“If I can find you a job and a boyfriend, I am seriously the best BFF ever,” Laurel says.
“The best,” I agree, and give her a bright smile. Maybe it wasn’t too late for me to ditch the supporting role and be the star of my own story after all. With a little luck, I knew I could turn things around.
Chapter Two
Drew
With a little luck, I figure I can duck past Charles Whitmore and avoid the death stares. Maybe I deserve them for sleeping with his wife, but she’s the one who threw herself at me. What was I supposed to do? Besides, I’ve been available and wife-free since Tabitha and I divorced three years ago. God, what a messy shitshow that was, I think.
As I make my way through the Pacific Club, an iconic clubhouse in Nob Hill, I avoid talking to any of its other members. I’m not in the mood for small talk and I came here tonight to sit in the corner, drink ridiculously old Scotch and form Plan B to take over the latest company I want.
I lower my 6’3’’ long, lean frame into a large, comfortable chair and slouch down, looking as unapproachable as possible, and prop an ankle up on my opposite knee. My gaze wanders over the dark-paneled room and masculine decor. Founded in 1888, the club boasts members that are the crème de la crème of San Francisco elites. Growing up in a poor Chicago neighborhood, never in a million years would I have thought I’d be sitting here one day, part of such an exclusive group, and drinking three-hundred dollar Macallan single malt whisky.
Lucky me, right?
I sigh and once again wonder what the hell is wrong with me? I grew up eating fried bologna sandwiches and riding the bus. Now I’m a billionaire with a personal chef and drive a Lamborghini. I live in Pacific Heights, atop a series of steep hills with the best view in the city of San Francisco Bay. The little slice of real estate heaven that stretches from Lyon Street to Divisadero Street is better known as Billionaire’s Row and I live there because I own and run Carson Industries, an extremely successful company that deals in mergers and acquisitions.
I literally have the best of everything that money can buy. But, lately, I feel like something’s missing. Maybe I’m just jaded, I think, and take a sip of my drink. I’m 45 years old, as fit as though I were still 25, but now polished and desired. Men want to be my ally, women want to sleep with me. According to the ladies, I’m told it’s the striking combination of my dark brown hair and dark blue eyes. Whitmore’s wife said the moment she saw me, she creamed her knickers.
She’s British, by the way.
I don’t know about all that, but I do know that with one look, every pair of La Perla silk panties drops. I’m not complaining, but at the same time, it’s become so easy and predictable. No one challenges me anymore. They see Drew Carson, San Francisco billionaire, and bend over backwards to please me whether in the boardroom or in the bedroom.
Jesus, Drew, stop whining. No one feels bad for you.
Actually, I feel bad for me so why can’t I sit here and sulk for a bit? I pay enough in membership dues every year to this damn place so if I want to keep drinking their Macallan and have a pity party then who’s going to stop me?
No one is going to stop me. Because no one cares. Not really, anyway.
As I contemplate lighting up one of the club’s fancy Cuban cigars, I spot my prey.
James Douglas, the current CEO of JD Unlimited, walks into the room and pauses to greet a group of men. Hmm, he’s not a member so I wonder who invited him? Not that it matters. When he finds out I’m a member here, he’ll never join the Pacific Club since he hates my guts.
A few weeks ago, I decided to target and acquire JD Unlimited, a technology company. James Douglas wants to stay independent and so far has put up a pretty good fight. But, not all M&A’s are peaceful and he’s about to learn the hard way that once I set my sight on a target, it will become mine. One way or another.
Shit. He sees me. I swallow the rest of my drink, set the glass down and head for the exit. I don’t need a confrontation in front of the other members. But, he’s on my heels and the moment I step out the brownstone’s front door and onto the sidewalk, he calls my name.
“Carson!”
I take a deep, annoyed breath and slowly turn around. James Douglas is 32 and conducts business like the California surf bum that he used to be. Laidback and easygoing. It’s a wonder the company is so successful with that kind of attitude.
“Douglas,” I say, my voice cool, not in the mood to do this now.
“Nice try, but my board of directors and shareholders aren’t interested in being run by Carson Industries. They’re not selling their stock to you, so you can take your tender offer and shove it up your ass.”
This punk really pisses me off.
I mistakenly thought that a public bid for a large chunk of their stock at a fixed price, higher than the current market value, would encourage the shareholders to sell their shares to me. Didn’t happen. Oh, well, so now it’s cutthroat time. And, I was going to relish ripping the company out of this asshole’s hands.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got other ways to accomplish a takeover.”
Before I even realize it, the normally laidback James Douglas throws a punch and I feel my face slam sideways. I come back around and, eyes blazing, take him down in a tackle. As we roll across the sidewalk, I can only imagine what the uppity members standing outside the club are thinking.
Tacky Nouveau Riche, no doubt.
I don’t care enough to stop, though. I grew up fighting on the South side of Chicago so if anyone takes a swing at me, he’s going down. Fucker, I think, and slam my fist into his jaw.
“Break it up!” a voice yells.
A moment later, I feel someone yank me off Douglas. He scrambles up and we glare at each other, breathing hard.
“I’ll go bankrupt before I sell to you,” he threatens.
I move my jaw back and forth, making sure it’s not broken. My eyes narrow, as emotionless and black as a shark’s. “We’ll see about that,” I say and walk away.
Chapter Three
Ashley
Maybe this might actually work, I think, as Laurel pours us both another glass of wine and scrolls through my social media photos, on the hunt for the perfect profile picture for PerfectMatch.com.
“Obviously, you have to look your best, but it’s more than that,” she says. “You need to nail the trifecta- attractive, trustworthy and competent.” She takes a sip of wine and swipes. “It needs to pop. You’re a blonde, so I’m looking for a picture of you in red. You look great in red.”
“Thanks.” I can’t help but laugh. She’s taking this way too seriously. “And, don’t forget to use Leigh and not Ashley. I’m not comfortable using my real name.”
“Got it. And, don’t worry. No one uses their real name.”
I frown. “Wait. Seriously?” If I was just going to meet a bunch of Catfishes then what's the point?
“Omg, I think I found it.”
“Which one?” I ask, curious, but she doesn’t show me the picture.
Instead, she studies it for a long minute. “Eye contact so we can see your beautiful baby blues and that shows you’re trustworthy. A smile showing some teeth, but not too many, which makes you likeable and competent. And, you’re totally smiling with your eyes. Excellent “smize.” Tyra Banks would be so proud. And, if I remember correctly, you had a couple drinks before I took this so you look fun and easygoing.”