The Rich Boy

by Scott, Kylie

  “He made it impossible for me to stay.”

  “Oh, grow the fuck up.” Ethan’s gaze is cold and hard. “He tested us all in different ways. You’re the only one who decided to disappear because your delicate little feelings got hurt.”

  “Would both of you fucking stop it?” says Henry, jumping to his feet and heading for the door.

  Emma sighs. “Kid, it’s okay…”

  But he’s already gone.

  “Well done, morons. I need a drink.” Emma’s head rests against the back of the sofa. She pulls out her cell and sends a message. At least, I assume that’s what she did since there’s a knock on the door a minute later.

  “About time,” she mumbles. “I’m dying here.”

  Beck and Ethan just keep on glaring at each other. This is not a happy family. Lots of underlying tensions. Oprah and Dr. Phil would have a field day. A death in the family is meant to be difficult, times of change always are. With the complicated family dynamics and the amount of money involved, however, it seems to be the usual amount of stress times about a hundred. As they say, money can’t buy you love.

  A handsome man in yet another well-tailored suit wanders into the room. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, and cheekbones you could cut yourself on. He closes the door behind him, looking around at each of us with interest. Though his gaze rests the longest on Emma who dramatically says, “I need a drink.”

  “You need a hell of a lot more than that,” he says. “But at this stage, a strong drink can’t hurt.”

  “The therapy and medication can and will come later, rest assured.” She waves a hand grandly in the air. “Alice, this is Matías. Matías, meet Alice. Consider yourself introduced.”

  He smiles and moves over to a well-stocked drinks trolley. “I’m the trophy husband.”

  “Wait,” says Emma, massaging her temples. “We’re back together?”

  “Nope. Still getting divorced. Thank God.”

  “Oh, good. It’s been a busy week, but I didn’t think I’d have forgotten something like that.”

  “It’s just that trophy divorcé doesn’t have quite the same ring.” Matías looks up from the drinks trolley. “What’s wrong, your Botox bothering you again?”

  Emma raises her middle finger. “If I have a headache, it’s because my father just died, and two of my brothers are behaving like children, while the one who actually is a child is being raised by a cannibal in Jimmy Choos.”

  “Isn’t Giada a vegan now?” asks Matías, pouring whiskey into five tumblers. “Thought Lise talked her into it a few months back.”

  Beck just shrugs. “Don’t look at me. I have no idea what my mother’s been up to.”

  “Speaking of which, Lise was so proud you’d cast off the capitalist yoke in favor of undertaking a journey of spiritual discovery across this wide land,” says Emma. “Finally following in her footsteps.”

  “Yeah.” He winces. “That was not what I was doing.”

  “What’s wrong? Didn’t you find your Patronus?”

  “How much is her woo-woo company worth now, anyway?” asks Ethan.

  “I don’t know, forty million or so?” answers Emma. “The organic herbal-flavored waters seem to be doing particularly well for her.”

  Ethan shakes his head.

  Matías starts passing out the drinks. First to Beck and me, followed by Ethan and Emma. The tumblers are a beautifully cut crystal, heavy in the hand, and the liquor smells delicious. Like honey and cinnamon. Far better than anything we had on the top shelf at the bar.

  “The Macallan?” asks Ethan with a brow raised in amusement.

  “Why not? He ain’t here to stop us.” Matías smiles. “To Jack.”

  “To Dad,” says Emma in a quiet voice.

  We all drink. The whiskey is indeed superior and smooth. Though it’s largely wasted on me, a vodka or tequila drinker from way back. For a moment, no one talks, everyone reflecting on the deceased or enjoying the high-priced liquor. Everything is silent since any noise from the rest of the house is smothered by the thick old walls. The couple of hundred people might as well not be out there. But the illusion is broken as soon as Rachel opens the door.

  “Ethan,” she says, tone ever so slightly reprimanding in the way only a mother’s can. “The mayor would like to talk to you.”

  He nods. “I’ll be along in a moment.”

