Page 71 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

“Mr. Drummond doesn’t want to see you. Trust me. You don’t want to push your luck.”

I grit my teeth. I have enough problems without adding in legal charges. “Well, at least I’m free,” I say. “This place sucks, and you know it. And if you don’t, you need to pull your head out of your ass.”

“Let’s go.” The security guy gestures at the door.

“Don’t worry, I know the way.” I storm out. Somehow I’m in the elevator with the security guy. Somehow the door is closing. Going down.

All this work for nothing. Lenny’s guys will come for the money, and I won’t have it. Do I leave town? Do they chase me? But then, what about Mia?

And the worst thing of all? The tears threatening have nothing to do with any of that, and everything to do with the way Mr. Drummond utterly and completely betrayed me.

I thought we had a connection. I loved our connection, so full of risky, thrilling, heartfelt honesty.

Our connection felt real. It felt beautiful.

To me, anyway.

He warned me, though, didn’t he? The world revolves around him. He’ll take what he wants.

Twenty

Theo

I push asidethe notebook full of half-baked ideas and focus on my phone, sitting front and center on my desk. “It can’t merely be a good place,” I tell Willow. “I want a great place. Something stylish, but not too fussy. She’s the kind who’d be into comfort food, but with flair.”

“Okay,” Willow says. “Comfort food with flair.”

“Stylish and fun,” I say. “It can be slightly quirky, but not all-out weird. Not quirky for quirky’s sake. And the food has to be excellent. Taste-wise, but also in terms of how it looks. The plate has to look beautiful. And above all, elaborate desserts.”

“What have you done with my brother?” she asks.

“Will you help me or not?”

“You really enjoyed those calls.”

“Do I have to ask somebody else?”

“No, I’m sending you a link. The Blue Stag Club. But it’ll be impossible to get a table…”

“Thanks,” I say as the link comes up. “Got it.” The place is important. I want Sasha to feel comfortable enough to be her sassy, snarky self.

The Blue StagClub is in the East Village. I walk in just before four. The place is everything Willow said it would be—colorful and cozy, but not overdone. A sense of humor, but nothing wacky. Exactly what Seven would like.

There are a few tables with diners—lunch stragglers, maybe. I venture in and stop at a corner table. Private. Near the window. But that’s not what attracts me. It’s the baby goat picture above the table.

The maître d’ comes up behind me. “Can I help you?”

“I’m hoping for dinner reservations,” I say. “Seven tonight. What do I have to do to get this table for seven tonight?”

“It’s not possible.”

He’s wrong. Everything is possible. I haven’t felt like this in a long time.

I pull out my wallet and start peeling off bills.

“Really,” he says. “We have a policy.”

I keep going. And eventually it’s possible.

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