Finding Cupid (Almost a Billionaire Book 2)

by Bridget E. Baker

  Even though I wasn’t referring to her appearance when I said it, she really does shine. It’s hard to look away. I stare at her for a good minute before she glances my way, and then I freeze in place.

  She walks toward me with a look in her eyes I can’t interpret. “Trig?”

  “Geo?”

  She reaches my side and looks up at me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m a potential client,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  She puts a hand on her hip. “You’re never going to buy a Honda.”

  Rob walks up alongside her, and I hate to admit it, but he looks pretty decent in a tuxedo. Not as good as me, but okay.

  “Trig,” he says calmly.

  Geo spins around to face him. “You knew he was coming?”

  Rob nods. “He cleared it with me, yes.”

  Her eyes flash. “You didn’t think to pass that information along to me?”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “Next time I’ll be sure to send you a full list of all my potential new customers. I didn’t realize you were wanting that level of review.”

  She practically pulses with light when she’s angry. When it’s not directed at me, I love watching it.

  But she turns on me next. “So you’re buying Hondas now?”

  “We have a great line of products you might love as company cars, and we’re happy to ship to Colorado or anywhere else,” Rob says. “I can put my people in touch with yours.”

  Well played, Rob. “Absolutely.”

  When Geo turns to grab a glass from a tray, Rob points two fingers at his eyes, and then turns one finger toward me in a very Meet the Parents way. I roll my eyes, after he’s not facing me anymore, of course.

  Geo takes a sip and when she looks back up at me, her heart’s in her eyes. I want to scoop her up and carry her out of here in a bubble.

  “Why are you here?”

  “For you,” I say. “I messed everything up last time, but I want to try and get it right. Will you talk to me for a minute?”

  Her lower lip trembles and I touch her chin. She leans toward me. I’ve practiced this speech a hundred times today. I practically have it memorized. I contemplated dozens of different ways this could have gone. But none of my ideas prepared me for her reaction.

  She turns away from me to set her drink on a table, and then she leaps toward me. I almost drop her, but luckily my arms react faster than my brain. The feel of her in my arms again is better than waking up on Christmas morning, or shredding down a perfect run, or the first bite of ice cream in July.

  “I’m glad you came,” she says. “I’m sorry I didn’t say this before. I think I was too afraid of—well. Of everything. But I love you, Trig. I love your lopsided grin. I love your dimples. I love your hair.” She reaches up to muss it. “I love your gentleness, your sense of humor, your cunning, your business acumen. I love your generosity, and how forgiving you are. I love that you’re open and willing to try new things. I love your devotion to your sister and your patience with your difficult mother. Basically, I love everything about you.”

  My mouth drops open and I stare at her dumbly. “Uh. I have a whole speech ready.”

  “I don’t need a speech.” She shakes her head. “Not if you love me too. I just needed you to show up. I’ll sign the prenup, and I’ll grit my teeth while you’re dropped out of helicopters or you leap from airplanes or whatever else you need to do. I might even try parasailing. Or maybe not. I’m not sure.”

  I laugh. “You’re crazy. In the very best way.”

  “I’m crazy about you,” she says. “I had no idea how much I was giving up by sitting on the sidelines of life. It felt safer, but I was wrong. But thanks to the right motivation, I’m finally wearing my football gear or whatever, and ready to go out on the field.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Been practicing your speech too?”

  “Clearly not.” She bites her lip and I kiss her then, unable to wait. She tastes like moonlight. Like sugary moonlight and champagne bubbles.

  When I hear giggles behind us, I set her down. “I really did prepare a speech. I’d love to walk you to the corner of the room or something and share it with you.”

  “I could do that.” She winks at me and my knees go wobbly.

  Walk, Trig. You can walk. I follow her like a baby duck. She sits down and points at a chair. I take it gratefully and slide it closer to her.

  “Let’s hear this epic speech,” she says.

