Tycoon Read online

  When I arrive at my apartment, I hear sniffling and I peer into the small living room and find Sara on the living room couch, her hair a mess, another mess of used tissues on the side table we use as a small coffee table. “What happened?” I ask.

  “I got fired.” She looks up from a tissue, her face breaks. “I had no idea they’d start making cuts and I’d be the first to go.” She blows her nose and tosses the tissue down in a ball to join the others. “What am I going to do?”

  I grab a wastebasket, toss in all the tissue balls and the empty box of tissues, and set a fresh box before her. “You’ll get a new job.” I sit down beside her.

  “It’s not that easy—”

  “You can walk dogs with me.”

  “That’s your gig.”

  “I’ll split it with you. I won’t be able to dedicate as much time to it as I want to—I’ll be too busy working on the startup.”

  “Really? How are you so confident you’ll get the money?”

  “Because I saw him again tonight. And I’m hoping I can wear him down.”

  “It’s not wishful thinking? Sorry to break it to you, roomie, but half of the city wants this man’s backing. Everyone thinks they have a genius idea or wants someone who’ll help them make their stupid idea genius.”

  “Maybe. But I still mean to wear him down.” I grin, pour two cups of tea, and then hand one over to her. “You okay?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, smiling wanly at me, as if thankful I asked. “I just can’t figure out what’s gone wrong with my life.” She rubs the tissue along her nose and crumples it up only to get a new one. “I went to ballet school. I broke my ankle just before graduation. So with ballet no longer an option, I tried Broadway. Two years and nothing. So I become a concierge, and even then, something supposedly easy, I fail.”

  “You didn’t fail, Sara. It wasn’t your end game, it was your in-the-meantime job.”

  “Yeah, well.” She hikes up one shoulder in a sad shrug. “I’m starting to wonder if most of us aren’t destined to be stuck in our in-the-meantime.”

  I don’t know what to say. I wonder that too. “I may agree,” I say. “But then you see someone, someone who had it worse than anyone, and who made it big. Not because he got lucky—he worked for it. It makes sense that if we work hard enough, we can go somewhere too.”

  “You really like this guy,” she says, eyes flaring as if it’s just dawning on her that I really do know Christos. And like him, like she says.

  “No. I mean…” I quickly interject. “I admire him. We were in high school when we met, and I admired his gumption. I suppose I liked him too,” I finally admit, “but I could never understand how he made me feel. I guess I liked him enough that it confused me.” I shake my head violently. “But enough about that. I’m excited about the startup. If this takes off and you don’t have a job, I’ll hire you.”

  “When do I start?” she smirks.

  “Who knows? Call God’s number and ask?” I show her Christos’s card, then notice the surprise on her face and laugh.

  “Give me that,” she says when I pry it back.

  “Over my dead BOOTY. It’s my Golden Ticket and I’m not giving it up even to you. I’ll give you some of my chocolate, though.” I pull out the Godiva chocolate I have stashed away in my nightstand and toss it in her lap. Sara groans happily. “Do we have any ice cream?”

  “Anything else?” I ask as I pull out an ice cream tub from the fridge and bring it over, along with two spoons.

  “Yes. Can I adopt you?” she asks as she sits straight when I join her on the couch.

  “Come on. I’m two years older than you are.” I roll my eyes and we sit together, eating ice cream while she thinks of her job, and I think of Christos.

  “I know what else I’m missing. Confidence. I seem to have lost it somewhere,” she says, frowning thoughtfully at our silent TV screen.

  “I have confidence in you,” I counter.

  “Good. ’Cause I have confidence in you too. Boss.” She grins, the tissues forgotten.

  After binging on chocolate and ice cream, I fall asleep with my laptop on my bed, my designs scattered around, and an image of Christos telling me he wants it.

  Christos

  8 years ago…

  DEPARTMENT STORE OWNERS KILLED IN VEGAS FIRE

  “Fuck.” I scrape my hand down my jaw. An image of Bryn’s parents comes to mind as I scan the paper. I want to punch something.

