Her Sun-Drenched Billionaire (Tycoons of Pleasure Valley #5)

Eliza

The rooftop was emptying out.

Saylor had been the last to leave, squeezing my arm on her way to the stairs with a “don’t stay up here all night” that I’d already decided to ignore.

Lark drifted down ten minutes before that, humming something I didn’t recognize.

Tatum left first, phone already at her ear before the stairwell door closed behind her.

Margeaux hadn’t come tonight—she’d texted the group chat at six with, Long day. Next week.

I liked Friday happy hours on the Pixel Lofts rooftop. I liked them better when they were over and I could have the quiet to myself.

I pulled up the contact on my phone. Quinn, August. Office line. I’d saved it three weeks ago after the first email went unanswered, and the second and third hadn’t done any better. His assistant had replied once—a polite nothing.

Mr. Quinn’s schedule is fully committed through the summer. We appreciate your interest in BrindleIQ’s partnership opportunities and will keep First Light Scholars on file.

On file.

I pressed call and listened to it ring four times before the voicemail picked up. Professional, clipped, generic—the kind of recording a CEO never bothered to change from the default.

“Hi, this is Eliza Greer calling from First Light Scholars. Again.” I paced along the railing, the Pleasure Valley skyline going amber in the late light.

“I’m reaching out about our annual summer gala on July twelfth at the Evergreen Room.

Two hundred guests, donors, educators, families.

We’re looking for a keynote speaker who actually understands what education access means on the ground, not just on a slide deck, and everything I’ve read about BrindleIQ’s founding tells me that’s you.

This would be twenty minutes of your evening, and it would matter to every kid in that room.

My number is on every message I’ve left this week. I hope you’ll call me back.”

I hung up. The screen went dark in my hand.

“Four voicemails in one week,” I said to nobody. “And he can’t pick up the phone.”

“You left out the part about the open bar.”

I turned around.

He was standing near the fireplace alcove, maybe fifteen feet away, a drink in one hand and his long-sleeve tee pushed to his elbows so the fabric strained across his chest and shoulders.

Dark beard, trimmed but full. Tattoos past both wrists, layered and detailed, disappearing under the shirt.

He was built like someone who moved heavy things for a living, not someone who ran a tech company.

“Beckett Welch told me there was a happy hour on his rooftop,” he said. “I showed up late.”

“Everyone’s gone,” I said.

“Not everyone.”

My brain did two things at once. The first was recognizing that a man had been standing on the rooftop for at least part of my voicemail and I hadn’t noticed.

The second was trying to reconcile what I was looking at with the corporate headshot I’d been staring at for three weeks.

The headshot was a suit and a clean shave and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. This was not that.

“August Quinn,” I said.

“Eliza Greer.” He took a sip of his drink—bourbon, judging by the color. “Again.”

My face went hot. I could feel the flush in my ears, my cheeks, spreading down to my collarbones the way it always did when I couldn’t control it.

“How long have you been standing there?” I asked.

“Long enough to hear the pitch.” He didn’t smile, and he didn’t move from the alcove. “It’s better in person than on a voicemail.”

“Most things are.” I pushed my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. “That’s why I’ve been trying to get you on the phone.”

He watched me. Not scanning, not sizing up—just watching, still and patient, like he was waiting for something I hadn’t said yet. It should have made me nervous. It didn’t.

“Tell me about First Light,” he said.

“I just did. On your voicemail.”

“Tell me the version that isn’t a pitch.”

I leaned against the railing. The sun was dropping behind the buildings to the west, and the whole rooftop had gone gold—warm, heavy, the kind of late-June evening that pressed against your skin and didn’t plan on letting up.

“First Light Scholars serves sixty-two kids right now,” I said.

“Ages twelve to eighteen. Mentorship, tutoring, college-access programming. We help them stay in the system when the system isn’t built to keep them.

” I paused. “Last month, a girl named Ava got into NC State. Full ride. She’s the first person in her family to go to college, and she called me from her kitchen with her mom screaming in the background.

Ava couldn’t even talk. She just kept laughing. ”

His jaw shifted—a slow movement, like he was turning something over before he let it out. “How many have you lost?”

The question hit hard. Nobody asked that. Everyone wanted the wins, the acceptance letters, the graduation rates, the feel-good numbers.

“Three,” I said. “In two years. One moved out of state, and we couldn’t keep up the mentorship remotely. One aged out of the program before we could secure college funding. One just stopped showing up.”

“The one who aged out,” he said. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. We tried to follow up, but she didn’t answer.”

He looked at his drink, then at the skyline, then back at me.

“I’ll do the keynote.”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

“Twenty minutes. July twelfth. The Evergreen Room.” He said it like he was confirming a meeting he’d already scheduled. “Send the details to my office. Not my assistant. Directly.”

“I don’t have your direct email.”

He pulled out his phone, typed something, and held it up so I could read the screen. I saved the address.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“You’ve called me four times this week. I don’t think you need permission.”

“Why now? I’ve been reaching out for three weeks, and you could’ve said yes on the first email.”

He didn’t answer right away. The light had shifted while we were talking, and everything on the rooftop was amber now, warm and drenched in the low sun. It caught the lines of his tattoos, the edge of his jaw, the place where his beard met his throat.

“I’ll send you the details tonight,” I said.

He nodded and finished his drink, then set the glass on the ledge of the fireplace alcove and slid his hands into his pockets. “It’s a good mission. First Light.”

“It’s the only thing that matters to me.”

Something moved across his face. Not a flinch and not a smile—something that came and went before I could define it, like a door opening and closing in the same breath.

“I’ll see you on the twelfth, Eliza.”

He walked toward the stairs. I watched him go, and the stairwell door closed behind him, and the rooftop was mine again. Quiet and gold.

I called Saylor before I made it to the third floor.

“I got him,” I said. “August Quinn. He said yes.”

Saylor screamed into the phone. I held it away from my ear and laughed.

I let myself into 3B and set my keys on the counter.

The binder was where I’d left it, sticky notes flagging the venue layout, the catering options, the donor seating chart.

I opened my laptop, typed his direct email address into the field, and started writing.

I kept my tone professional, warm, and specific.

The version of me that knew exactly what she was doing and why.

I hit send and sat back.

The evening light came through my windows, long and low. The apartment was quiet—the First Light mug on my desk, the framed photo of my mom on the bookshelf, the binder and the lists and the sticky notes. Everything for the gala. Everything for the kids.

I hadn’t asked him why he said yes. He hadn’t told me.

I closed the laptop and sat in the quiet for a long time.