  “And I believe your grandmother expected you to socialize,” she says to Emma before slipping back out into the hallway.

  “‘O Captain! My Captain!’” Emma rises to her feet, taking her glass with her. “On my way. C’mon, ex. If we let the wives ogle your ass, I might not have to trade pleasantries for quite so long.”

  “That sounds like a whole lot of no fun,” says Matías. “Beck, we need to talk. Sometime soon would be good. I know you said silent partner, but disappearing on me for six months was a little quieter than I expected.”

  Beck nods. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Good.”

  Only Ethan remains, draining the last of his whiskey. He gets to his feet and rolls his shoulders. “Well?”

  “I want the Heritage.” Beck stares back at him, gaze serious. “Outright.”

  “Can’t say it’s a surprise.” Ethan’s lips are pressed into a fine unimpressed line. “All right, it’s yours. But that’s all. You’re going to have to earn back the trust of the board and shareholders on your own. Don’t think Emma will help you either, after the mess you left. And remember, I’ll be watching.”

  Beck just nods.

  Ethan pauses at the door. “Nine o’clock at my office tomorrow morning for the paperwork. Just remember, you owe me. Because I won’t forget.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “This really is an extraordinarily yellow room.”

  “You haven’t been in here before?” I ask, opening drawers and cupboard doors, trying to track down my meager belongings. Turns out that being allocated a room also means someone will have already unpacked for you. I’m not sure how I feel about this. My favorite cool battered brown boots look distinctly low class sitting in the bottom of the antique armoire. At least I have my own bathroom attached. If I had to go looking for one in the middle of the night, they’d probably need to send out search parties.

  Beck lies back on the grand canopied bed, hands behind his head and legs crossed at the ankle. “Don’t think so. Pretty sure I’d remember this amount of chintz.”

  “How many bedrooms does this place have?”

  “Only eight or so.”

  “Only.”

  He laughs.

  “So, your fortune is very good indeed.”

  “It is after today,” he says, voice subdued once more. “Guess you’re owed a story just about now.”

  “That would be nice. I won’t lie; I’m curious as all hell. But if you’re not in the mood, I understand.”

  “Sit, then, and let me regale you with a tale.”

  “You sound like a bard.” I sit on the end of the bed, getting comfortable, and stare at him. “Beck, if your grandma catches you with your shoes on the bed you’ll be in big trouble.”

  “Nuh,” he says. “She’ll just give me the look of disappointment. It’s her majordomo you got to look out for. That man is plain mean.”

  Downstairs, the wake is finally winding down. We’d speed walked through the crowd looking for his mother, as per his grandmother’s instructions, but that was as close to socializing as we got. Any snippets of conversation I heard were about art gallery openings and how the dollar was trading. I’ve never felt more like the hoi polloi than I have today. At any rate, his mom, Lise, was nowhere to be found. Beck didn’t seem especially concerned. If anything, he seemed relieved. He mumbled something about her probably deciding to leave early and then let it go. Seems she might be less than dependable when it comes to supporting her son. The woman who’d stepped into our path earlier had disappeared as well, thankfully. There’s been enough drama for one day. Sheesh.

  In
lieu of dealing any further with his family, he took me on the scenic route to my room, via the kitchen. Here he liberated a tray full of appetizers (figs with bacon and chili were my favorite), two bottles of red wine (Beck is already halfway through the second), and here we are. Alone at last in the room where all things yellow, floral, and expensive come to die, apparently.

  Not that I mind. Alone with Beck, having just him and me time, is soul-stirringly good. Watching him, listening to him, I can’t keep the smile off my face. Odd, given that there was a funeral earlier, but maybe we should celebrate life on days like this. If I wasn’t here…in all likelihood, he’d have been hiding out, getting drunk alone in his room right now, dealing with all of this on his own. The mere thought makes my heart hurt. An array of emotions have crossed his face today. Happy, sad, and all of the variants in between. Angry and hurt, lost and weary too. And I don’t always know the right thing to say, the correct way to comfort him. But any lingering doubts I had over throwing in my job and getting on the plane are gone. Because he shouldn’t ever have had to face today alone.

