A Billionaire for Christmas

I’m walking over to Emma to tell her to forget it when I bump right into Miles. “Hey, dude,” I say, tapping him on the shoulder. “What are you doing here? I thought you guys were headed to Vegas?”

Miles smiles at me. And wow, this guy looks totally different when he’s not wearing his jet-butler outfit. Right now he’s wearing faded jeans and a white t-shirt. And for like three whole seconds I think, This is Miles, right? Did I just approach a total stranger and act like we’re friends?

But no, Miles smiles. “Master Jesse. Nice to see you in a more personal atmosphere. Christopher and I are heading out later tonight and we’ll be ready for Sin City by morning.”

I point at him. “Can’t miss out on this good time, right?”

“Exactly, sir.” He leans in towards me. “But if I may ask…”

“Ask away.”

“What is Miss Emma up to?”

We both swing our gazes over to Emma, who is chatting with her mom near the tree as her father talks into a microphone, counting down from ten as he holds the switch to turn on the palm tree lights.

“Don’t ask, dude. It’s a whole fiasco that involves Joey and Johnny Boston.”

“Understood, sir,” Miles says. Just as Emma breaks away and starts heading back towards us, her father gets to one, the tree lights up, and the whole street erupts in a loud cheer.

“Hey, Miles!” Emma shouts over the cheers. Then to me, “Come on. I told you she’d say yes!”

“But Alonzo—”

She’s already tugging me over to the tree. “Forget Alonzo. He’s not in charge of anything. When my mother makes a decision, it’s a done deal.” She stops in front of the tree and positions me in between Tony and Zach. Zach and I do a little head-nod greeting. Then cameras start flashing and I realize we’re in the middle of a photoshoot.

Probably gonna be in the paper tomorrow.

Can’t outrun the fucking news. No matter how hard I try.

Emma is talking the whole time. “Call them right now. In my mother’s mind, they should be here already. Tell them…”

She goes on and on about what I should tell them. And I can see that there’s no way out of this now, so I press Joey’s contact first. He doesn’t pick up. I’m just in the middle of leaving a message about this new twist when who comes walking up to Emma but Kraken Karen?

I end the call and try to intervene before Emma notices, but too late. Karen is tapping Emma on the shoulder, and shoving a newspaper at her, and her face is nothing but a wide smile.

But it’s not really Karen’s face I’m watching. It’s Emma’s.

Because her face is not smiling. Her face has an expression of utter horror as she takes the paper from Karen and then just stares at it in abject panic.

“What?” Emma yells it so loud I can hear it over the excited crowd. “What?” Then she whirls to glare at her mother.

“Ut-oh,” Miles says, coming up next to me.

“Ut-oh is right. I gotta go.” I rush over and take Emma’s hand as she starts saying things like, “What the hell, Mom? What the fuck?”

Silvia is saying, “Language, Emma! There are children here!”

But Emma is giving out no fucks. Or she is. Because ‘fuck’ is coming out of her mouth at regular intervals.

I tug on her, trying to get her away from, if not her mother and Karen, at least the damn photographers—because they are eating this drama up like starving coyotes—but Emma is putting up a fight. “Why would you do that? Mom! Like… what is going through that brain of yours?”

Silvia is saying, “I just want you to have the perfect wedding, Emma! You’re my only daughter. And there’s no chance of your brothers ever having a wedding the way they date!”

This makes Luke go, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But I’m pretty sure we all know what that means. I do, at least. Because Joey is in the same kind of relationship and how do you marry two or more people at the same time, right?

Tony says, “God, why do you care if we get married?”

Alonzo is pointing to his father, saying, “You didn’t tell her? What the fuck, Dad? We talked about this.”

Which only makes me more confused. But the reporters are swarming now. So I make an executive decision based on many past experiences in the tabloid spotlight and drag Emma through the crowd, not stopping until we’re in the side yard of our cottage and then only to open the gate that leads to the backyard.

The whole time she’s yelling, “Let go of me! My mother has gone too far this time! The wedding is off!”

“Fuck that,” I say, pulling her through the gate and slamming it closed behind us. “I don’t care what your mother did. The damn wedding is not off!”