Trust Fund Baby

1 Roxie

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.

One guy leaned in, a watch that cost as much as one of my largest commission checks shining on his wrist. “So, what do you ladies do?”

Hallie gave me a look that said, please help. I took pity on her.

“I sell art,” I said as the bartender set down a matching glass of wine to Hallie’s in front of me. “Hallie writes about dating finance bros like you.”

Both found the comment cute, chuckling at it while completely missing the warning.

The guy with auburn hair and a bad comb-over glanced at an open table in the bar’s far corner. “Do you want to share a table with us? It’ll make us look less like assholes hogging the whole thing to ourselves.”

Hallie shrugged, seeing this as her only chance to get what she needed for a great article.

The four of us exchanged names as we claimed the open table.

Mr. Comb-over was Eli and worked for BAT down the road, and he seemed to have eyes only for Hallie tonight.

Leaving me to entertain Seth, a financial analyst who had just moved to the city to chase the dream that New York promised young men dressed in well-tailored suits.

His attention was clearly on his phone rather than me, and I found myself unenthusiastically responding to his half-baked questions.

You are here for Hallie, I reminded myself as I downed a good portion of my wine.

As the night continued, it seemed like Hallie might walk away from this evening with something to write about for the first time in a week. That changed when the waiter brought Hallie a glass of Riesling and subtly indicated the man at the bar who’d sent it to her.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me …” I heard her say under her breath. I followed her gaze to see who could have possibly sent a glass of wine that made Hallie react like that … only to see James Rossi sauntering toward us.

Oh, fuck.

Just when I thought tonight was going to end up boring.

“Who’s that from?” Eli asked, completely oblivious to the shit storm that was heading our way.

A few weeks ago, I brought Hallie to my client’s home for a dinner.

There, she had met James Rossi—a tall, dark, and handsome eligible man whom she thought she had hit it off with.

Only for him to leave the dinner party early without asking for her number.

It turned out that James was the quintessential finance man.

The very kind that Hallie had told him she loathed with every fiber of her being that night as she detailed her new work assignment from her boss.

Now, James was making it his mission to ruin Hallie’s chances of putting out an entertaining exposé on dating men in the financial sector of New York City.

“Oh, it’s no one,” she replied in her best attempt to play it off, but Hallie Woods had met her match in James Rossi.

“Harsh, Hal. I would think you’d save a little more importance for someone you dated for four years.”

Finally. It was about time this night got interesting.

“What are you talking ab—” Hallie tried, but it was too late. James had already claimed Eli’s attention.

“You guys dated?”

James took that question as an invitation and slid into one of the remaining open seats at the table with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Oh, yeah. We go way back to college, when we both were at …” He let the sentence hang, anticipating Hallie’s response, though in truth, their familiarity was limited, and he was only kidding.

I was surprised when she grumbled, “NYU.”

“Yes, NYU! Hallie here was studying journalism, and I was studying finance.”

Our dates’ gazes bounced back and forth between James and Hallie during their duel.

Neither of them knew James was lying through his teeth.

James and Hallie had never dated. This was just all part of James’s attempt to undermine my best friend and ruin her chances of writing her article. Classic sabotage.

Eli had almost completely forgotten about Hallie at this point. “Finance? Where do you work now?”

Hallie’s face fell as she realized just how quickly tonight was slipping away from her. “Just down the street at Berkeley Williams. Don’t you work at BAT?”

But before Eli could reply, another voice cut into the conversation.

“Excuse me, everyone. I figured I’d join the party since my friend here so rudely ditched me at the bar.”

For a second, my entire world tilted as a man with green eyes that used to haunt my dreams stepped into view.

I thought that I’d imagined him until he slid into the last empty seat next to me, his arm draping casually over the back of my chair.

His fingers brushed my shoulder, and my muscles clenched.

It was like seeing a ghost.

The ghost of Sebastian Whittaker.

Flashes of perfectly manicured green lawns, sneaking out my window in the middle of the night, rushing toward the harbor with a green-eyed boy who always seemed to know how to get his hands on a bottle of liquor he wasn’t supposed to have.

His sailboat waiting at the dock, deck cushions that smelled like salt and sun, and his grin in the moonlight.

Those nights had once felt like escape. Like the freedom that I craved. The first real taste of the life I’d always wanted.

Until they weren’t.

And now?

He looked like the person he was always meant to be.

His dark hair framed his striking green eyes, and his expensive suit probably cost more than my monthly rent.

The easy grin, which had once caused teenage butterflies in my stomach, had hardened into something close to a wolf’s smirk.

His face had lost the softness I remembered, becoming angular, and the youthful spark of his eyes had dimmed over the past ten years.

What the hell was I meant to do now? Hug him? Smile? He’d demolished my financial future the last time I’d seen him.

As his eyes met mine he extended his hand.

“Sebastian Whittaker.” He gave me that familiar, disarming smile he’d use on teachers when he turned in late assignments, a smile that always got him out of trouble. He never used to give me that smile. He knew I knew him too well for that. But here we were.

If he wanted to pretend he didn’t know me, then fine. Two could play at that game.

It took every ounce of my being not to bolt from McGuire’s and instead, reach out to grasp his hand. “Roxie King.”

The instant his hand met mine, my cheeks burned.

“Well, now it’s a party.” With a sly wink that set the rest of my body alight, he reached into his jacket and produced a sleeve of Cuban cigars.

The match’s flame flickered for a moment, lighting up Sebastian’s calm face as he ignited the cigar.

That confidence was cultivated at Connecticut dinner parties, amidst the murmur of influential voices and the gleam of silverware.

The exact same dinner parties that we both had to suffer through growing up, usually sitting side by side.

Just as I started to believe Sebastian would ignore me for the rest of the night, he leaned in and whispered in my ear, his breath sending shivers across my skin.

“You still wear Chanel No. 5.”