CHAPTER THREE
RIGGS
Emmett Stauce was a schmuck.
This wasn’t only my opinion but a fact. Another not-so-fun fact: that schmuck was my boss.
The big irony was, I didn’t need to have a boss. Or a job, for that matter.
Before my grandfather took his final dirt nap, he’d left me a $1.3 billion fashion empire, about $800 million of it liquidated. I wasn’t only rich; I was fuck-you rich. The kind of rich people hated on principle. But because I grew up with people who were loaded, and I’d witnessed how deeply money corrupted the soul, I’d refused to submit to its allure. See, what people didn’t know was that being a billionaire was the most boring thing one could be. You spent your life hopping from one vanity venture to the other. The stakes were never high. The outcome of failure and success remained the same. And don’t get me started on people who hung on to billionaires like remoras on a shark. Feeding off scraps of prey.
Which was why I’d always lived like I didn’t have money.
Money was a great substitute for happiness, but you could always tell the difference—because unlike money, happiness wasn’t something you were constantly afraid of losing.
Usually, living like everyday folk was a decision I prided myself in.
Today, I wanted to punch my own balls for the decision.
“Riggs, I’m gonna need you to stay after this meeting.” Emmett tapped his pen over his notepad from across the boardroom. “I have something important to discuss with you. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Thank me later.”
Yeah, hold your breath, ass-face.
I rarely attended the monthly editorial meetings for Discovery magazine, choosing instead to travel the world and actually do photography work. Sometimes, when I was between assignments, I showed my face at the headquarters, but not often. Confined spaces made my skin crawl.
I nodded, glancing at my phone again. Gretchen had been blowing up my DMs since last night, begging me for help with her PA situation. I felt bad for her, but not bad enough to wed an entire fucking stranger. And one who spoke and acted like a Harry Potter villainess, no less.
On top of being a terrible negotiator, Poppins was also rude, overbearing, and snobbish. She was hot, though. I would give her that. Then again, so was the Carolina Reaper, and I didn’t want to stick my dick into one of those either.
Gretchen: We need to talk ASAP.
Gretchen: Just the way she looks at me while we’re at work, Riggs. You should see her. I know she’s in talks to sell our story.
Gretchen: I couldn’t even concentrate on Lyric’s birthday today.
Gretchen: Please reconsider. You wouldn’t even have to see her. It’d just be paperwork. She spends most of her time trying to move her way up the social circles of NY and buying seventh-hand designer bags. Like that fake heiress from that documentary. Only less sophisticated.
I hoped for our nation’s sake Gretchen would do a better job being the White House’s press secretary than selling this woman to me. My desire to ever meet Poppins again just plummeted to below zero.
Putting my phone away, I refocused my attention on the pile of oxygen-wasters who were employed by Discovery magazine.
Everyone sat around the table and discussed what should be the theme for next year’s first issue.
“Yemen’s the place to be right now,” Harmony, the art director, suggested. “Send Riggs and Steven out in the field.” Steven was a world-famous journalist, and not one to get high on his own supply.
“That’s a good idea.” Emmett jerked forward, scribbling something in his notepad. He looked like Edward Cullen’s accountant. Sickly pale, with reddish eyes and a hairline that receded all the way to Uruguay. “But I have something else for Riggs, so let’s see if Fred’s available for photography. Anyone else?”
As long as I didn’t stay in New York for a period exceeding two weeks, I was a happy camper. My repulsion with monogamy ran beyond human interaction. It also applied to cities, states, food, music, and TV. I loved switching things up.
“Meeting adjourned.” Emmett, who thought himself personable, used a squeaky toddler hammer to bang on the table.
Everyone trickled out of the room.
Emmett turned to me, cutting straight to the chase.
“Alaska,” he said.
“Gold mining. Sourdough. Sarah Palin.”
“Huh?” He frowned.
“Thought we were playing an association game.”
“Why would I do that?” He blinked, evidently confused. Did I mention the man wasn’t in possession of a sense of humor?
“What about Alaska?” I sighed.
“I want you to go there.” He reclined in his seat, channeling his inner Italian mobster from an eighties film.
“No,” I answered flatly.
“Be a sport, Bates.” Emmett went from tough to whining in a nanosecond, sitting up straight. “You haven’t even heard my pitch.”
“Don’t need to. There’s only one place on my short list of won’t-travel-to—Alaska.”
