Chapter 1

ONE

ROWE

“Please don’t make me wear the sombrero, dude. The mustache is bad enough.”

I gave my cousin a no-nonsense look that I hoped was visible in the dim light of the alley. “The sombrero is mandatory, Joey. I know it’s a pain in the ass, but you have to do it right, or Lea will fire me, and I very much need this job. And don’t forget, you need to strum the tiny guitar and sing the song after you hand over the food, too. My name is Burrito Bandito …”

Joey watched my demonstration in dismay. “I forgot about the song. Shit. Do I really have to do the little toe-kick thing?”

“Technically, the toe-kick was my invention,” I admitted. I stripped off my Burrito Bandito T-shirt and handed it over, exchanging it for the slightly wrinkled tuxedo shirt Joey pulled out of a shopping bag. “But if you’re gonna do a thing, you’ve gotta commit, you know? And it’s increased my tips by twenty percent, so it’s worth a little embarrassment.”

“Fine,” he groaned. “ Fine . The things I do for you, Rowe Prince.”

“And I appreciate them,” I assured him fervently. “All of them.” I waved a hand in the air, encompassing the sombrero and mustache, the tuxedo in the bag, the dumpster we were crouched behind, and the glittering lights of the Museum of Modern Art beyond. “Letting me crash at your place for weeks, figuring out a way for me to get into this fundraising gala, taking over the rest of my Burrito Bandito shift… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Yeah, alright, okay,” Joey mumbled. He patted my shoulder awkwardly. “I, like, support you and shit. You know that. We don’t need to talk about it.”

I laughed a little despite my nerve-induced nausea.

“Now, shake a leg and get in there before the whole damn party is over. Here.” He snagged a black bow tie from the bag. “Put that on. And you got your ticket, right? ’Cause I only managed to snag one from my boss’s office before they were mailed out.”

“No, I know. It’s in my pocket— Uh, wait.” I blinked down at the silky fabric of the tie in the dim light. “Joey, are there rabbits embroidered on this tie?”

“You said you needed a tux, so I brought you the magician costume I wear at kids’ birthday parties.” He beamed proudly. “Pays to have a cousin who works in the catering and event entertainment business, eh?”

“Joey,” I moaned. “I’m supposed to look like I belong in there. The goal is to impress Justin Hardy enough to get a meeting so I can pitch him my project. I don’t know if frolicking rabbits give off a ‘ take me seriously ’ aesthetic.”

“Not everybody cares about aesthetics the way you do, Mr. Second-Hand Bougie.” Joey grabbed the fabric from my hands and draped it around my neck. “Your other choice was the tux I wear when I’m dancing at bachelorette parties, and believe me, the shit embroidered on that one would definitely send the wrong message.” He knotted the tie around my neck in record time—clearly, he’d worked a lot of bachelorette parties—and stood back to admire his work. “Besides, nobody’s gonna notice they’re rabbits unless they’re all up in your personal space. And who are you planning on getting that cozy with at the freakin’ Coalition for Children fancypants gala?” He pulled the tuxedo jacket from the bag and held it up so I could slide my arms into the sleeves. “You’re gonna be fine if you just chill. And remember, beggars can’t be choosers.”

I blew out a long, shaky breath. Joey was right. I’d scoured the racks at the local Second Chance Savers but hadn’t found a single cast-off tuxedo, and my wallet was so empty I couldn’t afford to rent one. His loaner was my only shot at being able to blend in at this event. I just needed to calm down and get on with it.

“So, this ticket…” I pulled the crumpled card stock from my pocket, where I’d tucked it right next to the lucky tattoo on my hip. “Do we know whose it is? The front of the envelope doesn’t have a person’s name. It only says Sterling Chase —which is a company.”

“Ironic, huh? Considering Sterling Chase shot you down when you asked them for a pitch meeting? Serves the fuckers right.” He grinned slyly. “You’ll go in as one of them, then score a meeting with Hardy Development, their biggest competitor. It’s… whajamacallit. Poetic justice.”

“Is it, though? I mean, yeah, it sucked when Sterling Chase turned me down,” I admitted. “I’d thought the Trauma Communication Protocol would be a perfect fit there—”

“Stupid name for your project,” Joey scoffed. “I liked the old name better.”

