Not My Billionaire

Chapter One

James

Sometimes, I have nightmares about my parents' death. It doesn't make sense, not really. I wasn't on the plane, and I didn't hear any details until two weeks later when pieces of the wreckage were found floating in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Still, I wake up sweating, my eyes burning with exhaustion.

I wasn't able to sleep last night, which is why I'm in my office at seven in the morning. I stare at the pages in front of me, trying to discern any meaning. I was raised to do this job, and I have a business degree from Wharton. I shouldn't have any trouble, except I've gotten a combined ten hours of sleep in the past three days, and I don't know how much longer I can stare at charts and numbers without going completely off the wall.

"Mr. Preston," my assistant says, and I look up to see her standing in the doorway. Her hair is a mess, she's breathing heavily, and she's holding a paper coffee cup from the local place I like a block away.

"Camilla," I say, using my most formal voice. I may be confused and terrified, but I'll never go so far as to show it. She knows me as well as anyone, but I'm not willing to show her just how stressed I am.

"I'm so sorry," she says, rushing over to my desk and setting the coffee down carefully. "I had no idea you were coming in early or I would have-"

I hold a hand up. "No need to apologize. I didn't need anything. Thank you for the coffee."

She takes a step back and nods, straightening her blazer. She's been my assistant since last year, and she's been nothing but great at her job. I've tried to convince her to take time off, but the idea of it seems to make her even more anxious than she already is. Ever since the accident, she's been shaky and nervous, always insisting on doing everything perfectly. "Can I get you anything else, Mr. Preston?"

I shake my head. "No, thank you. I'm just going over the numbers from last quarter."

She gives a single nod and spins on her heel, exiting the room swiftly and closing the door.

I set down my files and turn, looking out at the ocean sparkling in the morning sun. I've always loved the view of Miami, and being back after years away at college would be amazing if not for the situation at hand. It was on their way to Dubai from my graduation that my parents' jet went down, and the guilt has not left me for a moment since. Maybe if I'd done more, they wouldn't have gone. Maybe someone would have caught the plane's defect on time.

I stand and walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of my executive office, sighing as I roll my shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension.

It didn't help, but it was worth a shot. My eyes trace over the water, a sailing club the first sign of life on the water this morning. I wish I could be out there with them on my own vessel, but I haven't had a moment to myself since being shoved into a position I'm not ready to have.

I pull out my phone, swiping past the image of my sailing catamaran to unlock it and call my best-and only-friend.

"James, how are ya?" Tyler asks without aHello. I go back to my desk and lean on my elbows. He and I were roommates throughout our shared time at Wharton, and we were more of outcasts compared to the party kids that made up our freshman-year dorm.

"Having the time of my life," I say, my voice flat. I run a finger over the back of my desk chair, the leather lush against my skin.

Tyler gives a short, humorless laugh. In the background is the sound of some sort of industrial equipment. Sophomore year, he started a company making beard oil, which I happily invested in after confiding in my mother for advice. Since he dropped out just before Junior year, he's expanded to hair products, skin products, and basically anything else people can use to keep their bodies hydrated. Well, everything other than water itself.

"What are you doing?" I ask, trying to distract myself from the dizzying numbers on my desk. The board is going to be here soon, and I have to act like I know what the hell I'm doing. They already hate that someone so young is running the resort chain my parents created, and I don't need to give them any reason to vote me out.

Tyler shouts something away from the phone, then, to me, he says, "I'm at that filter plant I bought in Nebraska."

Right. I guess he is in the water business now, except he doesn't profit on that front. Instead, he bought a company that manufactures the best water filters on the planet, which can make any water drinkable no matter what. Any cent of profit goes to sending filters to third-world countries and natural disaster zones, because of course Tyler has to save the world along with building a billion-dollar company from scratch.

"Sounds great," I say, though my tone remains flat. Perhaps I should be kinder. He really is doing great things, and here I am, whining about my oh-so-difficult life as a trust fund baby with too much money and responsibility on my hands.

"I'm flying out to Japan in the morning to deliver earthquake kits," he says. "Then it's Taiwan, then-"

I interrupt him. "Can you look at some forms for me if you get a minute?" It's generally a bad idea to email top secret financial forms to people outside the company, but Tyler is a genius who will be able to help me, and he's a genuinely great friend.

"Shoot 'em over," he says. "I'll take five."

I sigh with relief. It's really not fair that I'm the person who had to take over this business. There are a thousand more qualified people than me in Miami alone, but good old nepotism gave me the job. If more geniuses like Tyler were given a chance, people like me wouldn't have a thing. I barely scraped by in college despite years of grooming, and now I'm running a company with my C-minus degree.

After hanging up, I email a copy of the forms using our secure server, built by some guy that Tyler knows in the tech industry.

Five minutes later, I get a text laying out what I should say in the meeting, including answers to any potential questions. I don't know how Tyler even texts so quickly, but he's the greatest blessing in my life. If I had nothing, no money, no home, no education, Tyler would keep me steady.

Thanks, I text him back. I used to be insecure about my short, to-the-point texts, but college broke me of that particular anxiety, at least when it came to my best friend.

