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CHAPTER 1

PATRICK

“Well, the grandkids are over the moon about their new puppy.”

Chris Moreno flashes me a wide grin, then draws back and hits what might be the worst drive I’ve ever seen. Without missing a beat—and without looking to see where the ball went—he turns back to me.

“But now Ben is asking Seb and Elena when he’s going to get a puppy! Too bad poor Seb is allergic. Gloria and I have been talking about the fish or frog route. What do you think about that? Does it teach the same level of responsibility?”

His stance is weak, he doesn’t follow through, and his wrist goes all wobbly on the driver. How he can smile with a golf game like that is beyond me.

“Definitely not as cuddly,” I respond, because I have nothing to say about whether pets make kids more responsible. How would I know anything about that?

Chris nods and laughs under his breath, swinging his club happily. At this point, after months of courting him, we’ve golfed together dozens of times. He hasn’t improved his swing at all in that time. In fact, I’m fairly certain he scores worse each time we get together for a round like this.

And yet, when he holds his hand up over his eyes and spots his ball stopped just outside the sand trap on the right side of the course, he smiles at me again. “Well, would you just look at that luck?”

That, at least, is something we can agree on. Him hitting the ball at all is luck, as is him getting it anywhere on the green. It’s a good thing there are no fish in the course waters; they would be under constant bombardment from his wonky hitting.

The upside is that it’s a beautiful day, although it’s usually a beautiful day in Miami, aside from the stray hurricane. The course is dotted with water features, gently rustling palm trees, and water that ripples and glows in the sunshine.

I smile back at the man, laugh, haul myself up and into the golf cart that Chris drives like an NYC taxi driver on stimulants. I keep smiling at him as we tear through the course and down the lane toward our balls.

And I won’t stop smiling at him, because Chris Moreno isn’t just a terrible golfer, or the closest thing to a real-life Santa Claus that I’ve met—he’s the co-founder and co-owner of Moreno Toys, the second largest toy conglomerate in North America. Inventors of the Holly Hairnet doll, the imaginative Ocean Sand, and their biggest money maker—Flame Rides, tiny cars that boys and adults collect for fun. Walk along the street in Miami long enough, and you’re bound to find a man on the corner selling these tiny versions of the hottest sports cars that rip through town.

The only problem is that Chris Moreno doesn’t like me much.

Or, really, at all.

As hard as I try to be charming and easygoing when I get a meeting with him, I know I come off as uptight. I know that Chris and I have pretty disparate images of what a good life looks like.

Information about Moreno Toys is available through public filings, so if you wanted to look, you could see that Chris has been untangling himself from the business for quite a while now. But he’s always made it pretty clear on his social media, including the podcast he does with his wife that’s literally called The Good Life.

I line up, hit the ball, jaw clenching when it flies through the air, looking good at first, only to fall short of where I’d like it to land.

“Great hit!” Chris says, studying his bag to figure out which of his many drivers he wants to pluck out. He’s the kind of character that can’t resist bringing more than one of the same club, which means his bag is twice as big as it needs to be and jingles loudly as we drive.

“Right,” I mutter, my facade starting to crack at the edges. “Thanks, man.”

Our game finishes up—me disappointed with a decent performance, and Chris thrilled with a mediocre one—and we head to the clubhouse for a sandwich and beer.

“I’ve got it this time, big man!” Chris says, holding his card out above mine and winking at the waitress. “I can’t always let you pay for the food. My wife will think I’m letting you woo me into a sale.”

I wish I could woo him into a sale. In fact, if I could cut him an extra check right now, I’d do it in a heartbeat. This is the longest and hardest I’ve ever worked at getting something in business, which might mean that everything else has come to me pretty easily.

“Well, thanks,” I say, tucking my wallet back into my pocket and flashing Chris a charming smile. “Maybe you should tell your wife I’m still waiting to try these famous enchiladas of hers. What do I have to do to get an invite?”

Chris laughs loudly. The other tables don’t look over; they’re used to him. He’s a big guy with a belly that he frequently covers with patterned golf shirts and the kind of Hawaiian prints you couldn’t pay me to wear. He’s incessantly jolly, with rosy cheeks and a literal twinkle in his eye.

“Oh, I’ll tell her,” Chris says, as the waitress comes around with our drinks. She pops off the tops and tells us to enjoy, leaving us with our drinks and conversation.

Over Chris’s shoulder, the bright Florida sun glints off a large round water fountain and flowers rustle in the breeze. This is one of the nicest golf courses near Miami, and there are a lot of golf courses around here. When you add a robust retirement community to the nice weather and abundance of high-rollers, luxury country clubs are sure to follow.

While Chris can afford everything in this club—and in fact, could buy the place outright several times over—he seems like he wandered in from a bingo tournament somewhere. Like he’s just enjoying his time while he has it, instead of being the Platinum member he is.

Taking an appreciative sip of his beer, Chris goes on, “Gloria is still recovering from making that big Thanksgiving spread, but I know she wants to have you over before Christmas.”

“Right, yes—of course. It sounds like a great time, Chris. Sorry to bring up business, but if you have a second, I was thinking we could talk about the operations side of things⁠—”