Page 7 of Have To Be Mine

“And I’m supposed to just drop everything and go?”

“What exactly are you dropping?” Adrian’s tone could have stripped paint. “Your bar tab? Your rotation of women who you won’t call back?”

That stung more than I wanted to admit. “Fuck you, Adrian.”

“Dash!” Mom’s voice cracked across the table. “Not at the table.”

“Sorry, Mom.” I wasn’t, but I said it anyway.

“The car will be at your place at nine,” Briggs continued. “Pack for a month. The weather’s going to be hot. There’s a full office set up at the villa where the team is staying.”

“Villa?” That was the first semi-promising thing I’d heard.

“Don’t get excited,” Adrian said. “It’s not a vacation. You’ll be working sixteen-hour days to catch up on everything you’ve let slide.”

I pushed my plate away. My appetite was gone. “Anyone else think it’s convenient that Sebastian got married and immediately left the country? He’s creative director. Shouldn’t he be there?”

“Sebastian did his job,” Adrian said. “He set everything up before the wedding. The shoots are planned, the locations are scouted, the talent is booked. Your job is to make sure it all actually happens. That’s logistics, Dash. That’s what you signed up for.”

“Yep. I know. And like I said, it’s handled.”

“There’s one more thing,” Briggs said, brushing past my comment. “We’re assigning you a consultant. Someone to help manage the operation and make sure everything runs smoothly.”

“A babysitter,” I translated. “You’re giving me a fucking babysitter.”

“Dash.” Mom’s warning was softer this time.

“A consultant,” Briggs corrected. “She’s highly qualified. Former military, runs her own logistics firm. She’s worked with Fortune 500 companies, managed events for heads of state. She’s the best in the business.”

She. Great. A woman. That would either make this more interesting or infinitely more complicated.

“Maybe you could put a tracker in my ass,” I offered.

Mom set down her wine glass. “Enough. All of you.” She looked at me with eyes that could see right through every defense I’d ever built. “Dash, sweetheart, I need you to hear me.”

I wanted to roll my eyes like a teenager, but something in her expression stopped me.

“This campaign matters. Not just for the business, but for me personally.” Her voice wavered slightly. “The swimwear line was your father’s idea. He wanted to expand into resort wear.” She stopped and swallowed. “I need this to work. For him.”

Guilt. The ultimate weapon. And she wielded it like a master.

“The runway show in Santorini isn’t just about the collection,” she continued. “I’ve invited some very important people. Friends who have supported my charity work with extraordinary generosity. These women are flying to Greece specifically to see what the Blackwell family can do.”

“Mom, I’m handling things.”

“I can’t let them down, Dash. Not after everything they’ve done. You know how important my charity work is.”

I did know. It was the thing that brought her back from the brink. That and little Bucky.

The room went silent except for the kid’s happy babbling. Even he seemed to sense the shift in mood because he quieted down and stared at his grandmother with wide eyes.

I felt the same weight that made me want to run as far and as fast as possible from anything that reminded me of the legacy I couldn’t live up to.

“I’ll handle it,” I said.

“I’m counting on you,” she replied.

“We’re talking about bathing suits here. How hard can it be? Get some gorgeous models, put them in bikinis, take them to Greece. It practically sells itself.”