  I know in my bones I made the right choice.

  “What are you looking at?” he asks.

  “You.” Fuck, I love his smile. And his long body and his mind and all the rest. So doomed.

  “How long can you stay?” he asks, his happy turning more serious.

  “Beck, I only just arrived. I haven’t really made any decisions…”

  He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Okay. Challenge accepted.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to convince you to make your move here permanent.” And he’s so matter-of-fact about this. If only I had an ounce of his confidence. Because while this statement is beyond flattering, it’s still a bit bewildering. He’s a rich good-looking guy, he could have anyone he wants. So why me?

  No way am I letting my insecurities out to play, however. “Maybe we should take things one step at a time. Why don’t you just stick to you telling me your story for now?”

  “For now…okay. Here we go.” He takes another swig of wine straight from the bottle before clearing his throat. “Once upon a time, a canny bastard by the name of Jack Elliot decided working in his uncle’s grocery store his whole life was a bad deal. The pay was crap, the hours were long, and his cousin took every possible opportunity to lord it over him.”

  “What a jerk.”

  “Indeed he was,” agreed Beck. “Now, being your typical Scotsman, Jack was good at three things. Fighting, talking shit, and saving his pennies. Through this mad combination of skills, he bought up real estate. Started small and worked his way up. That turned out well for him. Especially once he started moving into building and developing as well. Next, he decided to invest in friends’ businesses. Helping them grow while charging them a bundle in interest on these loans. Sometimes, when they couldn’t pay him back, he’d also help them by buying them out at below cost.”

  “How literal are you being about the word ‘friends’?”

  His smile is tight. “There are some really good reasons why people don’t like my family.”

  “Got it.”

  “Didn’t matter about the money, though. Jacky boy still wasn’t accepted by the elite and didn’t that piss him off?” He smiles to himself, reading the label on the bottle of red. “So, he did what any sensible rich upstart would do and got himself an old-money society darling for a wife. The one and only Catherine Greenway of the Colorado Greenways Shipping Company.”

  “Your grandmother?”

  “That’s right. They could even trace their lineage back to some minor European royalty. Definite bonus points for that.” His gaze moves from the ceiling to me, a line forming between his brows. “What are you doing all the way down there?”

  “Listening to you.”

  “Be easier for you to hear if you were closer,” he says. “And I wouldn’t have to project my voice so much. It’s really quite delicate. I may have forgotten to mention that.”

  “Your voice is delicate?”

  “It’s more my throat.” He fake coughs. It’s a pitiful thing. “See?”

  “That is sad.”

  “Right?” As if his long lean body weren’t temptation enough, the man has these beautiful hazel eyes that he knows how to use to effect. Not to mention the dark lashes he’s currently fluttering in my direction. “C’mon, Alice. There’s only three hundred and eighty-five cushions on this monolith of a bed. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable up here beside me.”

  “Beck…”

  “I’ve had a very hard day. Don’t you want to comfort me?”

  “You know I do.”

  “And yet you’re still at the wrong end of the bed.”

  Whether or not I want to be all over him is not the question. I drop my head back and stare at the high ceiling with its fancy decorative molding for a moment before giving him my serious look. “After that kiss at the airport, I very much want to be closer to you. But allow me to take this opportunity to mention that there is no lock on that door.”

  “Really?” He screws up his face. “Bet that’s why she chose this room. What a sneaky, possibly bordering on evil, grandmother she is.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I was probably never having sex with you in your grandmother’s house anyway. There’s just something innately wrong about that. Especially now that I’ve met her,” I say. “I’d be imagining her looking at me disapprovingly for messing up the linens the whole time. A real mood killer.”

  First he laughs, then he frowns. “Hold up, sex? Who said anything about that?”

  “It isn’t what you had in mind?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Oh. I thought ‘comfort you’ was a euphemism.”

