The Rich Boy

by Scott, Kylie

  THE RICH BOY

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  KYLIE SCOTT

  The Rich Boy, Copyright © 2019 by Kylie Scott

  All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Photographer: Michelle Lancaster @lanefotograf

  Model: Chase Mattson

  Cover Designer: ByHangLe

  Editor: Angela James Edits and Alpha Beta Inc

  Copyedit: L B Edits

  Proofreader: Ela Schwartz

  Formatter: Champagne Book Design

  ISBN: 9780648457275

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  PLAYLIST

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  PURCHASE KYLIE SCOTT ’S OTHER BOOKS

  LIES SAMPLE

  PLAYLIST

  “Tempo” by Lizzo (feat. Missy Elliot)

  “Going to California” by Led Zeppelin

  “Lover” by Taylor Swift

  “You’re the One” by Greta Van Fleet

  “All of Me” by Billie Holiday

  “All the Good Girls Go to Hell” by Billie Eilish

  “Fuck It I Love You” by Lana Del Rey

  “Rocky Mountain High” by John Denver

  “Circles” by George Alice

  “All Loved Up” by Amy Shark

  CHAPTER ONE

  “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

  I slip my pen into my apron and rest my elbow on the bar. “And I take it you’re the single man in this particular instance?”

  “I am,” says the new guy with all due seriousness.

  “Any ideas who the lucky lady will be?”

  “You.”

  “Huh.” I frown, feeling mostly bemused. My Jane Austen T-shirt aside, this seems a little excessive. “Has this ever worked for you as a pickup line?”

  “Never tried it before. How am I doing?”

  “Well, there’s one main problem.”

  “Just one?”

  “Not to come across as a gold digger or anything, but since you raised the subject, you get that I’m going to need proof of this supposed fortune, right?” I ask. “What with you currently working as a busboy and all.”

  “Harsh, but I can see where you’re coming from. What evidence do you need?”

  At the other end of the bar, the manager pours a drink while not so subtly watching us out of the corner of his eye. Same goes for the other waitress on duty. Perhaps they dared him to talk to me. Bet him whatever amount of dollars to see if he can get me to agree to a date before standing me up and making me look the fool. Nothing surprises me here. There are reasons staff turnover is so high. For starters, Rob, the manager and owner of the dive bar, is an asshole who enjoys being unreasonable and inflicting his shitty sense of humor on others. While Kari, his new girlfriend and my fellow waitress, is somewhat of a raging bitch.

  Not that the new dude isn’t cute. Don’t get me wrong; his attentions aren’t entirely unwelcome. Truth be told, I’ve been oh-so-subtly checking him out ever since my shift started. He’s in his mid to late twenties, at a guess. And I’ve been observing how good his rear looks encased in faded denim as he bends over tables to wipe them down. I’ve noticed the cool-looking tattoo only half-visible beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt. Then there’s the way his thick longish dark hair has a tendency to artfully fall over his forehead as if he were some cinematic hero.

  As for his face, let’s just say he has a nice one.

  So given that he’s about a ten physically, and I’m a high six at most, you can understand my suspicions. But we haven’t hit the evening rush yet and time feels like it’s crawling, so the new busboy is pretty much the highlight of my shift. And a little harmless flirting can be fun. Especially when the dude knows Austen and the work environment is as dire as this one.

  “Let me think.” I give my long blond braid a tug. “Asking to see bank statements seems crass. Also, they could be falsified.”

  “True.”

  “But bringing me a suitcase full of cash seems…excessive.”

  “Probably be really heavy too.”

  “Hmm.”

  He sighs. “Tell you what, why don’t I just go ahead and get you a ring?”

  “You mean an engagement ring to celebrate our impending nuptials?”

  “Right.” He crosses his arms. And I did not get distracted by the movement of his muscles beneath his tanned golden skin. Nope. Like the well-bred young lady I am, I keep my gaze glued to his pretty green eyes. “What if I prove my good fortune and excessive wealth by buying you the perfect ring?”

  “All right, then. Just make sure you get something big and flashy without being ostentatious or over the top. No one likes that.”

  “Understood.”

  “Great. Materialistic, but acceptable. What was your name again, good sir?”

  “Beck.” He holds out his hand and we shake. His hand is big and his grip firm, but not overly so. “Can I just call you ‘wife’? That’s easy to remember.”

  “Ha. I’m—”

  “Alice. I know.”

  “Nice to meet you, Beck.” I retrieve my hand and pull my pad and pen out of my apron. “Now, as great as this has been, I have customers to serve.”

  “One last question. Would you like to go out sometime? With me?”

  I pause.

  “I hear they have great coffee and pie at the bakery.”

  “Yes, they do. But I don’t think we should move too fast. We’ve only just settled the marriage question. Already moving on to coffee seems like a big step.”

