Page 89 of Paparazzi Perfect
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Half an hour later, Dyson lay on the deck chair beside me, sipping coconut-blueberry mojitos by the heated pool.
“I’ve been working around the clock at BioBuild. I just needed to chill, you know? Plus, I wanted to hang with my bestie—that’s you, in case you were guessing.” He slurped on his mojito as my mouth lifted into a lazy smile. “The startup’s killing it,” he continued, “even more thananyof us had hoped… it’s a real game changer for the industry.”
“That’s fantastic. I’m proud of you, bro.” I stood and walked to the side of the pool. “Plus,” I said, whooping as I tossed my cap in the air, “it hasn’t exactly hurt my finances.”
“Well, without our investors, it wouldn’t have been possible. Which reminds me, I’ve got some very importantbusiness to discuss with you. I’ve organized a little celebration to give something back to those who backed us.”
He steepled his fingers, but it didn’t conceal his excitement. “Oh, who am I kidding? I’m going all out.” He clapped his hands loudly. “Expect your invitation to the Moonlight Gala soon.”
“Moonlight Gala, hey? Where’s it going to be?” I kept half my attention on my phone as I mulled over what I’d say to Ivy.
“I need to keep the whales happy. There’s a few in Brisbane, so it’ll be there, right next to the river. That’ll keep the big boys smiling, and it’s less than a two-hour flight for us. Bonus for you, it’s close to your new marina berth, so you can tuck yourself in when it’s time for beddy-byes.” He plonked himself down beside me.
“Funny man!” With a chuckle, I flicked a stream of water at him. “I’m up for it. I’ll invite Ivy, though she probably won’t come. At least it’s close to the Gold Coast.” Hope flamed inside me. I missed her more than I’d admitted, even to Dyson.
“Hell yeah! You absolutely should. And I’m glad you’ve got your priorities straight now. Thanks to Dr. Dyson.” He tapped his fingertip against the side of his forehead.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re a genius. You should’ve been a doctor, buddy.”
“Maybe in my downtime. But seriously, this gala will give us plenty of media coverage too. Not that we need it, but we may as well ride the wave, baby,” he said, swinging his feet back and forth in the water as he slurped his drink. “There’ll be a few hundred people going. Nothing too oversized, but enough to make an impression.”
“So, when is this fancy-ass gala of yours?” I asked.
“Three weeks. Not long, but it works for me.”
“Dyson, that’s perfect. I can’t believe Imightactually get to see her again. Do you think she’ll go?” I asked hopefully.
“Probably not!” He pulled a face. “You’ve been pretty fucking delusional.”
“Hey, watch it.” I smirked.
“And I, obviously, will leave with someone ridiculously hot who I haven’t met yet,” he said with a cocky grin.
“You’re beyond hope, you know that, right?” I threw a towel at him. “One day, you’re going to fall hard, bro. And I for one cannot wait to see it.”
“I can’t imagine thathappening! The women who go for me just want to party, hook up, shop, repeat. Not necessarily in that order.” His grin didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And I’m down with that.”
I grinned as he lifted his glass, clinking it against mine. “You’re a lost cause.”
“Cheers to that.” He tilted his head to one side. “And let’s polish up that Karson charm. Maybe then you won’t pull your disappearing act when the cameras turn your way.” He smirked.
“No amount of prepping is going to change that. In fact, why don’t you make it a masked ball? That’ll make it easier for me.”
“Sorry, love. But being mobbed by the paparazzi is a billionaire’s tour of duty. You’re doing your bit for the community and all,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile.
“Are you sure that massage therapist didn’t press a bit too hard on your head?” I raised an eyebrow at him. “Anyway, how are you going to pull this gala together in such a short timeframe?”
“It’s called delegating,my friend. That’s what got me where I am today… sitting by the pool while others do the real work.” He cackled.
With a grin, I pulled myself up, grabbed him, and wrestled him into the pool. We emerged from beneath the water, spluttering and coughing. He let loose with a round of cursing before we dissolved into fits of laughter.
“Anyway,” Dyson said after we climbed onto the side of the pool, “back to the boring details. My events team has locked in Anton Alistair, the celebrity chef. And Boardwalk Butlers will serve the canapés and bucketloads of champagne. Sounds good, right?”
“Yep, brilliant. Just hearing about it makes me hungry. And what about a DJ?” I asked, my mind wandering back to the menu.
“Bro, don’t you worry, we’ve hooked a major headlining artist.” He grinned broadly. “She won’t disappoint.”
