Chapter 2

"All I did was ask for fries that weren't half-fried and soggy?" I throw my hands up in disbelief, walking to the windows. The ocean is calm, but it reminds me of an enormous tuna that got away, who is, without a doubt, creating chaos beneath the dancing water. That fish fought valiantly until he wore us out. The captain was right. Do you think I told her that? Hell no. Admitting fault or even asking for help is not the Worthington way, at least not mine.

The public relations team sits around the sleek industrial glass and metal conference table. "Winslow, there are at least ten videos that have gone viral of you losing your temper with women doing their jobs. It's becoming an issue, and the board of directors isn't happy."

"Issue an apology and send a basket of… something."

"You pay me to offer solutions to public relations nightmares. If you screaming at the waitress in the diner was the only viral video, I would suggest an apology but since that video, there have been several more, showing you being pompous or condescending."

"What do I pay you for? Just fix it."

Pamela, the public relations director, slides a magazine in my direction. I stop it with two fingers and read the headline.

Brat Billionaire Tears Down Waitress Over Fries

Her assistant scurries from the chairs behind the conference table, opening her laptop and hitting play. She has all of the celebrity sites queued up, hitting play on one after the other. The videos prove my fuse seems to be getting shorter.

"Enough." I slap it closed. "Everyone out but Pamela and Benson."

Benson taps his pen against his legal pad, once, twice, no… fifteen times before he finally breaks the silence. We've been best friends since freshman year at Princeton. He's the chief financial officer for Triple W Communications, a billion-dollar, Fortune Top 50 Company. The company my brothers and I took over in our twenties.

"Winslow," Benson says my true name instead of calling me Winnie. "If it weren't affecting the stock price, and we weren't bleeding money, I would say throw some money to the waitress and to whomever else you've offended. But our competition is using this against you and the company. We need a campaign that shows the real you."

I scoff, "The real me." Honestly, I don't know who that is anymore. Am I the ruthless CEO who eats up smaller companies? Am I the man who never wanted this? I used to be the man who wanted a wife and family. Now, I can't even stomach the thought.

My brothers and I inherited the company from our grandfather. My dad had control for five years and ran it into the ground. Every decision he made was the wrong one. He couldn't see past the present, making deals that plugged a hole instead of solving long-term problems.

For example, he would hire celebrities to do promos for our network, spending millions each time, even though it never moved the needle in our ratings.

Grandfather has endless examples, worse than that. But in the end, it was because my dad was pushed into a job he didn't want. My dad wanted to be his own person.

"I'll go apologize in private to the people I've offended, but that's not going to help the current situation. Ideas?"

Pamela glances between Benson and me. "You'll make a public apology that you're going through a rough time because of the five-year anniversary of…"

"Damn it. I'm not going to use my dead fiancée's memory to help quell a bad news cycle."

No way am I going to let them use her memory like that. I fucking loved her. Despite what is written about me, I'm not one of these billionaire playboys. My throat tightens just thinking about Phoebe. She was so sweet. She would look up at me with those big, green eyes and convince me I could rule the world. Devastating pain shoots through my chest.

After a deep breath, I sink into the chair. Pamela went to Princeton with Benson and me and is one of my closest female friends, so I ask, "What's the plan?"

Benson taps his hand against my shoulder, then clicks the button for video conferencing to my brothers, who are well aware of the issues I've created for the company. "Warren, Wells. Pamela has a plan, but we need everyone's input and support if we're going to stabilize our stock prices and prevent a hostile takeover."

Warren is my older brother, and Wells is two years younger than me. "Let's hear it," Warren says. The smirks on their faces show me how happy it's not them splashed on the front page for a change for their drinking and carousing.

"Fellas, hear me out." I love that she isn't formal. I get so damn sick of having to think about every word that spills from my mouth. "Picture this." She stands up and waves her hands across the air. "Would you spend a day with a grumpy billionaire for a chance at one million dollars and a date?"

I roll my eyes. Pamela has righted our company through numerous disasters, and I trust her judgement, but this idea is beyond ridiculous.

"The guidelines are straightforward—just complete a form detailing your life experiences. For instance, discuss a situation where you refrained from taking a chance and now regret it, or explain a mistake you made and wish you could redo. Describe why financial assistance is necessary. Five women will be selected to spend a day with you, sharing insights about their careers and personal lives. At the conclusion of each meeting, you'll have the option to choose whether to give them a million-dollar reward."

Wells chimes in with his opinion. "Genius. We'll get free press from our competitors. Winslow Worthington will be the talk of the town and since he's been dubbed The Most Eligible Bachelor, it will go national within hours. Damn, Pam. I should marry you." Wells is the most lighthearted and carefree of the three of us.

A blush creeps up Pamela's face when Wells shamelessly flirts with her.

Warren suggests, "We'll feature a clip on the nightly national newscast. Win spends time with one person a week." He runs his hand over his clean-shaven jaw. "Let's up the ante. If you choose to give them a million dollars, each woman can take the one million…" Warren stops and sports a huge grin. "Or they can flip a coin. If they win, they get ten million. If they lose, they get nothing except they spent the day with the most eligible billionaire in Miami."

"No one is turning down a million dollars. Find me a woman who turns down that kind of money, and I'll propose." The words slip from my lips before I can stuff them back inside. As much as I loved my late fiancée, even she would take the money. And she came from old money.

I watch as my friends and co-workers hold their breaths at my acknowledgement. It was a joke. Or was it? Do I need someone who'll take chances?

Benson scratches his pen furiously and for the moment, changes the subject. "Our risk assessment would be a max of fifty million dollars if they all risk the million for ten million and win. Low side would be five million if they all take the million and don't risk it. That's less than an actual ad campaign would cost. I see no need for liability insurance."

I rap my knuckles on the table, assuming we're finished, but a sly smile slides across Benson's face. I know the look all too well. It's the same one as when he told me he was in love with my sister Waverly.

"Remember, I'm marrying Waverly in July, and you need a date. If someone turns down the million, I'm holding you to the proposal or at least a date."

"Quit trying to replace the love of my life." I stand and shout through a strained breath. I pick up the chair a few inches off the floor, slamming it back down. Anger floods my chest. Silence cloaks the room. No one says my name as I walk out the door.