  “Christos? Are you ready?” a familiar female voice asks from behind me.

  I shut the paper closed. “Give me a minute.”

  I check on the burial time, glance at my watch and realize there’s no time for me to bury my own blood, catch a flight, and be there on time for hers. But I can’t put a lid on my instinct to protect her. Be there for her.

  I pull out my wallet, punch in a number of a local florist, and ask for a bouquet of gardenias. Her favorite.

  “The message, sir?” the attendant asks.

  “Wish I were there. Love, Aaric.”

  “Erick?”

  “Double A, R, I, C. Aaric.”

  “Got it.”

  “Love, Aaric,” I repeat.

  Yeah. That’s not how I planned to tell her I loved her, but I go with it anyway. Today I bury someone else I never got the chance to love.

  Seems stupid the way we hold back on these things now.

  Bryn lost her parents—the same day I lost my little girl.

  I recite my credit card number, hang up, slip the card back into my wallet, and grab my leather jacket. Much like the one Bryn gave me once.

  Bryn

  Instead of taking me to reception, the number on Aaric’s card takes me straight to a direct line that I’d never had access to before. I rush on to say, “Hello. I was calling to schedule an appointment with Mr. Christos.”

  “Who’s calling? And would this be the youngest or eldest?”

  “Eldest. Aaric. And it’s Bryn Kelly.”

  “Ah, yes, Miss Kelly. He asked me to shuffle his schedule around if you called. If you can be here at 6, I’ll get you in before he leaves the office.”

  Whoa.

  He did?

  My heart skips a little.

  “I appreciate it. Truly. Thank you!”

  Noticing it’s 4:51 p.m. already, I lay out my outfit with care, do my hair, apply makeup—not a lot, but enough to make me look polished—and add my faux diamond studs from Macy’s.

  “Are you still up for doing some dog runs?” I ask Sara after a brief knock on her bedroom door.

  She’s watching TV, still in pajamas. On a Monday.

  Rolling to her stomach with a groan, she lifts her head to shoot me an are-you-kidding look. “Anything to get me out of the apartment!”

  “Okay—” I cross the room and hand her an address. “Mrs. Wellington is first. Her dog’s name is Natchez. He’s my favorite. A friendly little Husky. Take him to Washington Square Park, he likes it there. I’ll call to let her know you’re coming.”

  “Yes, boss.” She leaps off the bed.

  “I’m not your boss. Yet.” I wink.

  “Trifle details.” She sticks her tongue out and jogs over to her small bathroom.

  After a quick call to Mrs. Wellington, I head for Brooklyn.

  I wring my hands the entire train ride.

  Today is the day I’m going to make my pitch, and I want him to go for it.

  After I step off the train and walk three blocks to my destination, I check my briefcase to make sure I have everything I need.

  The warehouse is just short of huge and simple on the outside. So simple, all red brick, that I find it difficult to locate the door.

  I reach out to pull open the inconspicuous door when it opens on its own and a group of three young, sharp men dressed in business suits step out. One gives me a once over, mumbles something under his breath that makes the other men cackle and slap his back.

  Well. I suppose I chose the right outfit.
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  I step in and stare in mounting amazement. Wow!! Aaric has really done well for himself. The warehouse looks unremarkable on the outside, but the moment you step inside, the edgy, state-of-the-art interior catches you off guard.

  Flat TVs line the red brick walls, industrial beams grace the ceilings, and polished cement covers the floor. Yet it is the cleanliness, the equipment, the size, the museum-like quality of every finish inside that makes me realize…never doubt again.

  I follow the signs and head to the first-floor bathroom to freshen up.

  “I’m telling you, not even his mother could love him. He’s fucking intolerable and I’m over this,” one employee is telling another by the sink.

  “You are not over this, you just started this job.”

  “He calls at 5 a.m.! He has no respect for my personal time or anyone else’s.”

