Page 4 of The Good Billionaire
“I scrubbed in on an emergency surgery.” I sipped my wine. “With Seb.”
“Oh.” He narrowed his amber eyes on me. “Is that red enough? Can I send you down a bottle of Balvenie?”
I snorted in my wine. “No. Even though I’m off tomorrow. Numbing myself with your favorite scotch sounds tempting.”
“How is my jerk cousin?”
“Don’t say that.” There I was defending him. “You’re a workaholic, you know how it is.”
“I’m a workaholic because I don’t have a woman waiting for me at home.”Homewas a penthouse apartment at The Sterling. He, Luke, and their younger brother Grayson each had one.
Sebastian’s fortune came from his father’s shares in The Sterling. Not many people knewexactlyhow many commas Seb had in his bank account. I did and couldn’t care less about his money. He’d shared everything with me. Everything, except his most precious commodity. His time.
“It is what it is. Are we all set for next weekend? As far as the rooms for everyone?”
Not living in New York and wanting a wedding pulled off in three months, Savannah had empowered me to work with a wedding planner and make most of the decisions. Flowers. Music. Favors. How had six months gone by without my husband so fast?
Savannah’s wedding plans, that was how.
“Yeah, my villas are all blocked off.”
I shuddered. Seb and I had to share one of those villas to keep up the ruse we were still happily married. “And they have two bedrooms, right?”
Tristan barked a laugh. “Do you think my cousin would be deterred by a bedroom door?”
“If there were ever a time I wished I had a big dog.”
“We don’t allow pets in the hotel. For family, I’ll make an exception.”
“You’re so sweet.”
“Not really,” Tristan said with a devilish grin. “See you next week.”
“Bye, Tristan.”
I missed the happy hour cocktails at The Sterling with Seb and his Hart cousins.
Going back there would dredge up those happy memories. Despite the hotel’s majestic beauty, The Sterling hotel would be my prison for seventy-two hours.
CHAPTER THREE
Sebastian
Buttercup Bakery Brooklyn 2 p.m.
Worst hangover riddle ever.
My eyes were on fire reading my cousin Tristan’s text. I’d got home to my empty townhouse the night before and started drinking.
What in the world did that message mean? Who was at—
I bolted up in bed, my head searing with pain.
Bakery.
My sister’s wedding.
Kennedy would be there.
