Page 176 of Enemies

He and Beck exchange a look before Tyler shakes his head.

“Does Rae know about this?” he asks.

“I find it’s best to work out the details, then start working on her.”

They grin.

“Damn,” Beck says. “She’s got you.”

I cut a look over my shoulder to see Rae inside with the other women. I love her, and the way she told me she loved me too today… it was everything.

I’ve been thinking about what I’d do if besting Mischa wasn’t my only goal. Ceding La Mer always felt like a failure, but I’ve never considered what I’d gain. I could experiment with complementary business lines that interest me. Perhaps smaller venues in new markets. Partnerships with the local community.

Echo Entertainment could slow down and look the fuck around, and so could I.

“Harrison King, family man. Whatever would the tabloids say?” Beck says, smirking.

“He’s not a family man yet,” Tyler comments. “Did you see the announcement for the new club?”

“Kings,” Beck chortles. “You’ve been in the States too long, friend. Whatever British tendency to understatement you had is gone.”

Beck pulls up the social post on his phone—the one that went public through dozens of influencers who’ve committed to opening night, plus my company, scores of media outlets, and, of course, Little Queen.

“Everyone in the world will be watching you,” Beck notes.

I cast a look at Rae talking with the other women. “Fucking let them.”

We toast.

25

RAE

“You guys seem good,” Annie says over her non-alcoholic cocktail as we sit around the couch. The living room looks out on the patio and pool and West Hollywood beyond.

“We’re figuring it out,” I admit.

“You sure looked like you had it figured out at Spago last week.” She holds out her phone with a gossip column picture of me and Harrison after our meal at the restaurant.

“Since when do you comb the gossip online?”

“Since they started posting pictures of my favorite private couple. What was he saying to you?”

My hand is laced in his, and he’s whispering in my ear.

“Don’t remember.” I blink back at my friend.

“Bullshit.”

She’s right. I totally remember.

Annie’s six-year-old half sister, Sophie, climbs up next to me with a book in hand.

“You want me to read?” I ask her, amused.

“No. I’ll read to you.”

She starts to, and I tuck back the soft hair that falls over her face.

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