So did I.

“ Project Daisy Chain doesn’t sound professional, so I’m trying to come up with a new one.” I tugged at my collar. “Gotta appear as professional as possible since I don’t have a fancy degree or personal recommendation to make me sound legit. Sterling Chase was only one of the sixteen companies that rejected me without a second look.”

“Yeah, but they were the one with the shittiest ‘fuck off’ letter.”

“Well… true.”

“What if the invitation was for Sterling Chase, the founder of the company himself? Heh. Wouldn’t that be killer?” Joey straightened the cuffs of my jacket.

“Uh… no.” Low-key panic blossomed in my chest, making breathing tricky. “That would be a disaster . Is there even a person named Sterling Chase? I’ve never seen him mentioned in any articles.”

Joey shrugged. “Dude, I’m a cater-waiter. My boss didn’t exactly discuss the guest list with me. But I thought I heard somewhere that Sterling Chase was the guy who started the Sterling Chase company. You know, like Justin Hardy started Hardy Development, and Grey Blackwood founded Blackwood Holdings, and Walt Disney created Disney World, and Chef Boyardee invented ravioli?”

I blinked. At least one of those things was factually inaccurate, but that didn’t mean Joey was entirely wrong.

Before I’d sent out my meeting request, I’d done some research on Sterling Chase. The company was owned by a bunch of smaller businesses, which was pretty common, fronted by a CEO named Clarissa Comfrey and a head of development named Austin Purcell, and overseen by a five-person board of directors. Their first major deal had been packaging and selling a piece of software with the unassuming name of ETC—Emergency Traffic Control—which Sterling Chase had sold for multiple billions of dollars. As a company, they were committed to diversity and philanthropy. Their headquarters was praised by environmental groups for being a green space. Their projects consistently won awards for technological innovation. Blah, blah, blah.

I hadn’t seen a single thing about who’d founded the business, though… and in retrospect, that seemed odd. Was it possible there was a reclusive billionaire out there pulling the strings?

“Why would someone hide their involvement in a hugely successful company, though?” I wondered out loud. “That would be weird. Wouldn’t there be some reference to the guy on the internet? A picture or a bio—”

“Shit, Rowe, who knows why rich people do the wacky things they do, especially if they’re genius types? Maybe Mr. Chase just doesn’t want his picture to be public, so he flies under the radar. Maybe he’s like Batman. Or the Wizard of Oz.”

Huh . “I guess,” I said slowly. But if that was the case, then… “Joey,” I demanded, high-key panicked now. “You stole me Sterling Chase’s invitation?”

“Guess so?” Joey appeared utterly unconcerned. “Dude, chill . If you’ve never seen a picture of Sterling Chase, these bozos haven’t, either,” he said reasonably. “Besides, this shindig is invite-only, and if you’ve got Sterling’s, you know you’re not gonna run into the man himself in there.”

“Oh, shit.” I clutched my stomach. “I’m gonna be sick.”

Joey gave my tie a final tweak. “You’re not. Just lay low, find Justin Hardy, make your pitch, get your meeting, and leave before anyone realizes who you really are so neither of us gets in trouble.” He grabbed my chin firmly. “No freaking out.”

I whimpered slightly, and Joey shook his head. “You’re so freaking out.”

I spread my hands helplessly. “It’s just… It’s hard enough for me to walk in there and pretend to belong among a bunch of rich people. It’s another thing if I have to impersonate an actual billionaire. What if someone asks me a question? I’m the worst liar ever, Joey. You know this. Remember your mom’s fiftieth birthday? She asked me point-blank if there was going to be a surprise party, and of course I said no … then I got so stressed about lying I broke out in hives and ended up in the ER.”

“Shit, yeah.” Joey winced. “Never knew a person’s entire face could swell like that.”

“And the summer we all vacationed on the lake, remember how you told me to pretend I couldn’t swim so the cute lifeguard would save me… but I got so flustered I actually forgot how to swim?”

Joey scratched the back of his neck. “Now that you mention it, that ended in the ER, too, didn’t it?”

“Yes! In fact, the Venn diagram of Rowe Prince’s Lies and Rowe Prince’s Injuries is practically a circle. It ends in misery every time.”

