Suite on the Boss (New York Billionaires Book 5)

I frown down at the design sketches we’ve received from the Exciteur graphics department. Jenna and Toby are sitting opposite me at the table in my office, the glass surface covered in graphic profiles, color schemes, and logo designs.

“It’s not right,” I say. “It’s way too traditional.”

“It’s what they say they want,” Toby says with a shrug. “Every single part of the brief has the word ‘traditional’ in it. I think I counted it sixteen times.”

“Yes, but I don’t think they’ve fully thought that through,” I say. “Look at this color scheme. It’s stunning and elegant in the New York location where you have a century-old building and legacy power. But can you picture a gold brocade sofa in the hotel lobby of a newly built hotel in Santa Barbara?”

“No,” Jenna says. “Or rather, I can, and it’s not looking good.”

“This needs to be fresh and exciting, and modern.” I drum my fingers against the table. “We have four weeks left until the pitch.”

“And a lot of work to do,” Toby says. “Did you see the shortlist of architecture firms I sent over?”

“Yes, and they’re excellent… for the traditional vision. How about this? We create two pitches.”

Toby’s eyes widen. “Two separate pitches? In four weeks?”

“Yes,” I say and shuffle the papers in front of me. The color schemes aren’t bad, but they aren’t excellent, and we’re paid for excellence. “One pitch based on their specifications. But the second pitch? That’s for us. I want it to be modern, innovative, and elegant. It should reflect the Winter spirit—not the actual color scheme of its New York location.”

“I’m all for it,” Jenna says. “The only way to convince them that their way is wrong is to show them the opposite and have these side by side.”

Toby laughs and takes off his designer glasses. He cleans them against the sleeve of his cashmere sweater. “Sometimes, I think you’re crazy, Sophia. Correction—I think you’re crazy most of the time.”

“Thank you,” I say and grin at him.

“That’s why I like working with you. We’ve never, not once, taken the easy road.”

“No,” I say. “But clients don’t hire Exciteur for easy. You both know Isaac Winter is an important friend of the CEO.”

Both Jenna and Toby nod. Exciteur is strongly performance-based and performance-review driven, and that’s reflected in promotions… not to mention bonuses. “So, we pull out all the stops,” I say. “They’re hiring us to do the thinking for them. So, let’s think big and blow them away at the pitch.”

“I can get to work on the modern pitch right away,” Jenna says and starts to scoop up the papers. Her love of yellow is reflected in a thin belt today, wrapped around a black dress. “I’ll separate what we already have into folders and get the graphic department on board. I’ll commission second options for all of this.”

“Perfect. Toby? Can you continue working on the traditional pitch?”

“Right,” he says and looks between us. “Because I’m such a boring traditionalist and a beacon of conventionality?”

Jenna and I laugh. “Yes,” she says and leans her shoulder against his. “We didn’t want to tell you, but that’s the exact reason.”

He shakes his head in mock sadness. “If only I’d known,” he says. “It would have made my high school years so much easier.”

The work day runs away from us after that, like it so often does. The opportunity to be creative and business-driven is one I love, and as I work on the Winter project, I can see the lobby in my mind’s eye. I picture the spa, and The Ivy, and Isaac’s deep voice telling me about every aspect.

After work, I have a headache from the hours spent in front of a screen. I pop an Advil and grab the tennis bag I keep in my office. It always has a fresh change of clothes and the keys to my locker at the Grandview club. My membership lasts until the end of the year, and I’m determined to make the most of it, uncomfortably familiar faces or not. It’s a wonder I’ve managed to avoid Percy for so long.

Which isn’t, strictly speaking, true. It’s just very good planning on my part. I know how that man operates, and I know his schedule. I spent years living my life by it.

Marisol is an excellent tennis trainer. She cuts me no slack, standing on the other side of the net and hitting shots my way. “Forehand!” she screams. “Keep your side angled toward the net! Connect with the ball earlier! Don’t forget the speed!”

We drill, and we drill, and we drill, and at the end, we play a set like we always do.

And it ends the way it always does.

I collapse on the bench and reach for my water bottle. “I almost had you on the last one,” I say.

Marisol grins at me. She’s forty-seven to my thirty-three, but she’s also a former Olympian, and her skills are unmatched. “Sure,” she says. “Let’s say you were close.”

I roll my eyes, and we both chuckle. Mine’s significantly more tired than hers, age difference or no.

“Same time on Thursday?” she asks.

I nod. After the divorce, this sport had become my lifeline. I need the distraction and the constant, steady improvement of skill. Something to throw myself into that’s mine and mine alone.