An hour later, the investor meeting runs smoothly. None of the board members comment on my age or lack of experience, and they seem to eat up the answers I give from Tyler's text.

I owe you, I message him when I walk into my office, then sit back in my desk chair.

Camilla buzzes my desk phone, and I click the speaker button. "What's up?" I ask, closing my eyes and leaning my head back.

"I'm ordering breakfast," she says. "Would you like your usual?"

I sigh. "Sounds great."

Maybe it's the weather, or maybe it's the post-meeting anxiety, but my skin grows hot, so I remove my blazer and drape it over the back of my chair. Then, I stand up to pace, my leather shoes smooth against the marble floor, like they were made for each other.

I glance at the door, tempted to just run away. Heirs do that all the time. They break, they disappear, and then they come back after a stint in rehab. The latter doesn't sound appealing to me, mostly because I'd need to become intoxicated to go to rehab. I've always been uncomfortable around any sort of substance, as the idea of losing myself sounds just awful.

When Camilla arrives with breakfast at nine on the dot, I thank her. She grew up in Miami, and, unlike me, she wasn't raised in a bubble. Therefore, she knows the best place for breakfast burritos, and the salsa is just spicy enough to make my face flush.

Before she exits the room, I say, "Camilla, can I ask for a favor?" If anyone can wrangle my meetings for the week, it's her. She's always found ways to optimize my schedule, and I'm not sure I have the energy for it all this week.

She turns, clenching her hands into fists at her sides. Maybe I could force her to take a paid vacation? She hasn't been off for more than a few hours since my parents' accident, and it's clearly weighing on her. I could send her to one of the resorts and call it a business trip. The idea of it sparks something in me. "Of course, Mr. Preston," she says.

"James," I correct her, not for the first time. She's two years older than me, and I make a mental note to give her a raise just for that fact. It must be tough having a superior who's so young and inexperienced, especially considering she worked for my parents, the best in the business. "I believe that I need to inspect one of our resorts. Make sure things are running smoothly, but, more importantly, I need to understand the business. The way my parents would have wanted."

She gives a tight smile. She was my mother's assistant long before she became mine, and she always seems happy to hear me talking about my parents. Even though the image of them sends a rock deep into my gut, weighing me down, I have to admit that I like talking about them.

"Which resort?" she asks. "I will make sure they have your accommodations ready for you."

Although this will be an official trip for business, I don't want to stray too far from Miami. As appealing as it would be to escape to the Maldives for a month or two, it wouldn't be the responsible thing. I'm supposed to prove to the board that I'm responsible.

"Key West," I say.

Chapter Two

Alexis

The roof is leaking again. Despite another call to the apartment's management, there's still a steady drip from the upper corner of my ceiling. A ring of brown surrounds it and dribbles down the wall, and I'm almost certain that, although it'stheirfault, I'll lose my deposit on this place.

It's pitch black out as a heavy rain drops in sheets from the sky that was sunny just an hour ago, and I lie back on my creaky twin mattress that I got at a steep discount when I moved in. My long blonde hair is loose around me, my scalp sore from the tight ponytail I wear when I'm waitressing at the Michelin-starred restaurant where I barely make enough to afford this terrible place.

The air conditioning went out last week, so I spread out on the bed in my tank top and sleep shorts, no blanket covering my thin layer of sweat. Because of the rain, I can't even open the one window for some sort of air flow, so I'll just be stuck in this heat until morning.

A text lights up my phone, and I open it to find a message from my mom a timezone away. Still, it's late in Western Tennessee, and the message is a surprise.

I hope everything is okay! Do you need anything at all?

I bite my lip to keep myself from sighing. I know my mom doesn't believe I can live on my own in the expensive Florida Keys, but I am determined to prove her wrong. I have a decent savings, almost enough to put down a deposit on a nicer apartment. Maybe then I can let her visit and see how well I'm really doing. It would be a lie, but I can't bear the idea of breaking my mom's heart.

A drop of water splashes in the half-full mop bucket I put on the floor the week I moved in. I have to empty it far too often, but it's better than having a wet floor.

Nope! Just got off work, having dinner with my friends!I lie in response, adding a photo of a beachside restaurant that I know is open late. I hate lying to her, but I can't admit the truth. I'm miserable here. Even though I live in paradise, I'm struggling to survive. My bike was stolen from the grocery store last week, so I have to walk to and from work five miles away.

It's fine, though. Everything is fine. At least, it will be. If I don't tell myself that things will get better, I might flee this place and never come back, proving to everyone in my small town what they were already thinking. There's no escape from Portstown, Tennessee.

I drift off, my body hot and my stomach grumbling.

***

When I wake up, the stain on the wall has gotten worse, but at least it isn't raining anymore. It doesn't usually rain for long in Florida, which is a relief to me and my ceiling.

I put on my ratty sneakers, thankful once again for the employee locker room at the resort. If I couldn't shower before my shifts, I would be fired pretty much immediately. The sun beats down on my skin, and I lock my door behind me, although wiggling it hard enough will open it anyway. I tried installing a deadbolt, but it merely split the thin layer of wood and part of the styrofoam spacer.

