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PROLOGUE
Jack
They say money can’t buy happiness, and that’s probably true. But if your lot in life is to be a miserable prick, wouldn’t you rather be a rich miserable prick?
Notice I didn’t say aselfishprick.
Quite the contrary, ladies. I’m a generous man. My portfolio ismassive, and I have the kind of hard assets guaranteed to deliver mutually pleasurable returns every time.
But mutual pleasure is where our arrangement ends. I learned long ago that unlike my bank account, love isnotFDIC insured. So once my generous supply has met your eager demand, I’ll be returning to the welcoming arms of my one sure thing—business, baby.
And it’s booming.
My company is poised to become the go-to investment firm for elite athletes and entrepreneurs around the world. I have a penthouse apartment with a killer view of downtown Manhattan, a private office suite on the fifty-eighth floor, a vacation home in the south of France, and a net worth that just won’t quit.
And you know what? I deserve it.
Think I’m cocky? Sorry to disappoint, but it’s just numbers. Money is math and math is money—clearly defined rules, time-tested formulas, predictable answers—and that’s about as un-cocky as it gets.
No, I wouldn’t call it happiness, exactly…
But I’ve made my peace with it.
Hell, I’ve embraced it.
No complications, no emotions, and best of all—no losses I can’t recoup.
And thenshesweeps back into my life, and suddenly I’m not sure of anything anymore.
Except that I don’t want her to go…
CHAPTER ONE
Eleanor
A woman about to put her tube socks
and spirit glue where her mouth is…
Day 1 Wednesday 8/1
“It’s like how colonel is pronounced KER-nal.” Stephen draws out the last two syllables for the benefit of my tiny female mind. “Even though there isn’t an ‘R’ in there.”
I blink, stunned.
This guy can’t possibly be for real. Can he?
It’s hard to believe that just a week ago, I was thrilled at the prospect of spending time in a normal work environment. One where people don’t sit at their desk in wrinkled pajamas with bed head, surrounded by coffee cups they haven’t gotten around to washing even though their kitchen is literally three feet from their workstation.
I have good housekeeping intentions, I really do, but it’s hard to care about a mess when there’s never anyone around to see it. It’s like the tree in the forest. If a mug—or a freelance journalist—goes unwashed in the privacy of her tiny Queens apartment, does she make a smell? I think not.
“You get it?” Stephen continues with a patronizing squeeze of my upper arm.
I nod, my lips pressed together to keep from saying something I shouldn’t.
This is my brother’s investment company—he and his partner Jack built it from the ground up. And Stephen is apparently a valuable member of their brokerage team, no matter how hard it is for me to imagine this douchebag closing a financial deal with anyone, let alone a famous athlete accustomed to a certain amount of deference.
“So Seyfried is like that.” Stephen lifts his hands into the air, fingers spread wide in a ta-da motion. “You pronounce the ‘G’ before the ‘F’ even though it’s not there. Because Seyfried and Siegfried are actually the same name if you look at it from an etymological standpoint.”
