The Fine Print (Dreamland Billionaires Book 1)
The Fine Print: Chapter 12

I didn’t hesitate when I grabbed the half-assed drawing from Zahra’s cubicle. Nor did I even flinch when I purchased a pack of a hundred colored pencils and drawing paper from the local craft store. In reality, the hardest part of everything was forcing Martha to take the rest of the day off so I could have some privacy.

My hand clutching onto a number two pencil trembles. With a stiff arm, I press the tip against the paper. The lead point snaps and rolls away from me, leaving me with nothing but a useless piece of wood.

“What are you doing, man?” I grumble as I drop the pencil and throw my hands in my hair.

“Being a stupid fuck for some unknown reason.”

Her drawings are shit and you know it. She almost cried during her presentation when you called her out on it, and it was painful to watch how nervous she was about it.

And you care because…

Because a happy Zahra means a creative Zahra and a creative Zahra means I get the fuck out of here as fast as possible.

The battle between my evil and too-stupid-to-live brain cells wage war against one another. I swipe Zahra’s drawing out from under the blank page and look at it. Her idea is well-thought-out. She chooses to highlight our more diverse characters who often get left behind in favor of our more popular princesses.

It’s that thought that helps me reach for the pencil sharpener and try again. It keeps me grounded despite the rapid beat of my heart as I reconstruct the idea Zahra had.

It doesn’t take long for my palms to become clammy. My emotions are turbulent and bordering on volatile. I remove my jacket and roll up the sleeves of my button-down shirt, desperate for some reprieve from the rising temperature of my body. It’s as if I’m sweating out my demons, one stroke of the pencil at a time.

Drawing is a useless hobby. Real men don’t draw, my father’s voice whispers. I clench the pencil tighter at the memory of him ripping up one of my art class sketches.

Yellow wood splinters as the pencil cracks in half.

“Shit.” I throw the broken pieces in the trash bin and wipe away the remaining dust off the paper.

What the hell was I thinking by pretending I knew someone who could help Zahra? There’s no way I can do this.

My chair rolls back as I jump up and swipe my forehead with a shaky hand. I grab the paper and tear it to pieces. White shreds flutter into the waiting trash can like snowflakes of my failure, falling on top of the broken pencil.

I expect to experience some relief, but all I’m left with is a sick feeling in my stomach and a racing heart that has yet to slow. My eyes slide from my bunched-up fists to the pail filled with the tattered remains of my drawing.

There’s no one here to yell at me or make me feel like I’m worthless. I’m a grown man who can handle anything slung my way, including a stupid harmless drawing.

I can do this. If not for myself, then for the future my brothers have dreamed of. Instead of focusing on the past, I remind myself of the future. One where Declan becomes CEO with me serving as his CFO. Of Cal finally replaceing his place within the company once we take control.

I take a seat, grab a fresh piece of paper and a pencil, and get to work.

I stop at the entrance to Zahra’s cubicle and take a moment to observe her. She bobs her head to whatever plays out of the white earbuds while she taps away at her keyboard. Her pin of the day flashes under the overhead light. Today’s choice features a salt and pepper shaker with the phrase Seasons Greetings written below it.

Who could hate themselves enough to wear something so atrocious?

My gaze flickers across her body before landing on the curve of her neck. The soft skin is meant to entice. To kiss and mark while she’s fucked into oblivion. There are plenty of things I’d want to do to that pretty little neck if given a chance.

Except, that’s not possible.

My moment of weakness won’t happen again. She might claim she won’t report me to HR, but I haven’t made it this far in life by trusting anyone but myself. Her options are endless, and she has every opportunity to squeeze money out of me like a wet rag. The media alone could pay for her to retire at her whopping age of twenty-three. The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth, making my tongue dry and my throat tight.

I stomp toward her desk and slap the drawing on the surface.

She jumps up in her seat before dropping back into the cushion. “Hello! Can you announce your presence like a normal person?”

I don’t reply because I’m afraid to breathe while this close to her. All it takes is one scent of her perfume for my blood to reroute its path from my brain to my dick.

Thankfully, I have enough control over my impulses to stand down and take a step back.

She tilts her head at me. “What’s wrong with you?”

I readjust my already perfect tie. “Nothing.”

“Right.” She turns toward the drawing and stares.

Does she like it?

Of course she likes it, you self-conscious fuck. Who wouldn’t?

Her eyes pop open as she traces the design. “This is amazing.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding in. At least I still have some of my drawing talent like Grandpa said. I’ll give it to the old man. He was right after all when he said talent doesn’t disappear—passion does.

My throat constricts. Focus on the task at hand.

Although the drawing took multiple attempts and over twenty-four hours to finalize, the process of recreating Zahra’s design was easy. Too easy. By the time I realized I had finished the final product an hour ago, a weird emptiness had washed over me. My fingers itched to keep going and chase after that all-consuming feeling where the world shut off around me.

I hate that I want more of it. It makes me feel weak and like I’m teetering on the edge of no control.

“I better get going.” I step toward the entrance of her cubicle.

“Wait!” She bolts out of her chair.

“What?” Does she know I drew it?

Fuck. How could she?

She waves her hand. “It’s missing a signature.”

“What is?”

“The drawing.”

I freeze and consider my words as carefully as I can during this kind of circumstance. “And?” Smooth.

“And whoever designed it deserves credit for their work. It’s the right thing to do.” Her eyes drop to the floor.

Interesting. This is the second time her trust issues have come to the surface. Is this because of Lance Baker publishing a similar proposal to hers? Or is there something else that affects her ability to put faith in someone else?

Rather than feel pleased with my assessment, an inky feeling slithers through my chest. I might be many things, but I’m not a thief.

I shake it off. “The artist is a contact I have from the Animation Department. It’s a half-assed rush job, so don’t worry about giving them credit.”

“Will you share their number with me so I could tell them thank you?”

I frown. “They want to remain anonymous.”

“Okay, how about you give them my number then. If they don’t want to text me, then they don’t have to. No hard feelings.” She blows out a breath.

A dark lock of hair drops in front of her eyes. She tucks it behind her ear that’s covered in a row of unique earrings. I take a step forward to get a look at the designs, only to pull back when she takes a deep breath.

My groan thankfully gets stuck in my throat. “And what do you stand to get out of this conversation?”

She looks at me with knitted brows. “Are you always this cynical about people’s intentions?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes roll. “Expressing gratitude isn’t exactly an exchange program.”

“I won’t take your word for it.”

She laughs as she bends over her desk, giving me a prime view of her firm backside while she scribbles something on a sticky note. Heat spreads from my chest to places that have no business being turned on at the moment.

For some god-forsaken reason, I’m suffering from some kind of physical ailment in her presence that makes me act like a sex-deprived lunatic. My fingers tap against my thigh to keep my hands to myself.

You should be keeping an eye on her motives, not her body.

There’s something not right about her. Maybe her niceness is a front for what really lies beneath the surface. I don’t believe for a second that she hasn’t thought about exploiting me because of my position after I kissed her. Anyone in her kind of financial position would.

She turns and passes me the hot pink sticky note. “Here.”

Don’t grab it. Tell her no and leave before you make a big mistake.

My hand swoops in and plucks the sticky note out of her hand before I give it a second thought.