I'm working a double shift today, and, despite the early hour, the sun beats down on my shoulders.

I straighten my shoulders and walk.

As much as I hate the lack of transportation, I can't help but admire the town as I stroll toward work along the water. Some days, I can spot dolphins playing in the distance. Today, I'm not so lucky, but I do catch a glimpse of a manatee's tail in the sailboat marina that sits a mile from my home. On the rare occasion that I get a day off, I like to sit on the end of the dock and check out all the sea life I can. That's the real reason I moved here, after all. Last year, fresh out of college with a marine biology degree, I was ready to take on my new job at a rescue organization.

A week later, their state funding was cut, and I was politely laid off and left with nothing. No job, no savings. To this day, my mom still thinks I'm out rescuing dolphins and sea turtles. I can't admit the truth even though there's no shame in being a server at a restaurant. My mom has been one for thirty years, since she found out she was pregnant with my older brother and had to drop out of her softball scholarship at the University of Tennessee. There's dignity in my job, although it doesn't feel like it when my feet are bleeding from the blisters, and my stomach is empty because our breaks are revoked on busy days.

Again, it's fine.

Just fine. Nothing more. Often less.

I make it to the resort and scan my card at the wrought-iron employee gate, greeting the security guard on my way in. After my shower, I listen in to the locker room conversation while applying my light makeup. Everyone seems to be buzzing with excitement.

"I've heard that he's hot," Jenine, the hostess at the restaurant, giggles. Her braided hair is up in a bun on top of her head, some of it falling around her earth-dark shoulders.

Rachel, one of the servers, rolls her eyes. "It's just because he's rich. I'm sure he'd be super average-looking if he was wearing a fifty dollar suit instead of a ten-thousand dollar one."

"Who are we talking about?" I butt in, although I'm not usually invited to gossip with everyone else. I'm the head server for a reason, and that reason is that I'm fairly strict about working when I'm on the clock, not socializing.

Jenine eyes me for a moment, then says, carefully, "The new owner is here. Like, the biggest of the big-wigs."

I prick an eyebrow. This is not what I needed to start my long day. I already deal with more rich jerks than anyone should have to see in a lifetime, and now I'll have to be even more careful of some billionaire who's my boss's boss's boss.

"Great," I say, laying the sarcasm on thick. Even though I'm not really friends with these two, I am just as capable of disliking an unknown boss as Rachel.

They give me small waves when I leave the locker room. I'll see them on the floor soon enough, but for now, I have to clock in, make sure the new dish washer knows what they're doing, and get out on the floor.

If I weren't trying to be professional, I would grumble about how dealing with the new dish washing trainee should be someone else's problem, but I keep my mouth shut and paste a vapid expression on. I'm here to make tips, not complain.

But I really,reallywant to complain.

The trainee doesn't seem to be here yet, so I grab a massive stack of small bread plates from last night's clean dishes and head toward the server station, which is hidden behind an unassuming door away from the kitchen.

As I'm passing through the door, I call, "Entering!"

Apparently, the guy I smack into doesn't get the message, and the plates go flying, most of them shattering on the cheap tile of the kitchen.

Chapter Three

James

I meant to go speak with the chef to get an idea of the working environment here, but it seems I've chosen the wrong door. I'm dressed plainly in slacks and a simple button-up to blend in, and my clothes don't rumple for a moment as a tiny woman crashes into me, throwing small plates all over the floor. They shatter as they hit the plain white work-area tiles, and my eyes follow a shard that flies under a metal shelf.

"You have got to be kidding me," the girl says, her voice low despite her evident frustration. Any normal person would be yelling by now. Perhaps she knows who I am?

Her stark gray eyes meet mine, and her face scrunches in absolute rage.

Quieter than her original statement, she hisses, "Are you the new guy?"

Surprised at my employee's open rage toward me, I say honestly, "Yes." I'm the new owner of the resort, at least, although I'm surprised anyone would be so straightforward and angry about my appearance. Maybe it's because of the plates, but it's not like they'll be expensive to replace.

Without hesitation, she grabs my wrist and drags me back through the door she just came through. Her rage is palpable, and it sort of scares me.

"I know it's your first day, but that was a pretty serious mistake," she says, releasing me when we arrive in a dish-washing area. "Those were all the clean appetizer plates we had, and we're gonna have customers in here in less than fifteen minutes."

I consider correcting her on the date. I took over the company months ago, after my mourning period, so today is probably my hundredth day or so. Perhaps she means that it's my first day visiting this resort? I open my mouth to ask why she's so angry about a few plates, but she holds a finger up to stop me. I shut my mouth.

She continues, "I need you to get more washed. There are some in these cabinets-" she gestures toward the metal cabinets "-that need to be washed before they go out. That's the policy, although they should be clean. After you get me twenty appetizer plates, I need you to keep up with everything else. Got it?"

I'm starting to think that there's been a misunderstanding. She strides over to a white preparation area, sliding a drawer open before throwing a small black piece of fabric at me. When I unfold it, it's an apron. That's when the realization dawns on me. She has no idea who I really am. She thinks I'm here to wash dishes, although that's so far below my station as to be laughable.