Billion Dollar Beast - Olivia Hayle Page 0,10

or worse still, fail spectacularly? Would that give him satisfaction?

“Unfortunately, yes,” I say. “So let’s dive right in.”

For the coming hour, we make a list of everything we need to change. My hands fly across my phone as I take notes. Re-organize sale section. Push inventory that skews younger to the front. Create a new marketing campaign. Shown around the back by a friendly employee, Gina and I make a survey of all the inventory.

And it’s a lot.

“Why did they stock four hundred and fifty orange T-shirts? There’s no logo on it. It’s quite literally just an orange T-shirt for grown women.”

For the first time since meeting her, Gina’s eyes crinkle in amusement. But her tone is professional. “Some women probably like it.”

“Some probably do,” I concede, “and more power to them. But ordering this huge quantity of them is crazy.”

“If they’d been good at business we wouldn’t be here,” she says, heading into the next aisle. And so it continues. By late afternoon, my head is spinning with all the ideas we’ve discussed for restructuring the store.

My mind runs further ahead still—to a complete revamp of the entire brand. Commissioning a new logo and a new marketing profile entirely. I’ll have to talk to Nick about how much money he’s willing to put into this project. One thing is for sure, however. It’ll cost money to make money with this store.

Gina and I don’t leave until the store closes. My phone is filled to the brim with pictures of racks and clothing and inventory.

“We’ll create a set of guidelines for changes tomorrow,” Gina says, “and then we’ll present it to Mr. Park.”

I nod, hoping my voice sounds more confident than I feel. “Sounds great.”

The cab ride to my brother’s new house is one of deep contemplation. My hands play with the belt of my trench coat, thinking of tomorrow. Of standing in front of Nick and presenting my ideas. Of his dark eyes, which have never looked at me with anything but disapproval or indifference.

It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. I’m doing this to prove something to him, yes, but mostly to myself and to my brother. That I’m not a quitter. That I’m more than my failed clothing line. That I’m not just the glorified socialite Nick thinks I am.

The cab drops me off outside of the giant wrought-iron gate to Cole and Skye’s house in Greenwood Hills. I type in the passcode and head up the driveway, walking along a carefully landscaped path. Seeing the giant house now, it strikes me again just how much my brother’s life has changed compared to only two years ago. An inveterate bachelor since his disastrous break-up, he’d shown no permanent interest in women until Skye.

Now he has a house and a wife. He’s home in time for dinner in the evenings, not slaving away at a desk. I might tease him that she’s completely tamed him, but truth be told, I’m more grateful to Skye than I could ever say for granting my brother happiness.

I ring the doorbell and try the handle simultaneously. It swings open. “It’s just me!” I call, sinking down into one of the chairs artfully placed in the hallway.

“I can see that.” The voice is deep and gravelly and not at all what I expected. Nick stands by the staircase, arching a dark eyebrow as he sees me struggling out of my thigh-high boots. I’d put them on impulsively this morning, but after a whole day on my feet, they’ve betrayed me. My feet are killing me. “Do you always get undressed in your brother’s hallway?”

“I’m just taking off my shoes,” I say tersely. “I didn’t know you’d be here, boss.”

Nick snorts. He’s as aware as I am that the epitaph is not meant in a positive way. “I didn’t know you’d be here, either,” he says. “Would have skipped on dinner if I had.”

The silence between us stretches on. I work the zipper down on my right boot but can’t quite get it over my heel. My feet have probably swollen in the damnable things too, for all my luck, and I’m stuck here in front of the most intimidating man I know with my boots around my ankles.

He watches, relentless. “Struggling?”

“No, I’m fine.”

I tug so hard that my knuckles whiten but the boot barely moves an inch. The damn thing is glued to my leg. I try wiggling the heel, but it won’t budge.

“Fucking hell, just ask for help.” Large, swarthy hands are on