Never Marry Your Brother's Best Friend (Never Say Never, #1)

It’s the jumping off point we need to discuss all facets of the Cartwright portfolio, from stock holdings to property investments, donations to taxes, and everything in between.

Hours later, Elena is nodding off in her chair, even occasionally snoring, while Pat and I hammer through report after report and I show him where I see potential improvements in the management of the Cartwright estate.

But no matter what I say or what actions I suggest, he’s professionally distant, bordering on cold. My charm hasn’t worked on him, my plans haven’t swayed him, and for someone who purports wanting to retire, I don’t think he’s ready to release one finger from managing the Cartwright portfolio. Or at least, not let it go to me.

“Being that aggressive is foolhardy,” he repeats, despite having seen the projections I compiled. “I don’t care what your little cartoon arrow shows, that’s not the best strategy.” He waves at my tablet presentation, which does indeed have a green arrow showing a dramatic rise in investment returns.

Gritting my teeth to control my frustrations, I assure him again. “It would play out this way. I’ve done it before, and it’s even how I have some of my own personal funds invested.”

“Then you’re not a portfolio manager, you’re a gambler hoping for the big score. It might even be a good strategy for someone your age, but not in this case.” He slams his stack of papers to the table, and dismissing me, he turns to Elena. “I know you trust your gut, but seriously?” He holds a hand out, gesturing toward me and wrinkling his nose.

He’s woken her up, and she wipes drool from the corners of her mouth, sputtering, “Wha–what’s . . . what’s going on?”

“This kid wants to move you into a more aggressive vehicle—”

Elena interrupts to ask, “Like a sports car?” She’s smiling like a kid on Christmas morning who got exactly what they asked Santa for.

“No, investment vehicle,” I correct. “But if you want an exotic car experience, I know just the place. We took Dad there for his birthday last year and he loved it.” I flash my charming smile, wanting to smooth things over because waking up with someone yelling at you can be disconcerting.

“Yes,” she answers quickly, “especially if I can have a hot racecar driver teach me.” After a little wiggle with her arms held out in front of her like she’s gripping a steering wheel—I refuse to think she’s imagining otherwise—she asks, more seriously, “What’s wrong with an aggressive investment vehicle?”

She’s asking Pat, but I need to answer this. It’s key to transitioning her to me as the portfolio manager and getting her to trust my judgment. “Mr. Oleana has you heavily invested in very safe stocks, bonds, etc. They’re stable, they have a decent interest, and they grow incrementally each year. You make a steady income from them that will support you to the day you die and beyond.”

“Morbid,” Pat adds. “And safe is good.”

I lick my lips, tasting victory. “Good isn’t good enough, not for Elena Cartwright. You’re leaving potential money on the table.”

“Do tell,” she orders, leaning forward on the table to rest her chin on her palm.

I explain how Pat does all his planning based on the need for conservativeness at Elena’s age, but that based on her available income, she could be much more aggressive. “Yes, there could be losses, or there could be great gains.”

“I already have more money than I know what to do with and currently have a double-digit return rate. By your estimations, that would go up approximately eight more percent per investment year?”

Ooh, she is a slick one. She wasn’t sleeping a bit. She was quietly listening to me and Mr. Olena’s discussion, evaluating me the whole time.

“Yes, creating the type of gains that don’t only create generational wealth but also provide an opportunity to donate to the causes and charities that are closest to your heart, spreading those benefits to even more people in need while still carrying on the Cartwright legacy.”

Before Pat can interrupt me, I add, “I know you’re already donating significant amounts of money, but what if you could do more? An entire wing at the museum in Thomas’s name, a children’s hospital in all four corners of the state, or whatever you feel called to do. The point is . . . as you said, you have more money than you know what to do with, so why be this careful? You’re not going to run out . . . ever.”

“She might if you’re the one holding the checkbook,” Pat interjects.

“Checkbook? That only goes to show how outdated and out-of-touch you’re being. No one has a checkbook anymore. There’s an app for that,” I quip, but my frustration is showing.

“Enough.” Elena pushes back from the table a bit, throwing her hands up. “Carter, thank you for coming. I think me and Pat have some things to discuss.” She dips her chin, glaring at Pat through her brow.

I know a dismissal cue when I hear it, so I rise. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Oleana, Elena. I hope you’ll give some serious thought to my suggestions.”

I shake both of their hands, but Elena’s is decidedly limper than before. As I wait for the elevator doors to open and let me out of here, I yell at myself.

Did I blow it? Fuck, I hope not. Not after everything I’ve done to appeal to Elena.

But when the elevator doors open, I’m not prepared for what I see. Claire, Elena’s niece, is stepping off, and when she nearly walks into me, she sneers quite obviously. “You!”

I don’t know why she’s here at Mr. Oleana’s office, or why she’s so mad at me. But I offer my most charming smile. “Nice to see you, Claire.”

“Fuck you,” she hisses, bumping my shoulder as she passes me by.

What is her deal?

I don’t get a chance to ask because she disappears into Mr. Oleana’s office. I consider chasing her, not wanting her to blow my chances any further than what I just did, but my phone rings and when I look at it, my dad’s name is on the screen.

“Hello?”





CHAPTER

TWENTY-FOUR





LUNA





“Hope y’all had fun and maybe learned something cool today?” I let the question hang, hoping for raised hands from the group of kids I’ve been showing around the museum for the last two hours.

“My favoritest thing I learned is that they made paint with dirts and eggs in the olden days,” a little boy informs me.

“Ooh, good one. Yep, paint was made with different types of dirt, colored rocks, minerals, even gemstones.” I freeze dramatically, holding out both hands in a ‘stop’ pose, and look around at the kids with overly wide eyes. “But what’s the rule there?” I prompt.

“Don’t use jewelry to make paint!” several kids shout in unison.

“Yes!” I pump my fist to celebrate their correct answers. “Because gems and jewelry are . . .?”

“Different!” the kids respond.