Chapter 2 Gus

I'm losing my mind.

For the tenth time today, I stare at a picture of Julia Ridgeway on my phone. The current image is her wearing a skimpy red bikini and posing on the bow of a yacht in Mykonos. The bikini barely does the work to cover her, and instead accentuates her sun-kissed skin and lush, perfect breasts. The expression on her face is pure smug confidence—like she's saying, You'll have to settle for looking and fantasizing because you're never going to get me to the countless men who I'm sure have saved this image from Google to their phones.

I don't know if I'm staring at the picture out of acrimony or lust, frankly. Nobody—nobody—speaks to me the way she did. Nobody rejects me the way she did. Hell, nobody rejects me at all. I've never encountered a more infuriating woman in my life.

…Nor have I ever encountered a woman so disturbingly, unfairly beautiful.

She's holding a pale purple iced coffee in my favorite picture of her. It was the fourth result on Google images, but if the people at Google were smart they'd make it their company logo. The image is unforgettable; it would keep users on Google for hours longer, I bet.

Allegedly, when Julia posted this picture on her Instagram, the coffee shop she tagged drummed up so much business, they now regularly sell out of coffee before noon.

A coffee shop. Running out of coffee.

In the picture, she's seated at a table, sunglasses perched on her head in her long, wind-swept blond hair. The tip of a straw rests between her plump lips and she smiles coyly at the camera. Her big doe eyes are crinkled with laughter, and her free hand toys with her dress's thin strap. Her body is all swooping curves that dive into a slender waist, giving her a shape that makes me clench my jaw so hard it aches. Admittedly, this image is one of the tamest pictures of her I've seen. Julia Ridgeway is a lot of things, but shy clearly isn't one of them.

And yet, this one is my favorite because it looks candid—like someone managed to catch her with her guard down for once.

I close the image before I impassively lean back against the plush couch by the windows in Davis Ridgeway's impressive corner office. Davis Ridgeway the second, that is. His father, Davis Ridgeway Sr., is nowhere to be seen. He hasn't actually worked at Davenport-Ridgeway for four years, but he keeps his thumb on the pulse of the company, I've heard. Apparently, an audience with his eldest son is as good as meeting with the man himself.

Davis Ridgeway the second is exactly what a billionaire business tycoon's son should be: put together, practiced, and a touch neurotic about disappointing his father. One day when I have a son of my own, he'll be a billionaire business tycoon's son—and I frankly wouldn't mind if he were like Davis Ridgeway.

But at the moment, Davis needs to kowtow to me. Beg me. Fear me. Frankly, he should get on his hands and knees, Hugo Boss suit be damned, and kiss the tops of my shoes. He should grovel like his life depends on it. Hell, maybe his life does depend on it, because if our verbal agreement for Davenport-Ridgeway to purchase FundRight falls through, I'm assuming Davis Ridgeway Sr. will go ten plagues of Egypt on his son.

It's what I would do, naturally.

Davis pours us each a cup of coffee from the tray his assistant arranged on the coffee table between us. His hands are steady, but I can see the pulse in his jaw, which is clenched. It's an easy tell: a sign that this sharply-dressed billionaire's successor isn't always the shark he pretends to be. The cracks in his fa?ade were subtle but noticeable when he met with me in London three weeks ago. Unfortunately for him, finding those cracks is my specialty. Today, I can see them expanding into fissures.

"I know you like to cut to the chase, so let's start." Davis settles into his seat across from me. "What do I have to do to save our deal?"

"Two board seats," I answer automatically.

"Done," Davis agrees, nodding once and clapping his hands together so hard it makes the Rolex on his wrist shift into his shirt cuff. "Anything else?"

It takes all my restraint not to snicker. The kid really thinks I'm going to make damage control that easy for him.

I allow the silence to draw out because I know he finds it unnerving. Subtly, I study the lines of his face. When I really stare at him, I find he looks like his sister.

Goddamn Julia Ridgeway.

After our encounter at her father's birthday party, I cut out early. Called a car and put her name into Google while I was pulling out of the driveway of the Ridgeway estate. That search produced an ungodly volume of pictures of her at various parties and events over the years. Classic upper crust party-girl shit. Apparently she modeled as a teenager, retired when she went to college, and graduated into the role of a prolific socialite. Yachts. Beaches. Nightclubs. She looks right at home in all of them—and has amassed tens of millions of followers on different social media platforms purely by posting pictures of herself doing precisely what she does best: being unfathomably, undeniably sexy.

Davis clears his throat, reminding me of his presence and reminding me how he still looks like his sister. Three slight differences: First, Davis has the sturdiness of a guy, while Julia Ridgeway looks delicate like the ice forming over the surface of a lake—delicate in a deadly, unreliable way.

Secondly, Davis has a give to his expression. While he pretends to be cold or stoic, it's easy to detect the placidity behind his mien. With Julia, finding a weakness is impossible. Every look she gives is focused and intentional. We only spoke for a couple of minutes, but I easily recognized her intensity the moment she narrowed her eyes at me.

And third (maybe the most significant difference), unlike Davis, Julia Ridgeway is so unfathomably gorgeous, I would give up my entire company—my life's work—a fifty-billion-dollar enterprise, for a single night with her.

And that's exactly what I'm going to do: give it all up for one night with her.

I say as much to Davis, and when I offer my condition he's left blinking slowly with this stupid, dumbfounded look on his face.

"Are you serious?" he finally manages to utter. The words come out faint, almost wispy. I'm not surprised. I don't have any siblings, but I can assume asking for his sister is so damn abhorrent, Davis likely wants to murder me.

Don't care.

"Gus, are you serious?" he repeats. The pallor in his face has taken over and his hand tightens into a fist.

Maintaining impassiveness, I tilt my chin in confirmation. "Completely. I want a night with your sister. Convince her and my company is yours," I reiterate unwaveringly, leaning back again.

His face shifts into a stiff frown. "And by ‘a night' you mean…"

I want to fuck her.

I'm tactful enough not to say it to Julia's older brother though. Stoically, I offer him a small nod. We're on the same page.

Davis's sculpted, rich boy jaw may as well be on the floor, but he has the poise to keep his mouth drawn into a flat line. Gravely, his eyes tick over my face while he studies me in silence before saying, "You don't know my sister. She would never."

"Then it looks like the deal is off," I respond without missing a beat, hoping a grandstand won't blow up in my face. I know it could—and if it does, all my retirement plans are ruined—but I've always been a risk-taker.

"Jesus, Gus, this is a fifty-billion-dollar deal. That's what you get. Billions. You don't get my s—"

"Then it looks like the deal is off," I interject, repeating myself to a T.

Davis purses his lips. Clearly, he's unaccustomed to being interrupted. I am too. But this kind of shit happens when you put two billionaires in a room. Egos are bound to clash and money is bound to fly like the filling in a pi?ata.

"Look," I begin, leaning forward to talk to him like he's a kid who I need to school, "I've done my research. You're the pride and joy of the Ridgeway family. Everything on your CV verges on a carbon copy of your own father's career. You're on your way up. Don't let me stop you, Davis."

"You're a psychopath," he returns, his tone factual.

I delight in his words, in his fear of me, endlessly. It's fucking lifeblood, frankly. "Then it—"

"But luckily," he interjects, cutting into my words before I can dangle the deal in his face one last time. "Luckily…Julia is too. I'll see what I can do."