“Okay, so don’t think of it as lying,” Joey said firmly. He smoothed down my curly hair, which was probably getting unruly, thanks to the humidity. “Think of it as… upcycling. Like what you did with that old-as-fuck dresser you got your mom at Goodwill. Underneath, you’re still Rowe with, like, good bones and shit. But for tonight, you’re sanded and painted and with better hardware.” He tweaked my tie. “Or go for the fairy-tale thing—you’re like Cinderella getting all dressed up for the ball, and I’m your fairy godmother. For tonight, you’re not Rowe Prince. You’re Sterling Chase, a quirky rich guy. And betcha you’ll be more charming than the real Sterling ever could be.”

A warm breeze blew trash-scented air across the alley, and it seemed like a heck of a stretch to apply interior design concepts or fairy tales to this scenario.

“Rowe,” Joey said firmly, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned from working parties and events all these years, it’s that when you’re hanging with rich folks, you’ve gotta own it. Walk with brass balls. Believe that you belong, and you will. Don’t act like you’re here begging for a chance—act like you’re offering them an opportunity. And definitely don’t do that babbling thing you do when you’re nervous.”

I scowled. I did not babble.

“Most important, remember why you’re here.” His eyes bored into mine. “You’ve been pouring your blood, sweat, and tears into Project Daisy Chain. You’ve sacrificed your money and time, the career you could have had… your freakin’ dignity.” He twirled the sombrero in the air. “And you didn’t do all that shit so you could freak out when your goal was in reach.” He shook my shoulders lightly. “You said emailing people to ask for a meeting wasn’t working. You said you needed to make a personal connection first. Right?”

“Well, yeah—”

“Okay. So you’re gonna take that rabbit bow tie and that magician tux, you’re gonna go in there, and you’re gonna make shit happen. Hear me?”

“Yes.” I straightened my shoulders. “I will .”

“Fuck yeah, you will.” Joey grinned suddenly and clapped a hand to my chest, right over the breast pocket of my tuxedo. “And whatever you do, don’t pull this pocket square, okay? It’s a pain in the ass to get it folded back up again.” He shot me a wink, then jammed the sombrero on his head. “Check in later, cuz. I got burritos to deliver.”

He wandered off down the alley, humming the Burrito Bandito song under his breath, and I shook my head. As much as Joey bitched and moaned about taking my shift, I knew I could trust him to do a good job at it. We’d grown up several states apart from each other—me in Indiana and him in New York—but our parents had instilled in us a strong work ethic and an even stronger sense of Prince family loyalty. Neither of us would let the other one down, especially if it involved our jobs.

And for all his goofiness, Joey was right. This was it. The chance I’d been waiting for. All the sleepless nights, all the dates I’d missed out on, all the years of research, all the soul-crushing form-letter rejections had led me here. Tonight, I was going to meet the head of Hardy Development in person, explain my idea—and the reason behind it—in a way Justin Hardy couldn’t refuse, and convince him to help me make my dream a reality.

My hands were a little clammy, and I couldn’t help but notice the tux I wore smelled like cotton candy and corn chips, but I was not going to let that stop me. I checked my breast pocket again for the business cards I’d shoved in there. Sure they were old-fashioned, but I couldn’t think of another way to force my contact info on any good funding leads I might get tonight.

Walk confidently. Brass balls. You’re Sterling Chase, Quirky Billionaire.

You belong.

I snuck around the pretentious red-carpet area, where photographers were snapping pictures of beautiful people, and made my way through the security area to the check-in table.

“Ticket?” the woman behind the table asked politely. Thankfully, the area around the reception table was so busy she barely noticed how crumpled my ticket was. She quickly exchanged it for a name tag that said Sterling Chase… exactly as Joey had predicted.

Damn it .

For the first time, it occurred to me that appearing with Sterling’s name on my name tag might not be the best way to talk to Justin Hardy, his business rival.

“Uhh, actually.” I swallowed. “Is there any way to get a name tag with a different name? Like, I dunno, let’s say… Rowe?”

“Rowe.” The lady blinked at me. “Sir, this ticket is in the name of Sterling Chase. Is it not your ticket?” Her eyes shifted to the security personnel standing nearby.