  “He pays you for every hour of your day, especially overtime hours. Plus that’s in our contracts—oh.”

  They quiet when they spot me. I’m hurrying to make my appointment on time so I keep dabbing a cool, moist tissue down the back of my neck and between my breasts.

  They leave. I quickly head to the stall to pee when I hear footsteps and the sound of the bathroom door slamming and frantic kissing follows.

  I’m just about to head out to wash my hands when I realize a couple is making out near the bathroom sink.

  Oh brother. I peer through the gap in the bathroom stall and can make out a pair of women’s heels digging into a partly bared male ass as he starts pounding her. He’s got a great ass. So great she seems to be enjoying digging into it with her slim, inked ankles and those heels.

  “Oooooh. God yes. Did you lock the door?” the woman asks on a hushed moan.

  “Of course, baby.” A gruff male response, buried in her neck.

  I shut my eyes with a little bit of longing because I don’t even know how long it’s been since I had sex, then I lean my forehead on the back of the door and suppress the urge to bang myself against it. Ugh. Really?

  I suffer through their entire fuck and their joint orgasm.

  Minutes and minutes of sighs and groans.

  After they’re done, I peer under the stall and watch a pair of women’s heels and men’s shiny gray designer shoes leave.

  I step outside, fix my hair, and exhale before I leave and hurry up the stairs onto the second floor—straight to the biggest doors I can find—and direct myself to the busy PA sitting behind a Mac computer.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Christos. I’m Bryn Kelly.”

  “Your appointment was at six.”

  We stare at one another.

  “Yes.” I widen my eyes when I realize that it’s 6:21 p.m.

  “Mr. Christos hates when an appointment is late,” his assistant snaps.

  “I’m here now. Do you suppose you could fit me in? I’m…an old acquaintance.”

  “He’s heading out of the office. Sorry.” The phone rings. The woman looks close to a panic attack as she picks up. “Yes, Mr. Christos? Aha. Yes, I’ll bring it over. I’ll do that as well.” She hangs up and hurries to do his bidding.

  “I’ll bring him that.” I take the folders she has gathered.

  “You’ll get me fired.”

  “Or promoted.”

  I head toward the doors.

  “Miss Kelly, truly—” she objects as she chases me.

  I ignore her pleas and head inside to find Christos bent over his desk, signing documents.

  “Thanks,” he says without looking up as he hears me come in. “And if Miss Kelly deigns herself to—”

  “She’s deigned to appear, sir, and she’s truly sorry she’s late.”

  His eyebrows lift for a fraction of a second. His lips part. He quickly rises to his full composure.

  Our eyes hold, and his eyebrows lift a fraction more as I gape at him. Like a fool. An utter and complete fool. He’s in a black suit, no tie, his hair slicked back to reveal his hot-as-sin features.

  He seems to recover quickly. But I take longer. Forcing myself to move and step deeper into his office.

  There’s silence. He looks as intimidating as he looked at his place. He also looks vexed, his irritation evident as he takes me in without the barest hint of a smile.

  His brows slant low over his eyes in a frown. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, lips pursed, irritated and just a hint amused. “And you are?”

  “I’m your next appointment. The wicked Miss Kelly.”

  His lips curve, but he shakes it off. He glances past my shoulders, a stern look on his features. “Make sure this doesn’t happen again.” He hands the papers to his assistant, who crept up behind me while I ogled him, then he shoots me a glance. “Lips, I leave in…ten minutes. I’m wrapping up.”

  Why am I licking my lips because he called me lips?

  “Oh. Well then, I’ll walk you to the train,” I say, licking my lips yet again.

  “Gym, you mean.”

  “Exactly. I was heading there myself.”

  He rakes his eyes down my body as if determining whether I work out or not. “Right.” He smiles.

  I purse my lips. “I’m sorry I’m late, I was detained.”

  He narrows his eyes.

