Acquiring Ainsley Read online

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  Acquiring Ainsley

  A Billionaires in Palm Beach Story

  Copyright © 2018 by Sara Celi

  Published by Lowe Interactive Media, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books By Sara Celi

  When you’re twenty-seven, life centers on three major things: who’s getting engaged, who has a decent job, and who’s picking up the tab during happy hour on a Thursday night. Everyone I know is like that. Everyone. Life gets measured in little victories, and the competition is constant—and an endless little marathon about things like whose vacation looked better on Instagram, and how many people bothered to wish you a happy birthday. And if you’re lucky, when you’re twenty-seven, you get to enjoy the prime of your life. You don’t have to work too hard to make it appear easy.

  At least, I didn’t.

  Some people might say that I won the birth lottery, and that meant my life wasn’t hard. Or, rather, it meant people’s perception of my life was that it wasn’t hard. They had no idea how much I worked to keep up appearances. In the last few years, social media maintenance had become a full-time job of its own. Hours spent planning photo shoots and coordinating outfits. Stolen moments scouring other accounts. Posing practice every day in front of the full-length mirror across from my bed.

  And on… and on…

  “Ainsley, seriously, you have to upload that one onto Instagram. It’s perfect,” laughed Brooke, my closest friend, just before she downed the last of her vodka and soda. Brooke almost never drank anything with more than a hundred calories in it, but on that night, she’d allowed herself three cocktails instead of her usual one. I smelled the alcohol on her breath and heard the slur of it as she drew out the last syllable in the word “perfect.” She grinned at me. “I freaking love it.”

  “You’re right. We finally took a decent selfie. After no less than a thousand takes.”

  I punched a few buttons on my phone and uploaded the latest photo, which showed us seated against the tall back of a large velvet couch, drinks in hand, smiles plastered on our still Botox-free faces. We could have been twins, and that had been by design—both of us wore tight, black dresses with gold jewelry strategically placed to show off our natural cleavage, and each of us had styled our blonde tresses in loose, flowing curls. “That’s going to get a ton of likes.”

  “I hope so.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to likes and love this new year.”

  I clinked her glass with mine. “Pfft.” I flashed her a quick smile—one where I intended the compressed curve of my lips and narrowing of my eyes to reveal the skepticism that gnawed at my ego. “You might find love, but I doubt I will.”

  “Anything could happen. We’re only three weeks into January.” She sipped her drink, then pouted at me over the rim of her glass. “So, don’t be so pessimistic already.”

  “I’m not. Just realistic.” I unlocked my phone and scanned through Instagram. Just in the last few minutes, more than forty-five people had liked the photo of us. Excellent. “It’s one of our best photos. Seriously, look at this.” I flipped the screen in her direction.

  Brooke nodded in approval. “You’re right. We’ll easily get a hundred fifty likes. Especially on your account.”

  “Hopefully more than that. I think my best was almost 450.” I locked the phone, placed it on the low table in front of us, and turned my attention back to my friend. “And by the way, thank goodness you aren’t doing a ‘dry January’ like everyone else we know in Palm Beach and New York City. It always takes the fun out of happy hours during this time of year.”

  “I know.” Brooke eyed her phone. “I can’t imagine how anyone can live without champagne. Hmm… maybe I should upload a different version of that photo to my account.”

  “Do it. Why not?”

  Just like me, Brooke tracked her Instagram following the way some people tracked stock prices and IPOs. She had 7,345 followers. I had 15,435. But, of course, I had the bigger name, and that alone gave me the upper hand. Because I was a Ross, I had more social credit, and that came with better invites to parties and more exclusive events. Also, I had a knack for taking just the right photos. Angles counted for everything in the Instagram game.

  “Are we done here?” I asked a few minutes later, after I finished my final drink. When Brooke nodded, I signaled for the waitress. She dropped a leather-encased check off, and I slipped my AmEx Platinum inside the front cover without even a glance at the bill. “It’s on me,” I told Brooke. “You’re the one who had a shitty week.”

  “You don’t have to.” Brooke reached for her blue clutch, and her sculpted nails caught on the long rows of fringe that rimmed the top. “I can—”

  I closed my hand over hers before she could dig out her wallet. “No, you’re not paying for this. Let me get it,” I insisted, and gave the check to the waitress when she passed by again. “Besides, what are friends for?”

  I hadn’t glanced at the price of the drinks. The AmEx had a $35,000 limit, and I hadn’t come close to touching that number. Four rounds at Bar 365 in downtown West Palm Beach wouldn’t cost much of anything.

  “I’m so glad we did this.” Brooke placed her purse in her lap and gave me an easy grin. “I mean, I have the boss from hell, and this week was the worst.”