  “That’s a fair point and I certainly wouldn’t want to rush things. It’s just that there are a few things I’d like to discuss regarding our upcoming nuptials. The floral arrangements, in particular. You can never start planning that too early. What font to put on the invitation. That’s a close second. You can’t just roll with Comic Sans and think it’s going to be okay. Then of course there’s your trousseau to be organized. I could help with that.” He’s amusing, I’ll give him that. But are his intentions pure? That’s the question. “What do you say, wife?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  And oh what a smile. The swoon is strong with this one. “Good.”

  The bar is located way back from the water. It also lacks the wine or craft beers list that other, cooler bars in the Santa Monica area have. Our clientele reflects this. We’ve had a busy night with the regular crowd shuffling in along with tourists in search of cheap beer, loud music, and big-screen TVs.

  Regulars and those wanting service this century sit in my section. My tips are okay. I’m polite and affable, without being overly familiar. It’s a fine line. Some dickheads, however, will never understand that being a waitress doesn’t mean you’re there for their sexual gratification. T
onight, that dickhead’s name is Phil.

  “There you go, sweet-thing,” he says as he drops the twenty-dollar bill onto the ground. “Oops. How clumsy of me.”

  This is not a new game. I keep the smile plastered on my face as I pick up the money. I crouch down, one hand holding my shirt in place to avoid gifting the asshole a shot of my bountiful cleavage (a common habit among bargirls). But there’s nothing I can do to stop my black jeans (dark colors match my soul and it’s important to accessorize) tightening over my equally bountiful ass. Most likely, watching me do this is as close as this man ever gets to real live action. Phil is a sad sack of shit.

  “Keep the change,” he says, licking his lips.

  As tempting as it is to smack him upside the head, I smile and walk away.

  “Don’t,” says a deep voice behind me.

  Next comes Phil’s outraged spluttering. “Get your damn hands off me!”

  “You don’t touch her.” Beck’s grip on the dickhead’s arm is fierce. And Phil is no match for the new guy. “Not without her permission.”

  “I wasn’t gonna—”

  “You were.”

  “What’s the problem?” Rob appears all red in the face from hauling his ass out from behind the bar in a rush. “Beck, Jesus, let him go. Phil, buddy, you okay?”

  “This idiot just assaulted me.” Phil puffs himself up, rubbing at the red marks on his arm. “Almost ripped my arm off.”

  “He was going to grab her ass,” says Beck, voice tense.

  “Are you serious?” Rob looks to heaven. “He was just playing around. The girl can take a joke, right?”

  The girl, me, just sighs. Then I smile. A smile doesn’t seem like much of a lie in the general scheme of things. But Beck’s eyes widen in surprise. What the hell did he expect? I need this job.

  “Very sorry about that, Phil,” says Rob. “It won’t happen again.”

  “It better not.” The dickhead gathers his wounded pride and heads toward the door. The people around us return to drinking. It’s over.

  “Pull that sort of shit again and you’re fired,” snarls Rob. “That guy is a valued customer. He’s in every other night spending money and tipping well, understood?”

  Beck just nods.

  And with gritted teeth, I go back to work.

  “Does that sort of thing happen often?”

  It’s two in the morning and the last drunk has stumbled off. Kari and Rob left at around midnight when things started slowing down. That’s when I get to tend bar for a while. Rob doesn’t like me being back there when he’s still working because, and I quote, “I take up too much space.” So yeah, only Beck and I are left to clean up. Music plays softly on the stereo and the street outside is mostly quiet.

  “Occasionally,” I answer, wiping down the bar. “Comes with the job. Thank you for trying to save me from sexism, but I can look after myself.”

  Silence.

  He starts putting chairs up on the tables, getting ready to sweep and mop the floor. At least I don’t have to do it all on my own. Rob is such a cheap shit. It’s been weeks since the last busboy just decided to not show up.

  “I’m looking for another job,” I say, not liking the silence. “Though it’s not easy with the hours they have me on here. All in all, I kind of hate the place with the fire of a thousand suns. But please don’t tell him that.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.” He smiles. I smile. We all smile.

  The air is cleared. Good.

  “So what’s your story?” I ask.

  Apparently I have a thing for the lean muscles in his arms, because when he pushes the broom around it’s this close to being a sex thing. Takes me a moment to remember what I was doing, i.e. restocking the fridges and liquor shelves behind the bar. The new guy looks like good times and heartbreak. I should definitely know better.

  “I suppose that as my future bride you have a right to know of my dark past,” he says, expression grim.

  “That bad, huh?”

  Again he flashes a smile. “Nuh, not really. Decided I didn’t like the path I was on so I got off it. Been traveling this great nation of ours and seeing the sights ever since.”

  “You’re a wanderer, then.”