“I… I…” What would Sterling Chase do? I stuck my chin in the air and affected the most obnoxious rich-person accent I could muster. “Of course it’s mine, my dear.” I smiled winningly. “Yes, indeed! It’s just that I like to…” I coughed lightly. “Play pranks on my friends! It’s quite common amongst billionaires like myself. Sterling Chase is a notorious prankster. Ask anyone who knows him… er, me .”

The woman raised an eyebrow, and I felt a bead of sweat drip down the back of my neck.

“B-but obviously, it’s no problem for me to simply… be Sterling Chase. Since I am Sterling Chase. So sorry to trouble you.” I took my name tag and made a big show of affixing it to my pocket, then gave her a stiff bow. “I bid you good night, lovely lady.”

I quickly walked past her, following the crowd dressed in millions of dollars of couture fashion.

Sweet fucking fuck. It was possible that Joey had a point about my nervous babbling.

“Bonjour, Mika, darling!” A woman nearby gave air-kisses to another woman before flashing perfect, bright-white teeth. “How long has it been? Eons . I haven’t seen you since Joplin’s wine tasting in SoHo.”

I resisted the urge to rub my damp palms against my thighs, feeling immediately and hopelessly out of place. My magician’s tux felt too tight despite being at least a size too big, and I doubted the name on my badge was the fakest thing in the room.

This glittering, champagne-bubble world was not one I’d ever dreamed of navigating, growing up in rural Indiana. In Linden, the richest family around were the Timmonses, who owned the local chicken operation, and Bucky Timmons hadn’t put on airs despite his dad always driving a tricked-out Ford F-350 that was never more than three years old. The only things I knew about the ultra-wealthy came from reality TV and the grocery store tabloids my mother sometimes read.

Now here I was in New York City, trying to get my project funded before I ran out of money entirely, which meant connecting with people as disconnected from my reality as aliens from another planet. And, I noted, hardly any of them were wearing their name badges.

I ducked behind a “Support the Coalition for Children” sign propped on an easel, took a deep breath, and used my fingernail to remove my name badge—or tried to, anyway. The damn thing snagged on the shiny material of Joey’s tux. The harder I tried to pick at it, the more it refused to budge, and I was afraid I’d end up destroying the tux if I kept trying.

My pits were noticeably wet by that point, my forehead damp with perspiration, which meant my curls were probably bouncing all over the place. I needed to find the man I was looking for before I ended up looking like a demented clown and smelling like something worse than Fritos.

I stood on tiptoe so I could peek over the sign to scan the crowd, but I didn’t see anyone who looked like Justin Hardy’s picture on his website because that would be too easy.

“You’re not going to find the handsome billionaire by hiding in the corner, Prince,” I grumbled to myself. “Get out there, pretend rich people aren’t incredibly intimidating, and get this done.” I tugged my tuxedo jacket down, set my shoulders back, and stepped out into the crowd of laughing socialites with an entirely put-upon confidence.

Immediately, someone bumped into me from behind like I was invisible, shoving me into the sign and setting it rocking on its flimsy stand. I grabbed it, terrified, but ended up knocking it off its perch and overbalancing myself at the same time. My foot came down on the sign—the slippery, slippery sign—and while my other foot dangled in the air, I sailed several feet across the black marble floor, only stopping when I managed to catch myself on a support pillar and duck into a shadowy alcove behind a potted fern.

“Good. Fucking. Fuck ,” I panic-panted, bending over with my hands on my thighs so I could catch my breath.

Lay low , Joey had said. Be a quirky billionaire. I wasn’t sure skateboarding across the shiny floors of the Museum of Modern Art on a charity poster was what he’d had in mind.

Who knew fundraising galas could be so damn dangerous? Who knew one human could be so freaking awkward?

I hadn’t injured myself, though, so that was an improvement. I straightened up carefully and assessed the situation. No sprained muscles. No need to call an ambulance. Not even a rip in the tux. Best of all, no one in the crowd on the other side of the plant even seemed to have noticed, so I could still blend in—

“Impressive dismount,” the deepest, sexiest voice I’d ever heard said from behind me, laughter lurking in every golden syllable. “But I’m afraid you’re going to need to find your own potted plant to hide behind. This one’s taken.”