A Billionaire's Mistake

1|The Mistake

Chapter One: The Mistake

Lincoln

I wipe the perspiration off my forehead from the sticky New York City heat, sighing as the sun continues to beam down on me. The dead of July is the worst time of year. With the peak of tourist season at its highest, the looming buildings above leave no room for wind to travel through the thick crowds of people bustling about.

Christ.

Another date.

I'm tempted to roll my eyes as I push my way past two teenagers skateboarding through a crosswalk. I almost run into a dad pushing a newborn baby in a stroller, muttering an apology when he breezes past.

Ten minutes.

I'm giving this fucking date ten minutes before I get back to work.

Over the past few months, my mother has set me up with countless women. Some are daughters of her friends at the country club, some have been women that are actively involved in her charity organization, and some I swore she just spotted off the street and showed them a picture of me to see if they'd be interested. But no, my mother is calculated. She wouldn't choose just anyone to set me up with.

In the end, the women are all the same: they're ready to start a family and settle down, they have impeccable hair and teeth, and most importantly? They want to be taken care of. The women I've met are looking to have the life their mothers more than likely did. They'd manage the home, take care of the kids, and then they'd spend their free time at the golf course, or at the country club reading their favorite book of the month, just as my mother had done.

And while all of that may be fine and dandy for some, it's not what I want. At least not yet. I'm fine being an eligible bachelor. I like my condo in the city all to myself. I'm only twenty-eight. I still have time to settle down and find someone if I wish, but my mother is incorrigible and thinks I'm withering away with only a few years left to live.

Fighting her on the subject would just result in a never-ending cycle, so once every two weeks I go on these stupid blind dates, I meet the woman my mother has chosen for me, and then I pretend to be the biggest dick on the face of the earth to make sure I never have to see them again.

Is it wrong?

Yup.

Do I care?

Nope.

I loosen the gray tie of my fitted suit ever-so-slightly to try and welcome air beneath the jacket. Maybe I should just strip myself of the jacket entirely, but then my tattoos would peek out of the top of my crisp linen dress shirt, and that would only give this woman another excuse to want to see me again.

My mother arranged the blind date at a small coffee shop just adjacent to Central Park. In the distance, lovers are sailing in tiny boats on the reservoir, and to the left, romantic picnic dates are sprawled out on the lush, green grass. I grimace as a man drops a grape into his prospective date's mouth, and yet again, I want to roll my eyes.

This is exactly the kind of place my mother would pick.

I push open the door to the tiny shop fifteen minutes later than I said I'd be here. The first rule for failing these dates? Never show up on time.

Typically, it doesn't take me longer than ten seconds to spot the chosen prospect. I scan the shop for a woman dressed like she's attending a gala of some sort, perhaps in a fancy hat with a feather on it like the woman two weeks ago chose, but I come up short. All I see are two businessmen in the corner sipping coffee over a sprawl of papers on a table, and a waitress zooming hot chocolates to two women towards the back. No sign of my impending date.