EXCERPT
Zach
I’ve learned a lot of things from being a billionaire in my thirties, but so far, the most essential is that you can’t have thin skin. Everyone wants a piece of you and when you’re not giving them the time or attention they think they deserve, they set out to tear you down. Case in point, Yolanda Simms, the entertainment reporter for KBIZ and the most annoyingly fame-seeking woman it has ever been my displeasure to know.
Yolanda and I went out three times, which is a record for me as I barely have a minute for myself. Given my busy schedule, you might be wondering why I would spend my precious free time with such a person. When I first asked her out, I didn’t see her for who she truly was. I may have also had a hidden agenda.
I’d recently been called out by a national tabloid for not putting my money where my mouth was. As in, they didn’t think I donated enough to charity. And while supposedly no press is bad press, I really don’t like people thinking of me the way I was being portrayed.
I figured if I wined and dined Yolanda—who had previously flirted with me outrageously every time she saw me—she might spread the word that I was a decent guy. Self-serving? Yes. But I’m not the villain the press would have you think I am, and I wanted a chance to prove it.
Unfortunately, Yolanda got ahead of herself regarding our friendship and decided to announce on air that she and I were in an exclusive and committed relationship. As we had never so much as kissed, I took exception to her declaration.
“Zachary!” my assistant Anabelle yells out. Before I can ask her what she wants, she says, “Your brother is on line three.”
I have five brothers, so I ask, “Which one?”
Instead of answering, I overhear her tell someone else, “Mr. Hart has no comment on Ms. Simms’ allegations.” Great, another day fending off the aftermath of Yolanda’s interview on The View. She told Whoopi Goldberg I was an egomaniacal alpha-male.
I hesitantly reach over to the landline on my desk. “This is Zach.”
“Hey, big bro,” my younger twin says. In my mind’s eye, I see his lopsided grin, which, even though we’re fraternal twins, is remarkably like my own. MacElroy, aka Mac, is four minutes younger than me and has four times the personality. “It’s starting to look like you’re wading through a herd of cows in a rainy field.”
“What does that even mean, Mac?” My brother recently bought a sustainable farm in Oregon and his metaphors have taken on a rural sort of charm.
“Where there are cows there are cow pies. Need I explain that a rainy field full of heifers is full of wet …”
“Manure. Got it.” Gross.
“Why don’t you set the world straight and tell them the majority of your charitable donations are given anonymously?” he wants to know. The man definitely cuts to the chase.
“You do know the definition of anonymous, don’t you?” I condescendingly inquire.
“Yes, Zach. What I don’t know is why you don’t just come clean about what a good guy you are.”
“Because if I bragged about doing good deeds, they wouldn’t feel like good deeds,” I tell him for the hundredth time.
Shifting in my chair, I stare out of my home office window onto Wilshire Boulevard below. You’d think all the short skirts and tanned legs would be one of the benefits of living in Southern California. Yet no matter how good the view is, wealthy Beverly Hills women are not my type. They’re simply too high maintenance, not to mention too self-involved.
“I’m just saying…”
“Let it go, Mac.” Removing my feet from the edge of my giant mahogany desk, I ask, “Did you call for any other reason than to bust my butt about Yolanda? Because if not, I have work to do.”
“What are you buying today?” he wants to know. “Another office building? A high-rise? Malibu?” While I like to have a diversified financial portfolio, as a real estate developer, I am obviously partial to buying property.
“I’m giving a speech at Pepperdine,” I tell him. Tongue in cheek, I add, “I call it ‘One House, New House, Big House, You House.’”
“Ah yes, a nod to your childhood love of Dr. Seuss.” Releasing an exaggerated yawn, he asks, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re becoming kind of boring?”
“You tell me that at least twice a week,” I remind him. “Now, why are you calling?”
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