“Hypothetically,” I say, “would it be okay if I brought someone?”

“Sure,” she says. “Your sister coming to town?”

“No. God, Rose would hate this. No, I’m playing in the doubles tournament in a few weeks.”

Her eyebrows rise. “You are? I’ll be judging it.”

“Really? That’s great!”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll judge every point in your favor, Bishop.”

“Oh, I’m not hoping for an overt display of favoritism,” I say. “Just a small discrete one.”

She laughs. “I’ll see what I can do. So, who’s your partner?”

It’s funny. Marisol knows almost everything about my life, and I know a lot about hers, all due to talking on and off the court in between serves and chatting with our water bottles in hand.

She knows about Percy. That, though, isn’t entirely from me. Gossip travels quicker than light at this club, and he’s a staple here.

“It’s a new guy,” I say. “We’re friends, and now we’re sort of dating, too.”

“Sort of?”

“Yes. It’s early days still.”

“Right,” she says. “So, you thought you’d introduce him to all of New York society by throwing him into the vipers pit that is Grandview?”

I laugh. “Can you imagine? No, he’s already a part of… well. This group of people.”

“Oh,” she says. “He’s one of them.”

I nod. Marisol and I had bonded early on about our small-town upbringings.

“You could say that,” I say.

“Well, sure. Bring him along sometime and we can work on your game as a double.”

“Thanks,” I say. “See you Thursday?”

“You bet. I’ll send you some videos about kick serves, by the way. I want you to study them.”

“Got it.” I throw my bag over my shoulder and wave at her. She’s staying on the court, a new client already waiting in the wings.

I walk home. It’s a long way, but I need the air and the energy that’s always present on the streets of New York. There’s a complete lack of it in my apartment, so I’ll take it where I can get it.

My phone rings about halfway, and I have to dig through my bag to find it.

It’s Isaac.

We’ve never called each other before.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Bishop,” a familiar voice says. “Free to talk?”

“Yes, absolutely. Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Isaac says. We haven’t spoken since the benefit last weekend. I’ve been working at Exciteur, him at Winter, and there hasn’t been a reason to. Professionally or privately. “Thank you for the other night.”

“No, thank you,” I say. “I had fun.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and I can hear the disbelief in it. “Did you?”

“Yes. Well, before and after the… incident. Watching you win the prize you’ve always dreamed of helped.”

The teasing breaks the formality between us. I can hear it crack. “Thanks for reminding me about that,” he says dryly.

“No problem.”

“What date is the doubles tournament?”

“It’s not this Saturday, but the one after that,” I say. “But, Isaac, it’s completely fine if you can’t do it, or if you don’t want to. I’m not expecting—”

“I’ll be there,” he says. “Text me the address and time.”

“All right. I will.” A pulse of mortification sends heat to my face. Here I am, forcing him to play tennis with me all because I want to shove my ex’s face in it. And he’s a client. It’s so beyond anything proper that the embarrassment sinks down to my very toes.

“It’s actually a good thing,” he says, “because I have another favor to ask of you.”

“You do?”

“Yes. There’s a party in the Hamptons this weekend.”

“It’s late August,” I say. “There are parties in the Hamptons every weekend.”

He snorts. “Very funny.”

“One tries.”

“There are, indeed, but there’s one in particular that I need to be at. More members of my family will be there.”

“Oh.”

“If you’re able and interested, it’s this Saturday.” There’s a brief pause. “Food, drinks, and transport will be included.”

“It’s an all-inclusive offer?”

“Yes. I’ll up the personal service, too. I know how you enjoy it.”

“I do.” Being his date to another party would lessen the debt I’ll owe him for the tennis. We’d be even. “Of course, I’ll be there. Text me the details.”

“Good,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Is it something I should be thanked for? Will your extended family pounce on me?”

“They might ask you how we met,” he says, “but we already have that story settled.”

I chuckle. “Yes, on a tennis court at a club you don’t go to. I didn’t think that one through.”

“It works as well as any other story might.” There’s a sudden increase in music playing on his end. It sounds classical.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“The opera,” he says. “In Chicago. It’s the intermission.”

“Oh. Enjoy the performance,” I say. A business trip? Or a personal one? He’d said he wasn’t dating anyone, but it’s hard not to picture him standing in a tailored tux, phone to his ear, a beautiful woman waiting beside him to finish his call.

“Until Saturday, then.”

“Until Saturday,” I murmur. “Don’t stay past midnight.”

“I never do,” he says. “And Sophia?”

“Yes?”

“We’ll win the game.”