“Before you make up your mind . . .” Emmett slammed his notepad shut. “It’s a great opportunity, both for the magazine and for you. We’re collaborating with a new streamer, Planet-E, on a documentary about deep Alaska. This thing could win us Emmys, Riggs. The producer did Whale Tale, that film about whales in captivity?” He ignored my rejection, giving me his pitch anyway.
“The one that got slammed in reviews as a mouthpiece for oil companies?” I elevated an eyebrow. He and Gretchen were a match made in PR hell. Collectively, they wouldn’t be able to sell ice to the residents of hell.
“This one’s different.” Emmett waved me off, huffing. “No one’s funding it.”
“Shit, Em, you’re really selling it to me. A low-budget documentary produced by a washed-up sellout has always been my dream.”
Right after becoming a space cowboy, of course.
“You’ll be getting into the thick of it. I’m talking eight months of nonstop filming—”
“Here, buy yourself some Q-tips.” I threw a five-dollar bill on the desk between us, then stood up and tucked my wallet in my back pocket. “Your hearing’s impaired. As I said, I’m not going there. Not for eight months, not for eight minutes.”
Emmett jerked his head back, as if I’d punched him.
“The production company told me it’s you they want. They put it as a contingent—”
“Should’ve checked with me first.”
He closed his mouth. Opened it again. “Is there any specific reason why you’re so revolted by the idea of Alaska?”
“There is,” I answered matter-of-factly. “And it’s none of your damn business.”
Every time Emmett and I spoke with one another, it ended up with a verbal sparring match in which he got knocked out. To be honest, he had good reasons to hate me. For one thing, I’d slept my way through most of his staff, which, while unethical, wasn’t prohibited, since I wasn’t their superior. For another, I’d made it clear I thought he was a tool bag. Short of tattooing the statement on my forehead, I did everything I could to convey I disliked him.
“See, I had a feeling you might try to dodge the assignment.” Emmett sighed, powering up his laptop. “So I took the liberty of peeking at your contract with Discovery Magazine Inc.” He turned the screen in my direction.
“This is our standard contract that you signed. I highlighted the important part. Says here plainly that on-location employees are only exempt from travel assignments due to medical emergencies, religious beliefs, and/or family obligations. All of your colleagues are married with children and cannot take the time off. So unless you’re planning a funeral or a wedding sometime in the near future, you’re legally bound to us.”
“In that case, I quit.”
I could always go to National Geographic. The only reason I worked with Discovery magazine was that the workload was bigger, which meant more traveling.
“Aha.” He scrolled down my contract, grinning extra smugly. “I anticipated that might be your reaction. I refer you to clause 41c. Because our projects span over several months, and sometimes even years, we have a thirty-day notice period. You can hand in your resignation today, but we’re starting to film in Alaska in two weeks, so your dream of never visiting there sadly won’t be fulfilled.”
“I’m not traveling to Alaska,” I repeated, point blank.
“You have no choice.” His ears reddened, and his nose started twitching.
I let out a wry chuckle. “Sue me.”
“Happily!” Emmett snapped his laptop shut. “You being a billionaire is a great incentive. As you well know, print is dead. Much like your career, if you decide to break the contract.”
My spine went rigid. How the hell . . . ?
The question must’ve been written on my face because the answer followed promptly.
“Don’t look so shocked—you’ve garnered a lot of interest from the company. Especially our female employees.” He rested his elbows on the table between us, peering at my face with open satisfaction. “A few months ago, I asked myself—how come Riggs has never asked for a pay raise? You’re by far our most acclaimed photographer, with the most experience—and street cred. Yet, you don’t even rent out a place in the city. We send your checks and tax forms to a PO box. I was curious about your financial situation. I figured only someone who didn’t need it would be so careless about their salary. So I started digging a little. It wasn’t hard. Discovery mag has most of your information available.”
I sat back down. A muscle in my jaw jumped. “You stalked me.”
He sulked haughtily. “Don’t flatter yourself. Most of the information was available on the internet.”
“Liar. They kept my name out of the press,” I said through gritted teeth. My grandfather made sure of it in a bid to protect me. Fame was a terrible thing. He didn’t wish it on his only grandchild.
“Mostly, yes. But one publication didn’t. And that was enough. As it stands, I could use a few extra bucks when I win the lawsuit. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you we’re doing awful financially. Each year our budget decreases,” he said sullenly, tossing a hand in the air. “And I already have an entire legal team at my disposal. Might as well use them.”
“There’s only one problem.” I stroked my jaw.