  I gulp. I wasn’t expecting quite so much build up. “Well, I guess first I wanted to tell you that you were right, completely right. I don’t want a marriage like my parents, and if their personalities contributed to their mess, certainly the Thornton Trust didn’t help, with all its contracts and documents and whatnot.” I pull the rumpled prenup out of my pocket. “I wanted to burn this, but.” I point at the ceiling fire alarms. “Fire code. I figured being the event’s planner, you might not want to deal with the fallout.”

  “Courteous of you.”

  “Pretend I’m burning it though, because that’s a more dramatic gesture.” I try to tear the prenup in half, but it’s surprisingly hard to tear sixty pages. This whole thing is not going well. I force a chuckle and split out ten or so pages and tear them. Then the next ten. And so on.

  Geo’s looking at me like I’d look at a ten year old playing the violin at his first concert. This is painful, and she pities me.

  I should have bagged the whole speech.

  “I told you I needed time,” I say. “But not for the reasons you probably thought. Brekka helped me sort through everything I screwed up within an hour or so. Basically, I thought I’d made her a promise to do risky, exciting things, and I liked some of it, but if it makes you nervous, I’ll never ski again. I’ll never surf. I’ll get a subscription to the home shopping network, or some Hallmark movie channel and we’ll sit in front of the TV every night. I don’t care.”

  She shakes her head. “A little excitement is good for me. How about we meet in the middle? No more skydiving, but a little more skiing? Preferably without Natalie along.”

  I beam at her. “I think we could work that out, but maybe without putting it in writing.”

  She giggles.

  I’m doing better. Thank goodness. “But I should probably tell you that my mom would never have ever agreed to me tearing up the prenup.”

  She frowns. “Then why bother?”

  I take the plunge. “Because, fair warning, I disclaimed my inheritance. Brekka’s twice as rich now as she was when you met her. I went before a judge and had him remove me as a beneficiary of the Thornton Family Trust.”

  “What?” she asks.

  I translate. “I’m poor now.”

  Geo shakes her head. “Why would you do that, you idiot?”

  Uh. What?

  “I don’t want to be responsible for you giving up your inheritance. And if I’m being honest, I don’t think you’ll be very happy as a poor person.”

  I am an idiot. I thought she’d be delighted. “So you’re mad.”

  She stands up and then sits down on my lap and brushes her full, pink lips against mine. “I’m unreservedly, beyond belief, beyond sanity, in love with you. You could owe a million dollars and I’d help you file for bankruptcy and find a job as a checker at the grocery store. But I don’t want you to be miserable. I’m worried you might be, and I’ll feel like it’s my fault.”

  “Remember how I said Brekka and I sold our graduation gift to start Nometry?”

  She nods.

  “That means my company isn’t part of the trust, and I still own fifty-one percent. Plus whatever house and cars I’ve gotten as gifts or bought with my own money. Basically anything that wasn’t a trust asset is still mine.”

  “You’re saying your version of poor isn’t really the same as mine?” she asks.

  I nod. “Something like that. I opened a joint account in your name and mine, and I’ve come up with a list of houses I want us to look
at. Hand me your phone.” She complies and I install an app for my bank.

  I type in the numbers and turn the interface around. “The password is peachcobbler1+1=2. Think you can remember that?”

  Her eyes water and I wipe her cheeks. “I’m almost done. Just one more minute, okay?” I reach into my other pocket and pull out a document. “I had my lawyer draw this up. Turns out Georgia is an ‘equitable division’ state or something like that. Basically, whatever we each have when we get married stays our own property.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t care.”

  I shake my head. “I do. Peach cobbler, baby.” I hand her the papers. “This is my prenup. It makes my shares in Nometry evenly owned by both of us. We’re in this together all the way. And don’t worry, I ran it past Brekka. She says it’s fine, and welcome to the family.”

  I shift her into the chair next to me and get down on one knee again. “Geode Marie Polson, will you marry me? Pretty, pretty please?”

