Page 50 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

Dad laughs a little, something sour in his voice. “I only hope you didn’t lose too much when you sold.”

This is the exact moment I thought about when I saw the amount, the offer, on paper. I sit up, meeting his eye.

“Actually.” I straighten my fork on the table. “I’ll be making a pretty return on it. Someone is offering five times the amount I paid for it.”

His eyebrows rise cartoonishly. “Is that so? Well, good for you.”

I pause, waiting for something more, but he just launches into a discussion about aBusiness Nationalarticle that he read, the implications of work-from-home on the modern workplace.

The food comes, and he’s still going on, talking. No more mention of the team, of the sale, of the profit that I’ll be making.

My brain is still hovering five minutes before, waiting for a different feeling. The satisfaction of proving him wrong, showing that my investment actually did have a great profit tied to it.

But he just goes on, and I realize something:I really don’t care about the money.

What I wanted was some shred of recognition from my dad. For him to be proud of me. But, like always, he can only recognize a win for three seconds before moving onto the next thing.

If I don’t care about the money, and I’m not going to get his approval, then what am I doing this all for?

“Mom,” I say, interrupting my dad, who looks so shocked to be the one cut off that it takes him a moment to even realize what’s happened. “Open your gift.”

She glances at Dad, then smiles and goes on, pulling the ribbon loose and opening the box to reveal two things — first, a little necklace in the shape of a lightning bolt, and second, a season’s pass to next year’s games.

“What?” My dad’s brow wrinkles, and he sits up, finding my eyes. “What is that? I thought you were selling the team.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” I say, shaking my head. “But, whether I sell or not, I’m still a fan. And I’d like Mom to come to a game with me.”

“But—” He’s still composed, but for my father, this is practically sputtering. “Elliot. What are you talking about? Why would you turn down an offer like that?”

“I haven’t made a decision yet,” I repeat. The server brings the receipt over to the table, and my dad glances at it, eyes widening when he realizes I already beat him to paying the bill.

“What—”

“Sorry,” I stand, feeling antsy suddenly. “I have to run. Happy birthday, Mom. Hope you have a great time at Martha’s Vineyard.”

I lean down to give her a kiss on the cheek then straighten, pushing out the door and not giving my father a backwards glance.

The hotel bar is quiet, nothing but the sound of soft music and clinking glasses filling the space. I half expected my father to follow me out of the restaurant, demand answers about the deal, push like he always does.

But he let me go. I didn’t actually have anywhere to be, but I couldn’t stand to sit in that restaurant for another minute.

“Mind if I sit here?”

At first, I bristle at the sound of the guy, asking to sit in the stool right next to me when the entire hotel bar is open, not another soul from end to end.

Then I recognize the sound of the voice and turn, mouth falling open.

“Brandon?”

My younger brother grins back at me. Sometimes, looking at him has felt like looking at a mirror, but time has separated us, giving him a slightly large nose, a different shape to his eyes. Others might not notice, might even confuse the two of us, but I can see the exact places his genes dipped more heavily toward Mom, toward Dad.

Now, his hair is longer than he’s ever kept it, shaggy enough that it brushes against the collar of his shirt.

“Hey,” he says casually, like we just saw each other yesterday. He slides onto the barstool, gestures to the bartender for a drink, turns to me. “Crazy running into you.”

“Did… did Mom send you?”

Brandon actually laughs, the sound breathy. “Are you kidding? Mom isn’t talking to me. Up until three minutes ago, I didn’t think you were talking to me either.”