  “I don’t know how you keep working there.”

  “Hopefully, not for long.”

  “If I had a boss who threw things—” I cleared my throat. I didn’t have a boss. In fact, I didn’t have a job. Well, not a job that people would consider a “real” one. I had a line of scarves “in development” and a book about entertaining for millennials “in the works.” One more major difference between Brooke and me. The Rosses didn’t work.

  We lived.

  Lately, though, I’d started to wonder if that wasn’t enough—if I needed to do something more meaningful. Maybe I could take on a larger role at Ross Publishing, the fami
ly business; I had a job there if I wanted one. If. When. Whatever. That would mean a move back to New York, and I considered Palm Beach my home now, not The Big Apple.

  I also had a secret project down here that I hadn’t told anyone about, not even Brooke. For the last few years, I’d been skimming money off the top of my monthly trust-fund distribution checks just so that I could fund it and leaving town might mean giving it up before it really flourished. But even if that did well, I didn’t plan on revealing it to anyone else. Some things were better left in the background of life, and that counted as one.

  “You could come work for me,” I said, halfway joking. “I could make you my personal assistant.”

  Brooke folded her arms. “You can’t afford me.”

  “You don’t know that.” I shrugged. “Besides, I’m building a decent amount of buzz for this fall’s launch. I wasn’t going to share this because it’s not official, but, Palm Beach Today called this morning. They want to feature me.”

  Brooke’s eyes widened.

  “It will be an interview about the new line, my style, and various other fashion tips.” I grinned. “I don’t have to tell you that I said yes.”

  “No one ever says no to Palm Beach Today.” Brooke glanced down at her empty glass. “Too bad we have nothing to toast this good news with.”

  My phone vibrated on the glass table in front of us. It rang a few times; I disregarded it, and we kept talking about mindless gossip. Then another call came in on the device. I still chose to ignore it and enjoyed the last bit of conversation with my friend. By then, the waitress had returned to us. She held a silver tray with my credit card, and the bill on top.

  “Miss, I need to talk with you.” She shifted her eyes toward Brooke and then back to me, not placing the closed check in front of us. “Right now,” the woman said, her voice level directive, almost stern.

  “About what?”

  She bit her bottom lip and flickered her gaze over the other patrons in the restaurant. “Uh… Perhaps we should step outside the dining room and have a chat there.”

  “Why?” I placed my purse on the tabletop, and as I did, the phone rang again. “Wow, I’m sorry. Let me see who this is. Whoever is trying to call won’t stop.” I grabbed the phone and flipped around the screen. “Oh, god… Ashton.” I punched the button to send the call to voicemail. Whatever my older brother had to say, it could wait. I smiled at the waitress. “You were saying?”

  She swept another cautious look around the dining room then dragged her wide, brown stare back to me. “Well, I’m not sure that I want to do this here, but—”

  “Just tell me.” I laughed to put her at ease. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Fine.” Her gaze connected with mine and, after a beat, she placed the silver tray on the table. “Do you have another credit card to cover this bill? This card has been denied.”

  I sat up straighter. “D-denied?”

  “Yes. To put it another way, declined.”

  “Declined?”

  The word sounded foreign as it stumbled across my tongue. Nothing in my life had ever been “declined.” That happened to other people, not to someone like me. I cleared my throat. “As in ‘no good?’”

  “Yes, miss. Your card is not good here.”

  I looked over at Brooke, and a flush of heat passed through my cheeks. “That can’t be correct. I’m sure there has been a mistake.”

  The woman crossed her arms. “I swiped it ten times, and I called American Express myself. This card is no longer valid.”

  No. Longer. Valid.

  The words thundered in my head. Each one seemed to carry more weight than the last. I studied her embarrassed expression. The blush on her face shone a pretty shade of pink, one I might consider using in my new fashion line. Or perhaps I’d go a shade or two darker… probably about like the pink tone on my face right now. I squirmed in my seat. I knew I was stalling, allowing my thoughts to stray to such silly, mundane points. Really, I needed to distract her—hopefully along with Brooke and the rest of the restaurant. But what was I to do? Get up while the whole room watched, step outside the dining room like the waitress had suggested, and accept this nonsense about a declined card?

  Absolutely not.

  “No, this must have been an honest mistake or something. What exactly do you mean?” I asked.

  My mind raced with possible answers. What did it mean? I’d never experienced this before, never paid attention to such terminology. Had AmEx reissued me a new card with a new account number without my knowledge? Did someone steal my identity? Had I handed the waitress my gym card by accident? What the hell?