  A tear rolls down one cheek and she nods. “Of course I will. You had me at peach cobbler.”

  I stand up and swing her around. Twice. Then I kiss her until I can’t breathe anymore.

  After that we dance. And dance. And then I play a little poker, which I’m pretty decent at after years of dealing with bluffing business men and women.

  “Wow,” Geode says when I cash in my chips. “You cleaned up. I almost feel bad for the people you played. Except I hear we need it now.”

  I shrug. “That’s the word on the street.”

  “How poor are we as a result of your little temper tantrum, anyway?”

  I take her hand in mine. “Nometry was worth about one point three billion when we had it valued last year, give or take. It goes up and down, but mostly up.”

  She stops in her tracks. “So even though you quitclaimed your inheritance or whatever, we’re still almost billionaires?”

  I nod. “I guess you could say that.”

  She swallows. “How much money was in that trust?”

  I laugh. “You don’t want to know.”

  She leans against me and sighs. “You’re right. I really don’t.”

  I kiss her on the forehead. “Even if it had been double what it was, you’d still be worth it.”

  ***

  If you enjoyed Finding Cupid, please leave me a review on Amazon (and Good Reads)! It helps more than you can imagine.

  The next book in my Almost a Billionaire Series will be Finding Spring, available March 1! I hope you’ll be as excited to read about Trudy and Paul’s story as I am to write it. The preorder will be up soon. In the meantime, if you haven’t read the first book in the series about Mary and Luke, check out Finding Santa here.

  Also, please join my newsletter by filling out your email address on my website: www.BridgetEBakerWrites.com.

  Finally, I’ve included the first chapter of my standalone romantic suspense, Already Gone. It’s free in KU, or only $3.99 for the ebook.

  23

  Bonus: First Chapter of Already Gone

  Time’s a fickle trickster.

  If I'd been born a few weeks earlier, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have happened. If my vivacious little sister had been born a few weeks later, it might not have taken place. If Mason had shown up just one day after he did, it probably could've been avoided. If the principal had waited a few minutes that day, well, I don't know. Sometimes I think if I could’ve scraped together a handful of leftover seconds, we could’ve saved her.

  She might still be alive.

  It’s Hope’s fault that I’m here, but I can’t focus on that, not right now.

  I’m supposed to sign in when I arrive at the shrink’s office. The little white sheet with blank spaces stares at me accusingly, like it knows what I’ve done. I want to sign in with a beautiful curly script, as if somehow that will make things better. I can’t do it though, because there isn’t a pen or pencil in sight. What kind of crappy, rundown office doesn’t have a pen by the sign in sheet?

  When I lean over to pull one out of my backpack, I unzip the front pocket too far. Pens and pencils scatter all over the faux-wood, scuffed laminate floors.

  I want to swear, but I bite my tongue instead. Who knows what this secretary might tell the doctor? I really need him to write a positive evaluation for the court. Pens and pencils scattered all over the place, one shiny yellow number two pencil broke about a third of the way down. I stare at it dumbly, transfixed.

  I broke it. Like I break everything.

  The secretary walks around the counter to help me, and I notice she’s wearing the exact same orthopedic sandals as my grandma. I wish Granny could still work in an office, instead of just laying in bed in a nursing home.

  “Oh dear,” the secretary mutters. “I do this kind of thing all the time. Here, let me help.”

  My conscience kicks me when she crouches down and starts gathering my clumsily scattered pens and pencils. I don’t deserve her help. I don’t deserve anyone’s help.

  I lean over to pick them up myself. “It’s your fault this happened. Who doesn’t have a pen out for the sign in sheet?”

  She straightens up and glares at me. “Excuse me for helping.”

  I sigh. I should be thanking her, not yelling at her. My hands shake as I gather up the rest of my writing utensils, but I can’t force out an apology. It’s a good thing my mom’s not here. She’d be furious.

  I pick up the broken pencil and scrawl my name on the white sheet with it, scrunching my fingers to make the little nub work.

