Briggs (Carolina Reapers 7)

“Thank you. I’m so very happy that you guys all showed up!” She laughed, and the crowd joined her. “Together we’ve raised a half-million dollars for the Ronald McDonald House. And that’s just the beginning.” Her smile grew bigger as she motioned toward someone in the wings. “I’m so proud to announce that with the help of Lusso Design, we’ve been able to write a one-million-dollar check to the Ronald McDonald House!”

The applause was deafening, and I was proud to add to it.

A woman glided onto the stage in a black, floor-length gown that caressed her frame like a lover, and my heart fucking stopped. Her black curls fell to her shoulders, and her smile must have tripped the breakers on my lungs, because now I was the one who wasn’t breathing.

No way. It had been four years. There was no way I’d recognize her if she was standing right in front of me, let alone across a room…and yet, I did.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.” Every muscle in my body tensed, torn between flight or fight.

Bristol McClaren.

I may not have known her last name that night, but I sure as hell did now. Fuck, she was even more beautiful now than she had been back then. Her curves had filled out in a way that made my palms itch to test the feel of her waist, her hips.

“Who is that?” Sterling asked, breaking my trance.

“And we’re so lucky to have the brand new CEO and lead designer, Bristol McClaren, with us here tonight!” London beamed and offered Bristol the microphone.

“Thank you so much for having me,” Bristol said to the crowd, color rising in her cheeks.

I sucked in a deep breath at the sound of her voice as it triggered another memory.

“I’ve never felt like this before.” God, her soft, breathless confession still filled my dreams and haunted my nightmares, and she was here. In my city. At an event for my team.

After she’d fucking cost me the last one.

Heat roared through my veins, anger consuming the shock of seeing her again, and I welcomed it. Angry was better than stunned. Rage was better than desire.

“That is who got me fucking traded.” A wry smile lifted the corners of my mouth. “In all fairness, her brother did the trading. She was just the catalyst.”

“Good looking catalyst,” Brogan noted.

She wasn’t good looking. Bristol was a knockout. The kind of beauty that stopped men dead in their tracks and convinced women to buy clothes they couldn’t possibly afford because she looked so fucking good strutting down the runway in them. Good looking didn’t come close to describing the sheer perfection of her high cheekbones and lush lips. She’d been captivating four years ago, but now? She was a fucking masterpiece.

She’d grown up.

“Wait…” Sterling’s brow furrowed and he tilted his head. “Didn’t you say Lusso…”

The rage bubbling its way to the surface exploded as I put it all together. The endorsement. The tux. The brand new CEO and lead designer. It was all Bristol.

“Fuck me.” I shoved away from the table and headed straight to the bar. “Johnny Walker Black,” I said to the bartender, pulling a bill out of my wallet.

The bartender nodded and poured, then slid the glass over the counter.

I threw it back, taking it like a shot and welcoming the smooth burn down my throat. If there was ever a time to drink, this was it. The glass clinked on the bar as I set it down and met the wide eyes of the bartender. “Thanks. I need another one.”

His brows flew up, but he took the hundred I’d left on the counter and poured.

How the fuck had I let this happen? I was meticulous about my endorsements and never accepted anything that belonged to a McClaren. Crossland was an uptight, overprotective asshole who’d been left with too much money too young, and I’d sworn to never be under his thumb again.

I nodded my thanks to the bartender, then picked up the glass and cursed under my breath as I headed for an empty table next to one of the massive windows that looked out over Charleston Harbor. If I’d just walked out, I could have driven home like I’d planned, but now I’d have to call a service. Putting the glass on the table, I reached for my phone, but instead of texting the service at the front door, I dialed my agent. For fifteen percent, he could sure-as-fuck pick up ten minutes before the ball dropped—especially since he’d dropped the actual damned ball.

“Cormac?” Paul answered, clearly surprised.

“Who the fuck owns Lusso?” I snapped, reaching for my drink. At least I sipped it this time.

“Well, happy New Year to you too,” he quipped back sarcastically.

“Not kidding. I need to know right now.”

“Charles Lusso has owned it since his father passed.”