He picked up his coffee cup, taking a sip. The guy even drank smugly. “What, pray tell, might that be?”
“I am getting married.” I kicked back in my seat, flashing him my most conceited shit-eating grin. “I have a fiancée. Upping and leaving for almost a year?” I tsked. “Not gonna fly with her. She’s a feisty one.” If feisty meant deranged, I was on point.
“You?”Emmett spluttered his coffee, leaning forward in a panic. “A fiancée? Since when?”
“Around one in the morning last night.” I stroked my chin, basking in his misery, even though I was going to pay for it handsomely. “Call it kismet, Emmett, but I’ve found the one.”
“That’s so—”
“Romantic?” I offered.
“Convenient.”He pouted like a teenybopper who’d just been told she couldn’t get a boob job for her sweet sixteen. “I don’t believe you.”
“You wound me, Emmett. I thought we trusted each other.” I crinkled my face, feigning devastation.
“If that’s the truth, then that means you can’t go on lengthy assignments abroad at all anymore. No Yemen, no Bolivia, no Seychelles. Right?” he challenged me.
Okay. Maybe I didn’t think Operation: Stick It to Emmett through. But it was too late to back out now. Even at the cost of doing the inconceivable.
“Two weeks max.” I smirked good naturedly, knowing it drove him crazy. “Can’t stay away from her longer than that.”
I wasn’t sure what her name was, but that was purely semantics.
“So you’re just going to give up the variety?” He eyeballed me. “That’s unlike you.”
“She’s worth it.” Whoever that fictional lady was.
He squinted, trying to see through my bullshit.
“Tell me about this mysterious lover of yours.”
I had to think on my feet, so my mind naturally went straight to the one (and only) woman who had asked for my hand in marriage.
“She’s in the news industry,” I mused, trying to remember what Mary Poppins was like. “Smart. Quirky. Sex on legs.” If the sex was missionary-style, in the dark. While both participants pondered the weather. “English.”
“English?”Emmett repeated, staring at me with unadulterated surprise. “This is too elaborate to make up. You don’t normally remember people’s hair color, let alone their nationality. You wanna tell me you’re really engaged?”
A-fucking-pparently, thanks to your sorry ass.
I nodded.
“To a woman?”
“Yup.”
I made a note to check her pronouns if I ever met her again. Not that she’d ever find out I’d married us for my own convenience.
“And we’ll all get to see and meet her, this imaginary Englishwoman of yours?” Emmett circled the air with his pen.
“In the flesh.” I stood up and stuffed my phone into my pocket. Better bail before he started asking me tough questions about her. Or questions at all.
“What’s this girl’s name?” Emmett’s eyes still darted daggers at me as I made my way to the door. “I’d like to look her up. You know, do my due diligence, since there’s so much money on the line.”
I stopped dead in my tracks.
Was it Deidre or Darlene? It definitely had a D in it.
“Desiree.” Fuck. It was definitely not that.
“Nice name,” Emmett said skeptically, rolling it off his tongue. “Desiree.”
Okay—second mental note: tell whatsherface to change her name if she wants that visa.
Also—was I really entertaining the idea of marrying this wacko for real now? Apparently I was, because she was the kind of woman to definitely tell Emmett we weren’t married if he ever found her.
“Desiree what?” he pressed.
“Are you going to ask for her social security and Wikipedia page next?” In lieu of answers, I decided offense was the best defense. “I’m not going to violate her privacy so you can get your rocks off.”
“Don’t worry, I intend to do a thorough check to ensure Desiree has a nice, proper, real last name. And very soon.”
Knowing you, you’ll put a PI on my ass the minute I walk out of here.
“She exists,” I ground out, pissed now. “So that won’t be a problem.”
“Well. Let me know when you have a date in mind. For the wedding, I mean. We need to talk through your vacation days.”
“Hmm. Vacation days. Sure, yeah.” I closed the door behind me before making a beeline to the elevator. “See you later. Unfortunately,” I muttered.
The suing-me part wasn’t what I was worried about—he could have the money. It was the fact I’d be outed as a billionaire in front of the whole world that bothered me. My life would never be the same again. Every interaction, every hookup, every transaction would be laced with the unknown of what people’s motivations were with me. No. I’d gone this far without revealing my filthy rich identity. I wasn’t going to lose my tranquil reality because of Emmett’s power trip.
Which meant I had an engagement to propose to a complete stranger.
It was either that or going to Alaska.
And I sure as hell wasn’t going to Alaska.