  “Guess you could say that. Hope it won’t be an impediment to our future happiness? A life of love on the road has much to offer.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I smile and straighten from packing some beers in the fridge. Think it over. Seems the likelihood of his interest in me being a bad joke encouraged by management is nonexistent after tonight’s scene. But we’re still talking around exactly what might be happening here. “After much consideration, I have decided that what you’re actually after is meaningless sex, as opposed to the holy state of matrimony. I don’t blame you for getting the two confused. It happens often.”

  His dark brows draw together, a hand going to his heart. “You doubt my intentions? I’m wounded, Alice. Wounded.”

  “Still after a wife to go with your good fortune, huh?”

  “Absolutely.” He recommences sweeping the floor. “But not just any wife. No. It must be you.”

  I smile and shake my head.

  “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

  “Your knowledge of Austen is impressive, I’ll give you that.”

  “Why, thank you. It’s my stepmom’s favorite book. She used to make me watch the movies with her all the time. Never thought that’d actually come in handy, but here we are.” He smiles once more and my stupid knees go weak. I need to gird my loins or something against this man. “Though, to be clear, I wouldn’t turn down meaningless sex with you until such time as you’re ready to commit, of course.”

  “How very kind of you.”

  “Not a problem,” he says. “We could try it as a baby step toward working our way up toward having coffee. Take it slow, like you said.”

  I bite back a smile. The guy is an outrageous flirt. “Do you normally jump straight to offering a girl your hand in marriage?”

  “No. Like the lines from Austen, it’s a new thing I’m trying.”

  “Any reason in particular?” I ask.

  He ponders the question for a moment. “Life is short.”

  “True.”

  “Is the mop and bucket in the storeroom too?”

  So that’s all the explanation I’m getting. Okay. “Yes, it is.”

  We work in silence for a while. I’d like to say his presence doesn’t affect me, but that would be a lie. Because almost every time I sneak a look, he’s sneaking a look back. And he’s smiling. If only he were less cute or something. Because the truth is, I might be a bit doomed here. Lust at first sight in the workplace is kind of a pain in the ass. Same goes for advanced flirting leading toward possible copulation. There’s a myriad of ways getting involved, even just a smidgeon, could go wrong. Though apparently he doesn’t intend to stay long and I’m doing my best to get the hell out of here. Ah. The elusive yet pervasive dream of working somewhere management isn’t complete and utter trash. These days, it’s all that keeps me going.

  In the meantime, there’s the prospect of a dalliance with Beck to be considered. And considering it, I am. If for no other reason than it’ll give me an excuse to run my fingers through his beautiful hair and mess it all up. It might just be my new life goal. At least for this week. His hair and his lips and his arms. Those are my favorites, for now.

  Before closing up, I touch up my eyeliner and lip gloss. It’s been a long night, but I like to look nice for myself. That Beck will also be seeing me is just a bonus.

  “Question,” I say at around three a.m. as we finish locking up. “You hungry?”

  “Answer. I could eat.”

  “Then follow me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The diner is within walking distance on Wilshire Boulevard and can best be described as low-key. However, it serves coffee and a half decent burger and fries at odd hours, when I most requi
re these things. Therefore, it has my heart. Beck doesn’t seem put off by the faint film of grease on everything and smiles at the 1950s kitsch aesthetic. Thereby passing another of my tests.

  “You haven’t told me your story,” he says once we’re seated in a booth and have ordered.

  “I finished my degree and realized it was basically good for nothing and there were next to no jobs available anyway. Or at least nothing that appealed. Teachers and librarians are fighting for every scrap of funding they can get while newspapers are folding. The publishing industry is going through serious cutbacks. Majoring in English Lit may have been a mistake.” I shrug. Truth is, I got stuck for various reasons. But this explanation is easier to swallow. “Figured if I was going to wind up serving then I’d like to do it somewhere I can walk along the beach now and then, without getting stuck in traffic for hours.”

  He nods. “Makes sense.”

  “I thought so. I’ll figure out what I want to do with my life eventually.”

  “No rush. Good that you can take the time and space to figure things out for yourself without anyone pressuring you.”

  “Just the student loans hanging over my head,” I say.

  His answering smile is brief and small. “Grow up around here?”

  “Close enough; San Bernardino,” I say. “What about you?”

  “No, I’m half a country away from home and intend to keep it that way. Though maybe half a country away is still too close. I hear Iceland’s nice this time of year.”

  I raise my brows in question.

  “Family.” He shrugs. “What can you do?”

  The waitress delivers our food, filling up the table with Beck’s order of half of the breakfast menu. Without hesitation, he proceeds to devour it all. If I ate that much, my ass wouldn’t fit in the seat.

  “Want some?” He offers me a forkful of pancake, dripping with syrup. “It’s good.”

  “I’m fine with my burger. Thanks.” And I’m curious as heck about his family, but pressing him further wouldn’t be polite. Dammit.