  “What a dirty mind you have. Not to mention checking for locks on the door. Who even does that?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Look, Alice,” he says, face set in the most serious of expressions. “Don’t get me wrong. I really like you as a person. I just don’t feel as if we’re quite there yet.”

  “You don’t, huh?”

  “No.”

  “And yet I’m meant to be moving permanently to Denver now at your say-so. Okay, then. My bad.” My brows rise. “Wow. How awkward.”

  “Us being in the same city and having sex are two very different things. And don’t be embarrassed.” He sighs. “It’s just, if we rush in…”

  “Yes?”

  “Taking it slow is best, letting the emotions and connection between us build.” This is all said with various complex hand gestures. A kind of rolling and turning motion. Not really sure what any of it means. Where does the playful banter end and the truth begin? Or maybe I’m just not used to anyone wanting to attempt serious and slow with me. In today’s dating world, it is kind of an outdated notion. Especially around about the time he flies me a couple of states in a private jet. “So, Alice, would you care to cuddle? It’s just like hugging only done horizontally.”

  “Sure. That sounds nice.”

  I settle in beside him on the bed. The empty bottle of red wine sits abandoned on the bedside table. Beck slides one arm beneath my neck, the other over my hip. Both urge me closer. He smells good. But then he always smells good. The heat of his body and the small smile he gives me are all so deeply personal. Just for me. It’s like we’re back in our own little bubble and nothing else matters. Despite the luxury accommodations.

  “Hey,” he says, voice deep and low.

  “Hi.”

  I slide my palm over his chest, fingers toying with his black silk tie. One of his hands slides down, over my hip and onto my thigh. Low enough to draw my knee over to rest on his leg. We’re basically plastered all over each other from top to toe. With the tip of a finger, he draws circles on my back. It’s relaxing. The cadence of my breath soon matches his. In and out, nice and easy. We’re a world away from the tension that was running through him downstairs.

  “Comfortable?” he asks.

&n
bsp; “Very.” I smile, inching a little closer. “You were telling me about Jack and his amazing marriage.”

  He stares up at the ceiling. “Not really much more to say. She came from old money, but a dwindling fortune. He had no pedigree, but serious cash. It was a match made in capitalist heaven. They tolerated each other enough to produce Jack Junior and he in turn fathered the rest of us. More money was made. More friends were lost. So on and so forth. On and on it goes.”

  “And this is where you grew up? Among all of this grandeur?”

  “Some of the time,” he says. “Mom was a model. She was from Denmark originally.”

  “Hold up. Your mom is Lise Olson?”

  “Heard of her, huh?”

  Shit. “Just a little. She was in all the fashion magazines my mom used to buy when I was growing up.” Mom would never have been able to buy any of the brands we used to lust after—not with what she had to squirrel away for my college fund. But at least she could afford the magazines, and we spent more than a few evenings sighing and dreaming over them.

  “That’s her,” he confirms. “The amount of fellow students at boarding school who kept pictures of her under their beds was…disturbing to say the least.”

  “Ew.”

  “You said it.” He sighs. There’s been a lot of sighing today. “Anyway, she and Dad got involved. When Rachel, Ethan and Emma’s mom, found out about it, she divorced him. By then, Mom was pregnant with me. Accident or not, who knows? But I had the distinction of being the first and only family bastard of the last few generations.”

  “People still care about that sort of thing?”

  “Some do,” he says. “They didn’t last long together. With the proviso that I took on the family name, Dad set her up in a flashy New York City apartment as far away from him as he could manage while still keeping me in the country. A couple of times a year I’d come west to spend quality time with him and learn how to be a man. Or at least, that’s how Dad put it. Mostly I rattled around some penthouse or mansion, made awkward conversation with his latest lady friend, and hung out with the rest of the family while he worked all hours of the day and night. Money doesn’t make itself, son. That’s one of the Elliot family mottos. Up there with, always have a prenup, super yachts are a shit investment, and when in doubt, diamonds should shut her up.”