  “I am sorry I didn’t have a pen out.” The secretary holds out a blue ink pen and when I reach for it, she smiles. I notice she has lipstick on her teeth. I tap meaningfully on my tooth with the pathetic shard of my yellow pencil while she’s looking at me. She inhales quickly and rubs on her tooth. “Did I get it?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ll just duck into the bathroom for a second.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her leaving me here unsupervised but don’t stop her. After all, I know I’m not really a lunatic.

  While she’s cleaning the lipstick off, I glance around. The larger, shattered end of my pencil lies on the floor alone. I ought to pick it up and stick it in my bag. With a little sharpening, it’ll be fine.

  I wish people could be repaired as easily as writing utensils. Resharpened when we get dull, a little pink cap slapped on our heads when our factory erasers run down. I could use a little sharpening, too. In their own way, humans are more fragile than a pencil, and when we break, you can’t just sharpen the shards and keep on writing.

  The desk plaque for the younger-than-Granny secretary reads: Melinda. There’s a stack of office supply order forms in front of her and I think about checking a box for some new pens as a joke. When I lean over it, something beneath it catches my eye. It pokes out from under the order forms, and I can barely make out the font at first. When I tilt my head, I realize it’s a rèsumè, Melinda Brackenridge’s résumé. I know why I want to escape this tiny office, since my butt was court-ordered to come in the first place, but why does she want to leave?

  I hear the bathroom door and jump, straightening guiltily.

  “How long have you worked for Dr. Brasher?” I ask to distract her from the guilty trembling of my hands.

  “Oh, years and years now. First we were at a group practice, but they made him take a lot of patients he wasn’t too happy with. He likes helping kids and teens. He started his own practice so he can do what he wants. You’ll like him. Everyone does.”

  Somehow I doubt if he left a group practice to be a do-gooder. I bet he got fired or something and tells people he left to help kids. Sounds a lot better. “So he’s what? A saintly shrink?”

  Melinda’s eyebrows draw together and her lips compress. “Dr. Brasher is the best child psychiatrist in the state.”

  “Then why do you want to leave him?”

  Her jaw drops.

  I point at the résumé.

  Her face blanches. �
�I don’t want to leave, I swear. Please don’t say anything. He’s such a good guy, and an amazing doctor.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “I haven’t had a pay raise in years and my son, well, I need a raise.” She gulps.

  If she meant to say that out loud, I’ll eat my broken pencil, but I kind of like her more now. “Family should always come first.”

  She nods.

  Family is complicated.

  If it weren’t for my little sister Hope, I doubt I’d be in this fusty old office, waiting on a shrink whose evaluation will determine whether I'm capable of being released into the world as an adult. And yet, the thought doesn’t make me nearly as angry as it would have last week. I don’t think I realized how much time I wasted being angry with Hope.

  So many seconds thrown away. I wish I could gather them up and hug them close. I wish I realized then that you can’t hug people forever.

  Melinda snags the clipboard and reads my name. Or she tries to, I think. So much for making a good first impression. “Angelique Vincent?”

  I clear my throat. “Umm, I should be on the schedule. Lacy Shelton? I have a three-thirty appointment.”

  She squints at the tiny words on her paperwork. “Shelton. Yes, there you are. Let me see if he’s ready.” She ducks through the doorway that I assume leads to Dr. Brasher. When she opens the paneled wooden door again, she waves me over.

  Melinda looks frazzled and guilty when I walk past, which is one emotion I recognize easily. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to quit, and I’m guessing she can’t bring herself to ask for more money either. I wish I could help, but I don’t have time to worry about her problems. Mine are about to slap me between the eyes.

  For a moment Dr. Brasher meets my eyes silently. I stare right back. He's a tall man to be wearing that particular sweater vest. Before he sits down, I notice it isn't quite long enough. His hairy belly isn’t something I particularly wanted to see, but I imagine he spends all day staring at people he’d rather not. I guess we all do junk we don’t want to.