How Not to Marry a Billionaire - Ashlee Mallory Page 0,2

God only knows we can’t afford an electrician.”

Return to the house that I couldn’t wait to escape after high school? I would never get that desperate. My mom continued talking about the usual stuff, and rather than stand uselessly on the sidewalk in the eighty-six-degree heat that, for the first week of October, seemed warmer than usual, I loaded the grocery bags over one arm, noting a small tear in one that I’d have to be careful with as I continued walking.

I had just reached the new luxury condo tower that had gone up last year, still a couple blocks from home, as my mom continued to gab away, when a shiny black town car pulled up to the curb. The back door opened, and a leggy blonde with ginormous boobs and a tiny fluffy dog tucked under an arm climbed out, followed by a guy somewhere in his late forties who was chatting on the phone. The guy was barely taller than my own five-foot-six frame, with hair going to gray, a slight paunch in the middle, and a face that was fire-engine red—except for the pale outline of what I assumed had been sunglasses.

He was clearly out of his league with the leggy blonde. Or he would have been if it weren’t for the Rolex watch on his left wrist, the posh designer suit, and the chauffeur-driven town car now pulling away. Something in the way the woman tossed her hair caught my attention. She looked oddly familiar…

Dear Lord.

This wasn’t happening. Not here. Not now of all times. It couldn’t be. The universe wasn’t that cruel.

The woman leaned down to kiss her dog, and even though the lips were twice as big as they once had been—as were the boobs—it was definitely her.

Tracey Applewood.

Not only had we gone to Deerfield High for four excruciating years together, but we’d been mortal enemies after she stole my then-boyfriend, Jason Davies, from me in tenth grade. I stole him back three weeks later only to have him transfer schools when his dad got a job in another state, leaving me single again. Last I’d heard, Tracey had been bound for college somewhere in sunny California while I got a scholarship to an in-state university.

“…and I told Gloria that she was stupid if she didn’t trade in that old Buick for the new Chrysler,” my mom continued, unaware of my dilemma.

I glanced down at my clothes. Why had I thought leaving the house in yoga pants with a bleach stain on the left butt-cheek, a ripped tee-shirt, Old Navy rubber flip-flops, and my four-days-post-shampooed, ratted hair was a good idea? Oh, yeah. Since I became unemployed and one month away from having to move back home to my parents’ ranch house in nowhere’s-ville.

There was no way I was going to play catch-up with the prom queen.

Keeping my face diverted, I sped up just shy of a jog, my plastic bags smacking against my thighs as I tried to get away.

“Janie? Janie Carmichael? Is that you?”

I pretended not to hear her as I picked up speed, the phone still to my ear. Unfortunately, one of the thin plastic bags containing my bounty of groceries decided to take that moment to rip open, sending its contents across the sidewalk.

“Mom, I’m going to have to call you back,” I said quickly and hung up, then dropped to my feet, trying to shove everything into the one intact bag, including the package of underpants that was lying just out of reach, the mix of peach and purple floral cotton fabric unmistakable.

A slim, manicured hand bedazzled with three gem-filled rings picked them up before I could stop her.

“Janie? It is you. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

I came to my feet and briefly closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was disappointed to see her still standing there. So much for the power of the mind.

“Sorry, do I know you?” I asked, scrunching up my face in confusion.

Her face was contoured with the expertise of a YouTube influencer, her cheekbones almost appearing as sharp as the rocks on her hand. Her white-blond hair was longer and even silkier than before, and her brown eyes were lined like a pro, making them appear three times their size.

The rest of the details became a blur as any hope I might have entertained that Tracey Applewood had peaked in high school came crashing down around me. She was beautiful, poised, and wearing enough couture I could sell it and