate,” she’d said, stepping forward and thrusting her hand—pale, with freckles running up the back—toward me. Serena MacKenzie was one of the first people to readily meet my eye in a long time. “I’m going to make your shitdazzle, Mr. Oakley.”

Not only did she meet my eye, but she actually stunned me into silence.