Page 4 of Just My Luck

I took a slow sip of my drink, letting the alcohol burn down my throat, trying to force my brain to focus on something other than wanting to taste her.

This pitch for Onyx was my moment to solidify my place at Gold Standard Media and show my dad I could actually run the place one day. But truth be told, my mind was fractured. Back home, my father’s health was taking a serious dive. James Mylonas was an institution, a man who had built Gold Standard from the ground up, but lately, the fire in his eyes had been replaced by exhaustion.

Dad’s best friend and doctor had given our mother a warning last month. “Get your husband on the golf course more and out of the boardroom.” He’d also given her a bunch of diet restrictions my mother was adamant about and my father ignored completely.

My brothers and I had already sat down for a brutal, quiet conversation about Dad finally taking a break, stepping away even if only temporarily. But that left a massive, looming question mark over the future of the agency.

My oldest brother, Rick, was out in California, entirely checked out of the family drama because he was too busy running his own massively successful marketing firm. He didn’t need GSM.

My younger brother, Chris, was currently buried under medical school textbooks, completely on track to become a doctor. He didn’t want anything to do with marketing.

Which left me. The reliable one. The one son who’d stayed behind, learned the ropes, and had kept the gears turning. But looking out the window at the blanket of clouds below, I couldn’t shake the heavy, suffocating question: Did I even want to take over GSM at this point in my life? Was I running toward my own dream or just filling a vacuum because I was the only one left standing?

I glanced back over at Nova.

She reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her brow furrowed as she cross-referenced her spreadsheet.

If the situation with GSM was a tangled mess, my feelings for Nova were an absolute minefield. For years, I had secretly crushed on her. Scratch that—“crush” was a safe, childish word for the quiet, agonizing way I had loved this girl since before I had hit puberty. When she had marched up to the deep end of the Cherry Hills pool all those summers ago and practically demanded our friendship, she’d inadvertently stolen a piece of me I never got back.

But I had kept my mouth shut. I’d played the part of the steady, dependable best friend because losing her entirely was a risk I refused to calculate. Her friendship meant more to me than I could ever put into words.

Now she was a foot away from me, smelling like flowers and determination, heading to a city designed for poor impulse control.

Nova clicked her tablet shut with a satisfied snap, turning her bright eyes toward me. “All right, bossman. GSM’s minor fires are officially extinguished. Let’s talk Onyx.” She rubbed her hands together then pulled out her copy of her binder.

I forced an easy, practiced smile and set my drink down, praying my heart rate wouldn’t give me away. “Lay it on me, shark.”

We spent the next hour dissecting the upcoming presentation that I’d be making. Nova broke down the target demographics for the new resort with precision, pointing out how Onyx could capture the high-end luxury market without losing the classic Vegas edge. She was brilliant, sharp, and so intensely focused that I almost managed to forget how close she was sitting.

Almost.

Once the business talk wound down, we turned back to the live sports channel. The Colorado Avalanche were playing, and within ten minutes, the professional veneer on the both of us cracked completely.

“A buck says Rantanen scores on this power play,” Nova challenged, her eyes gleaming with competitive fire.

“You’re on,” I muttered, leaning back.

He didn’t score, he passed it off, and MacKinnon slammed it home.

“That doesn’t count, it was an assist,” I argued.

“A point is a point, Mylonas. Hand it over.”

By the time the plane began its descent over the glowing grid of the Nevada desert, Nova had cleaned me out of twenty bucks through a series of increasingly ridiculous micro-wagers. She was gloating, counting the money in her lap with a triumphant smirk that made me want to pull her across the armrest and kiss her stupid.

When we landed, the dry desert heat hit us like an open oven. Because Onyx was still a massive, active construction site of steel and glass further up the Strip, Christian Sterling had booked us a suite at his flagship property, Apex.

Apex was the definition of modern opulence. The lobby was a cavernous expanse of polished white marble, soaring ceilings, and towering digital art installations that mirrored the movement of the guests. It didn’t feel like the smoky, neon-drenched casinos I’d been to before; it felt like a playground for billionaires.

Our accommodations were on the penthouse level. When the bellhop opened the double doors to the suite, I had to suppress a whistle. The shared sitting room was massive, anchored by a plush velvet sectional, a sleek wet bar stocked with top-shelf liquor, and a floor-to-ceiling glass wall offering a panoramic view of the Strip.

Flanking either side of the shared space were two private bedrooms, each with its own en-suite bathroom.

The style was a mixture of class and edginess. There were occasional hints of apex predators here and there. Pictures of wolves and large cats.

It was spacious, beautiful, and completely professional—yet the fact that we were sharing an entrance made the air feel instantly thicker.

“I’m going to wash off the plane grime,” Nova announced, already wheeling her color-coordinated luggage toward the left bedroom. “Give me twenty minutes.”