  “Can we do this again?” I propose. I go to the door and inhale and then walk back in.

  “Hi,” I say with fake cheer, my heart pounding nervously.

  He exhales in exasperation. “We might as well get this over with.” He motions for me to close the door.

  “I’ve got ten minutes,” he says.

  “I ask for twenty.” I shut the door.

  “Ten,” he growls.

  “Fifteen then.”

  “Ten, little bit.” A smile tugs his mouth, and he shakes his head in bemusement.

  “Okay, eleven it is,” I concede.

  No longer playful, he glances nonchalantly at his watch. Taking his seat. “Nine minutes thirty now. Want to waste any more time negotiating?” His expression is unrelenting.

  “Okay then! Let’s start.”

  I pull out my notes, and I can’t help but take a peek at him only to find him staring at me in silence.

  He appears thoughtful, and by the crease in his forehead, terribly unhappy about something.

  He looks at me, pointing at the folders. “Are you going to hold those for the remaining minutes, or do you want me to look at them?”

  It’s killing me, the way he smirks at me. What is he trying to do? I don’t understand.

  “I’m sure I want you to have a look.” I extend my hand, but instead of taking them, he kicks out of his chair and approaches.

  He nudges the folder open before me and leans over my shoulder. He points with his index finger to the first page. “House of Sass. That’s your name for it?”

  Close to my ear, his voice is rich and deep, smooth as velvet. A rasp of intrigue laces the words.

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  I turn my head—catching his eyes. Or rather, his eyes catching mine.

  “Hmm,” he says.

  He takes the folder now and brings it to his desk. He reads for a second, then he lifts his gaze to me.

  I’m so nervous I could vomit.

  “It makes me feel good to make people feel good, I’m selfish,” I explain.

  “You’re not selfish.” His stare is direct, eyes a deep green-gold staring into me. He moves his arm, closing the folder.

  “But I’m not sure it’s got enough, bit.” He shakes his head, and his low words take a moment to register, because his gaze drifts to my mouth and I can’t think straight.

  My eyes drop to his mouth too—his unsmiling, sexy mouth. His clothes are of high quality, but there’s a rawness to him that the elegant clothes cannot conceal.

  It’s not just his imposing frame behind his imposing desk, but also his unreadable expression that makes me want to penetrate the deliberate blankness on his face.

  I swallow. I force my eyes up and say, “It’s more. It would ha
ve my designs.”

  He leans back, smiling. “I’m listening.”

  Does his every move have to remind me of his sexual attractiveness?

  “I’m self-taught,” I explain, pulling out a few of my drawings. My favorites. Long dresses, mini-skirts, silky blouses. “I was always into clothing at Kelly’s, but after my parents died and I had to make do, I started making my own clothes from what I had—people like them. People really like them.”

  “Hmm.” He scrapes his jaw, staring at the designs then at me.

  “Department stores aren’t as strong as they used to be,” he says.

  “We can have a website. Make it cool like Shopbop and Revolve.”

  “What will distinguish you from them?”

  Silence.

  He eases out of his chair. “See, you have to know these things.”

  “I’m the creative mind; you’re the business mind.”

  He stands upright in one fluid motion. He’s tall, at least a head taller than me, and well built. Athletic and defined as he stands before me. His hair is combed stylishly backward atop a nose that is elegant, a face that is beautiful and masculine.

  “Time’s up.”

  “I’m not done yet.”

  “I didn’t say we were done, I said time’s up.”

  He heads to the end of his office and pulls out a duffel bag.

  “Christos, you know you want to help me. There’s potential here. It’s not my startup’s fault I fucked up my pitch a bit. I was flustered.”

  “Flustered,” he repeats.

  “By you and by the sex I had to endure before coming up here.” I glance at his shoes, then at him, as he stares at me with quiet speculation.

  “Someone was having sex in the bathroom.”

  “And.”

  “I thought it was you.”

  “Someone was having sex in my corporate bathroom?”