Page 87 of The Billionaires' Gamble
“Absolutely.” They’re worth it. I’m not even sure how I’m so certain. It’s just a feeling. A deep, strong, unwavering knowledge that they complete me and I complete them. We’ll be far happier together.
“That’s good then,” Dad says.
“It’s going to be rough. She’s going to hire the shadiest lawyer and try to turn this all around on me.”
“We’re not going to let her do that.”
“Oh, I know we aren’t.” Like I told her last week, I know where she’s buried her skeletons. “I’m no longer willing to play ball with her. She used up my goodwill a while ago.”
29
GABE
“Are you going to hide out here all day?” King’s voice carries across the backyard.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the bottom of my t-shirt and turn to face him. He’s the picture of Hamptons preppy, from the shorts and the loafers to the polo. My heart lifts at the sight of all that happy, golden perfection.
And then it plummets.
I’m at my beach house for a reason. To be away from him and Alex and Katherine. The distance hurts like hell, but so does everything else.
When I don’t say anything, he frowns, glancing at the pile of weeds to my left. “What’s going on, Gabriel?”
Shit. My full given name makes me stand up a little straighter.
“Just taking some time to get my head together.” Like Alex wanted. Hell, like I wanted.
My frustration last night was mostly aimed at myself. When someone points out the thing that’s already bothering you, it makes said thing feel ten times worse. And I’d already promised myself that I was going to get my shit together and become a man Katherine could love and depend on. And then my bestfriend, who should know me better than anyone, gave me a dressing down.
I’m still stinging from it.
And that’s probably what he wanted.
Alex isn’t cruel. He’s calculating.
“Fair,” King says.
He’s not going to let this go, so all the overgrown bushes and unruly weeds will have to wait. He’s so sweetly stubborn.
I drop the old loppers on a chair and circle the pool. When I was young and had too much energy, my mom would send me outside to pull weeds. Let’s just say she had the tidiest flower beds for miles.
I brush my hands on my jeans. “Did he send you?”
“I sent myself. What’s going on, man?”
He follows me into the house. “You got furniture.”
“I did.” Where there was a pile of lumber and a five-gallon bucket two weeks ago, now there’s a low sectional in a soft fabric with a plush rug beneath.
“When did this happen?” He pulls the chain on one of the new lamps adorning matching end tables.
“This morning.”
He stands up straight, realizing that I must have set this all in motion last night, and then turns toward me.
Why do I feel so guilty?
Because he was so interested in this project, you jackass.
