Page 113 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
“Don’t forget,” he whispers, “no matter what anyone else does or says, you should always choose your own adventure.”
The thing is, I think I just did.
Right at the moment it turned out I can’t actually have it anymore.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
MILLER
Whenever we’re all in the city at the same time, we hold our Boston Commoners owners’ meetings in our box at the stadium—as long as it’s not too cold to be kept warm by patio heaters, that is.
The love of soccer brought us together, after all, and the novelty of looking out onto our own green turf at every available opportunity doesn’t show any signs of wearing off.
But since it’s a cold, damp Thanksgiving evening and neither Leo nor I made any noises about getting together at either of our homes—me because my place is an uncharacteristic mess, Leo because the last time we went there Oliver knocked a bottle of beer onto a new cream rug that was made from unicorn hair and spun by angels or something—we’re getting together at a restaurant in the North End.
In a private room, of course. Chase and Oliver are waytoo recognizable for us to get any peace anywhere public, and Leo’s pretty popular in his own way.
Very few people would recognize me. I’ve been interviewed on news shows and had features done about me in magazines, but I’m not even close to being a household name in Boston, never mind the country—or the world, like Oliver and Chase are.
I’m just a rich guy who builds buildings that some people claim wreck the skyline while secretly wishing they could afford to live in one.
I’m not a British prince who fled to the US to escape his controlling family and the tabloids, or a Hollywood heartthrob who’s been voted Sexiest Man on Earth more times than I care to remember, or the legendary grumpy billionaire investor who sits at the center of the panel on the smash-hit entrepreneur TV showLions’ Den.
Attempting a stretch in the back seat of the car, I tuck my thumbs into the waistband of my jeans and tug on them. I’m so stuffed from doing little more than eating all day at Mom and Dad’s house that there is definitely no food on my agenda tonight, even though we’re meeting at one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city. The only thing I might just about be able to squeeze in is a snifter of Irish whiskey.
But I’m grateful for this evening’s get-together, because it means I don’t have to go home and be alone with my thoughts—my entirely Frankie-based thoughts.
And it’s good for Oliver and Chase to have a little Thanksgiving gathering of sorts, since neither of them has any family in Boston. And a good chance for Oliver to poke fun at our American traditions. Last year he went on a whole rant, asking who the hell first thought to make a sweet dessert pie from a vegetable.
As for Leo, I have no idea if Leo even has any family. I’ve always imagined he emerged in the world fully formed, wearing matching gray pants and turtleneck, from a neat, black, silk-lined box.
My phone buzzes right as the car comes to a halt outside Hampstead House.
BROOKE
The crew is confirmed to be at the new project first thing tomorrow morning. And you’re paying them extra for starting on Black Friday.
Excellent news. My mouth almost breaks into a smile, using muscles my face hasn’t employed since before I found Skinner on the other side of Frankie’s door. The mere thought of that whole incident of living hell makes my skin crawl with fury, shame, and gut-wrenching misery.
But at least I have something in the works that I know will make Frankie happy. Even if she never wants to see me or talk to me again, at least I will have made some good come from this.
I hand the driver a fifty and open the door.
Brooke’s message makes my step one percent lighter getting out of the car than it was getting into it. But that’s only one percent lighter than lead, though. Let’s face it, I’ve pretty much dragged myself around like a dead weight ever since I got home.
“Evening, sir.” The doorman taps the brim of his hat and opens the door for me. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
I nod and step inside.
“Mr. Malone,” says the woman atthe front desk. “Happy Thanksgiving. Your colleagues are already here. End of the hall and to the right.”
I give her a wave of thanks and head down the softly lit, thickly carpeted, wood-paneled hallway lined with images of Boston’s bygone eras, each with its own spotlight.
The last door on the right is the Farber Room where we have had several bad-weather dinner meetings.
“Here he is,” Oliver says, breaking off the discussion already in progress and raising his beer glass as I walk in.
“And never looked happier.” Leo’s sarcastic tone is my favorite.
