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“Did you find out more about Mr. Dante Harris for me, Walsh?” I ask.
“I’m still looking into that, sir.” He looks at me through the rearview mirror. “I did discover that he recently trademarked the phrase, ‘Billionaire Boy for Life,’ though.”
“Wow.” I wish I hadn’t asked. “How did he meet Georgia?”
“On a dating app, sir,” he says. “I’ve told you this several times before.”
“When’s the last time he took her out on a real date?”
“It’s been a while. Miss Grey’s boss has made a dating life quite impossible, sir.”
“Good.”
He sighs. “Is Mr. Worthy an actual threat to you, sir?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“So…” He turns around, shooting me a confused look. “Do I need to remove him from the premises?”
“Let me think about it.” I watch Dante add a second sign, one that reads, “Ask Me How to Land a Bad-Ass Woman,” and shake my head.
I don’t feel like being petty with him, so I’ll let this trespassing offense slide.
For now.
“Drive me to the back entrance, Walsh,” I say.
“Very well, sir.”
Grabbing my briefcase, I walk through the doors, and the scent of fresh balsam smacks me in the face.
The hallways are lined with oversized spruce trees, all aglow with twinkling lights and bright silver ornaments.
Curious, I head toward the conference wing, where I’m hoping to close my biggest deal eventually.
I nearly drop my briefcase to the floor in utter fucking awe.
Faux snow is falling from the ceiling amidst a massive winter wonderland. Shiny red and green trains are racing on tracks, and there’s a sign with directions to every themed spot.
Santa’s Workshop, The North Pole, The Enchanted Forest, The Grace Estate in Winter, The Elf Cafe…
“Wow, son!” My father taps my shoulder from behind. “This is phenomenal. What company did you hire for this?”
“One of my employees did this on her own,” I say. “Georgia Grey.”
The more I look around at her stunning decor work, the more I realize she has no business in a corporate setting with me. She’s too damn creative…
“Well, send her my contact information so she can draft a quote for me and your mother’s Valentine’s party.”
“Why? You hate parties.”
“No,youhate parties, son.” He picks up a cookie. “I’m looking forward to your party with Amy, if this decor is any indication. Did this Georgia person do the food, too?”
“Yes, but she’s—Wait a minute.” I cross my arms. “What party with Amy?”
“The invitations were beautiful.” He devours another cookie. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
“I need you to speak words that actually make sense,” I say. “What party?”