  “You can’t use this card here,” she replied in a flat voice. “In fact, you can’t use this card anywhere.”

  “Excuse me?” My words rose with the question, and a man sitting on another couch near us gave me a quick look of sympathy, the kind one gave a homeless person on the street. My cheeks flushed hot again. I didn’t have cash, and this credit card had been my main source of payment for years. After all, one didn’t get an AmEx platinum and not flash it around. That was the whole point. That card meant something. It gave a silent signal to the rest of the world: I would not have received this if I didn’t have good credit, a lot of money, and the social standing to match.

  “I’m sure there’s been some simple error,” Brooke offered, her words edged by the barest thread of pity.

  The waitress’s gaze bounced back and forth between us. “Well, either way I need an answer—now…” Her tone had shifted into rock-hard authority, her face to stone. “We need to turn over this section over to other customers. Do you, or do you not, have another way to pay this bill?”

  This was getting embarrassing. Humiliating, even. Her question had implications, and wherever this conversation was headed, it wouldn’t be good. The realization of that alone stunned me. I’d never been treated this way in Palm Beach. Never. People here catered to me—they made hundreds of dollars off my shopping, dining, and bar bills. But now, here this woman stood, practically ordering me to pay and get lost.

  “I just—” I took the credit card and stared at it. “This account is nowhere near its limit. There must be…”

  “I assure you, we haven’t made a mistake. We don’t make errors on things like this. It’s all done electronically and connected to the card issuer.”

  “Ainsley, I’ll take care of it.” Brooke reached for her purse, dug around inside of it, and produced two twenties. “Is this enough?”

  The server nodded. “More than.”

  “Good.” Brooke handed the money to the woman. “Keep the change.”

  Flustered, I didn’t say much until the two of us reached our cars, which we’d parked a few blocks away from the restaurant. By then, I’d thought of a thousand excuses for why this had happened to me. None of them sounded great, but I was willing to try any of them.

  “Let me pay you back,” I said, my lame offer quivering as I clicked the unlock button on the key fob of my red Infiniti Q60. “This was supposed to be my night to treat you, not the other way around.”

  Brooke shook her head. “You know I won’t let you do that.”

  “But I’m—”

  “You need to call AmEx yourself.” She took the few final steps to her Audi. “It sounds like a major glitch.”

  “That’s probably it,” I agreed, but the words sounded hollow as I spoke them. I followed Brooke, then gave her a quick hug. “Goodnight. And thank you, by the way, for… for covering for me.”

  “I’ll text you later,” she murmured over her shoulder, and then she climbed into her car. “I’m interested to hear what the folks in customer service say about it. They should at least give you a decent explanation.”

  “If their customer service is worth a damn, they’ll be groveling.”

  I got behind the wheel of my car and watched her drive away, headed to a condo on the Intracoastal Waterway in West Palm Beach. Her forays across the bridge wer
e another thing that divided us. She lived on the wrong side of the water.

  I didn’t.

  As I shifted my Infiniti into drive, my phone rang again. Annoyed, I threw my car into park and finally answered it. “What do you want, Ashton?” I groaned, not bothering to hide my frustration. Four phone calls in thirty minutes was a lot, even for him.

  This better be important.

  “Is this a bad time? Are you out?” he asked.

  “I am.” I turned down the car radio so that I could hear him better. “I was just at Bar 365 with Brooke. But now I’m about to head home.”

  “Good.” He cleared his throat. “Anything happen tonight?”

  “Actually, yes. Something’s going on with my credit card—the AmEx, the one you pay the monthly bill for.” I reached into my purse and pulled out my wallet, still trying to sort out what had happened inside the restaurant. “The server claimed the system declined the card.” I removed the American Express from its slot and studied it. “She was pretty clear about it. No mistakes. She wouldn’t accept it.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t.”

  The fact that he didn’t question what I’d said sent a jolt of surprise through my body. “What? You don’t sound very shocked about that.”

  “I’m not.” He paused. “I turned the account off this afternoon, Ainsley.”

  I gasped. It sounded painful, as if he just told me someone had died. “What? You did that? Why? I haven’t overcharged—”

  “It’s because I need to tell you something, and this was the fastest way to get your attention. I know you use that card the most. Shutting it down did exactly what I wanted it to do. It made you call me.”

  The heaviness in his voice made me grip the steering wheel a little tighter. My brother never sounded this way on our phone calls. I took a deep breath, dreading where this conversation would lead. He’d turned off the credit card just to get my attention? That sounded drastic. That sounded… completely bizarre.

  I gulped. I didn’t want to ask, but I had to know. “W-what do you need to tell me?”

  “It’s about Dad’s estate. And the family business.”