Page 1 of Trust Fund Baby

1

Roxie

There were worse ways to spend a Thursday evening than convincing the wife of a billionaire who had too much money and too much free time that yes, she absolutely needed this six-figure painting to hang on the blank space in her penthouse.

The woman turned her head from side to side, attempting to understand the abstract paint splatters on the canvas, which she said were very evocative. What they were evoking, I wasn’t totally sure. But what I knew for certain was that tonight’s sale would cover a month’s rent and maybe even a new camera lens or two.

My very best, frequently practiced “trust me, you need this masterpiece” smile stretched across my face while I slid the paperwork over the counter, making certain my buyer felt like she was departing the gallery with a piece of art as sought after as the Mona Lisa. It had taken nearly three hours of meticulous conversation to finally persuade her that she was missing something and that something was hanging on this gallery’s walls. The game began the instant she came through the doors. I complimented her Bottega Veneta bag and raved about her Manolo Blahnik shoes. She preened, pleased by my compliment on her coat’s soft cashmere as I gradually weakened her resistance with carefully chosen praise. As soon as I shared that a notable socialite had bought art from the gallery last week and remarked, “I think this piece is more exquisite,” I knew I had her hook, line, and sinker. The minute that she walked out the door, my phone buzzed across the counter, my best friend and roommate’s name flashing across the screen.

Hallie:Are you on your way to McGuire’s? I’m ten minutes out. I swear if I have to fend off a man asking me if I’m investing in a Roth IRA, you’re on dish duty the rest of the week.

Roxie:Isn’t a finance man walking up to you and asking you a question entirely the point?

Roxie:On my way. Have the whiskey ready.

My best friend Hallie Woods was a column writer for Sophisticate, one of the best-known women’s magazines in the country. Which was all fine and good until her boss asked her to date the most eligible man working in finance in the city. Now, if my boss was paying me to go on luxurious dates with men dressed in nice suits who were more attached to their phones than the conversation, I’d be asking to sign on the dotted line.

That was exactly why I snatched up my bag, pulled on my jacket, and went directly to McGuire’s—where the air was thick with the smell of stale beer, the floor was sticky, and the drinks packed a serious punch. Just so I could be there to support Hallie as she chased her dream one awkward finance date at a time.

Hallie and I had always been shooting for the stars. Chasing the big dream—her with her food blog, and me with my photography. And if that meant kissing a few frogs along the way until we were the ones buying the expensive bottle of wine or dropping cash on a painting at a gallery instead of selling it? So be it.

My phone rang just as I hailed a taxi to celebrate my big sale, deviating from my normal subway ride as a treat for the sale I’d just made. It was my brother, Winn.

“If this is you shaking me down, I swear I have the money to pay you back for rent last month,” I said by way of hello.

“You make me sound like I’m a mob boss.” His laugh crackled down the line. “Can’t a guy call his sister just to say hi?”

Winchester King was far more likely to be putting mob bosses behind bars. The thirty-two-year-old Harvard Law School graduate was fully immersed in our family’s law firm, King & King. On paper, Winn’s life was perfect. An Ivy League education, a trust fund, and a family estate. But to me, his little sister who knew him better than anyone, it was becoming more obvious that the long hours, late nights, and constant networking events were starting to get to him. He was losing his Winn sparkle.

“Technically, yes,” I said, sliding into the backseat of the cab. “So let me give you some news. I just sold a big painting. Like huge.”

“That’s great, Rox. Proud of you,” Winn said, voice warm like it always got when he slipped into older-brother mode. “Grandma will be thrilled to hear that.”

“You know, this is one of those moments when I’m proud of myself for giving up the trust fund. When I know I can fend for myself.”

Winn said more softly, “I truly am proud of you, Rox.” It was easy to picture him—shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, surrounded by files, with Greenwich’s lights visible through his office windows as evening approached.

“Where are you off to tonight?”

“Meeting Hallie at McGuire’s. She’s still stuck with that column assignment. Remember the one I sent you last week about dating the city’s most eligible human spreadsheets?”

Winn snorted. “Poor girl.” Then there was a muffled sound, and his tone shifted. “One sec—yeah, I’ll sign those before I leave,” he said, clearly to his assistant. I glanced at my watch. Nearly nine.

“I’m not surprised you’re still at the office, Winn,” I told him. “But your assistant? Send her home.”

“You know how it is,” he said, distracted now. “I’ll let you go. Text me later, okay? I’ll need all the intel you have on whether a hedge fund manager is more interesting than a financial analyst.”

“Sure,” I said, with a laugh. Winn always loved hearing mine and Hallie’s gossip.

I hung up and shoved my phone in my pocket as the cab dropped me off in front of McGuire’s. I pushed open the familiar wooden door and the scent of whiskey and bad decisions washed over me.

Home sweet home.

Hallie had arrived and was sitting at the bar, enjoying fries and a glass of wine. Two men were already talking to her, obviously trying their luck with the pretty brunette sitting by herself. I sat down on the empty stool beside her, offering a brief smile. The look she gave me in return was more like a grimace than a sign of someone having a good time.

As the man beside her was discussing the finances of his investment firm, I leaned over and whispered, “You look hot tonight,” in her ear.

She was wearing a short, fitted dress that I remembered from a sale we went to last month. The green silk clung to her figure underneath a tailored blazer and knee-high boots. She’d come dressed to kill.