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With my door closed, he jogs to the driver’s side.
“How many functions will we be going to this month?” I ask, clicking my seatbelt and breathing in the new car smell.
“Six or seven.” Ash pulls into the traffic on Fifth Avenue. “Most are on a Saturday night, a few mid-week ones.”
“Are you close to your goal for your surgery center?”
“I’m on target.” He glances at me with a warm smile. “I also have to keep out of the tabloids.”
“You’re in the tabloids?”
“My family is very wealthy. Medicine royalty.”
Ives...
It hits me.
“Ives PharmSciences?”
Ash’s smile disappears. “They can make any medication under the sun, but all they’re focusing on right now is one drug silo.”
“What is that?”
“Opioids,” he sneers.
I don’t know why I didn’t put it together. Ives PharmSciences is one of the Big Pharma companies responsible for the Opioid Epidemic.
That’shis family?
Those people suck.
My small town got hit hard with people strung out all over the place. I grew up in wine country but it’s mostly farms, too. Ranchers often get hurt from equipment malfunctions, by unruly animals, or just pull muscles from working so damn hard.
One shady doctor started prescribing the stuff, and next, there were addicts everywhere.
Then came the wildfire that wiped out the whole town.
“They are greedy as fuck.” Ash’s voice takes on a dangerous edge. “I keep out of their business. I want no part in it.”
“Will they be at these fundraisers?” I don’t want to bump into those people.
“I charge six figures per plate. I hope they don’t show up. I asked my father directly to donate. Help his image. He turned me down. Cold.”
“I’m sorry, Ashton.” I stroke his arm.
His head jerks at my touch, but with a grin, he says, “You can call me Ash.”
Ford said only close friends call him that. “Ash...”
With that smile of his, my heart may melt into smoldering ash.
“My family are just shitty people. I wasn’t surprised they turned me down. They’ve been that way since Dad took over. Do you remember that cough syrup scandal? Someone found high levels of lead in their top cough syrup. Grandad was lauded as a hero for pulling it from every shelf. My father and his brother, who run the company now, would never do that.” Ash shakes his head. “They want profits. Operating on poor, sick kids, not only doesn’t make aprofit, but the opportunity cost is astronomical.”
“Opportunity costs?” I ask him, recognizing the business buzzword.
“When you miss an opportunity to make money, like the money I would be making as a high-priced surgeon for rich people with Cadillac-level insurance policies. Every surgery I do for free, that would have earned me tens of thousands of dollars, is a theoretical cost.”
“I get it.” I think about how that would apply to either my life or my business. “Plus-size is an emerging market. As a designer brand, it’s still new. Still iffy. If I went the safe route and designed ready-to-wear for general retail, I stand a better shot at success. Volume pays the bills for plenty of designers. So yeah, plus-size is my opportunity cost because I’m taking a risk.”
