Savor: A Billionaire Bachelors Club Novel

by Murphy, Monica

  “You saw the article on the gossip site right?” I say, figuring I may as well start at the beginning. And come on, have they forgotten already? I know they’re wrapped up in their own thing since they’re both busy, occupied with work and the women they love.

  Lucky bastards.

  Plus I’ve avoided them for fear they’d want to talk about it. Call me out on everything. I’ve been alone with my misery and finally they forced me to crawl out of my hole.

  “Yeah, and the picture. You insisted nothing happened between you two.” Archer sends me one of those skeptical, raised eyebrow looks he’s so good at. “Not sure if I believe you though. What with Bryn’s, uh, panties on display.”

  “You shouldn’t believe me,” I say, offering the waitress a grim smile when she sets my drink in front of me, her cleavage practically in my face. Ignoring her boobs, I grab the glass, slam back the vodka with one long swallow and hand it back to her. “Another one, please.”

  “Right away,” she says with a nod before she leaves.

  “Damn, dude. Slow down,” Gage says. “I don’t want to be the one driving your drunk ass home.”

  I wave a hand. “I’ll take a cab.”

  “No, you won’t,” Archer says firmly. “Tell us what happened, Matt. Where’s Bryn? Ivy says she left. As in left town. Seems sort of extreme.”

  “She did leave. The article and photo proved too much for her. She quit. Moved back home.” I hate my dad for making this happen. Hate even more how he thought he’d been doing me a favor.

  I’d been too much for her too, though. She said she’d planned on giving her notice before that stupid article came out. Before we even left for New York. She was going to leave me. After everything that had happened between us, before she would’ve given me another chance, she would’ve walked.

  Great. I got my chance, and she still bailed. My heart literally fucking hurts at not having her around.

  “Where’s the waitress with my drink?” I mutter, glaring at Archer and Gage. They both visibly recoil, not that I give a damn. I’m always the nice one. The easygoing guy who doesn’t give anyone much shit.

  Lately, I am the furthest thing from nice and easygoing. They’re all lucky I’m holding it together because I feel like at any moment I could totally lose it.

  “Hey.” Gage’s firm voice makes me meet his gaze. “What happened with you and your dad?”

  I shrug. They knew Vinnie was behind this; I told them when I came home. I just haven’t talked about it since. I’ve been too busy wallowing in my misery. “I called and confronted him right after we got back.”

  “And?”

  “And he denied he did it at first. Kept asking why he would do something like that to his own son, but I kept throwing it back in his face. I never once believed him. I finally broke him down.”

  I shook my head, offering a whisper of thanks when the waitress returned with a fresh drink. Archer waved her off when she lingered, and I held the glass up to them as if in salute. “He admitted he tipped off the reporter. They spotted Bryn and me at a restaurant in the hotel and took some pictures there. But then they somehow caught sight of us in the hotel room window and decided those were the better photos to put on the site.” I drained my glass and set it on the table.

  “So your dad is responsible,” Gage says, shock in his voice. The look of disgust on my friend’s face says it all.

  “Yeah. The asshole,” I mutter, sadness filling me despite my anger. That my dad could be so heartless and do something like this to me.

  It sucks. Our relationship is beyond repair. At least for now. I can’t even fathom talking to him again, sharing anything personal with him, even speaking to him casually. Hell, I wouldn’t send the man a fucking Christmas card. He’s ruined everything.

  He’ll have to grovel on his hands and knees before I’d consider talking to him again.

  “And Bryn left,” Gage says.

  “She did.” I nod, my head a little dizzy. I can feel the alcohol coursing through my blood and I wait for the numbness. I welcome the fucking numbness. “We can call off the bet you know.”

  “Wait . . . what?” The confused expression on Archer’s face could almost be laughable if I wasn’t drowning in my misery.

  “Call it off. I won’t collect. I can’t.” I pick up my glass, remember it’s empty and set it down again with an irritated growl. “Bryn and I had sex. Amazing, fantastic, never-to-be-had-again sex.”

  “You sly, lying dog,” Gage starts, but Archer shoots him a look. Gage shuts up.

  “And she left you anyway. That’s tough bro. I’m sorry,” Archer says cautiously. Funny how knowing he’s about to be a father makes a man suddenly turn compassionate. The Archer of old would’ve given me endless crap about this.

  The new Archer who’s madly in love with Ivy and excited about becoming a dad has become . . . considerate of my feelings.

  Yes. I’m having a total Oprah moment. I blame the vodka.

  “Tough doesn’t come close to what it is.” I smile, but it feels like my face is cracking in two. “Do you know that stupid site ran the article and then they said nothing else? Some other sites picked it up, but then another scandal broke out, I can’t even remember what. Rendering me and Bryn long forgotten. That’s how much of a nonentity I’ve become. And you know what? I love that. I don’t miss the fans and the photographers and the crap. I miss playing ball. I’ll always miss that but otherwise, yeah. I’m over it. I have a new life. A new career that I love and I found a woman I could love too. Instead she leaves me.”

  Damn, I sound pitiful and morose even to my own ears.

  “All right. We’re calling off the bet,” Archer says, his expression full of worry. “But—”

  “You’re going to let her go, huh?” Gage asks, interrupting Archer. “Just let her walk away and forget all about her?”

  I glare at them both. “What do you mean?” The waitress delivers another shot glass in front of me, much to the disgust of my friends, and I smile gratefully up at her, actually looking in her eyes versus her tits. I wonder if she appreciates that.

  Probably not.

  “Go after her,” Gage urges. “Go to her hometown and tell her you want her back.”

  I grimace, finish off the contents in my shot glass and then grimace again as the vodka slides down my throat. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “That’s because it is,” Gage says with a slight smirk. I’d like to wipe it off his face with my fist. Must be the vodka still talking. “Just hop on a plane and go to that little Podunk town of hers and find her. Can’t be that hard to figure out where she lives, her address. When you see her, tell her how you feel.”

  I let his words sink in and swirl around in my brain along with a heavy dose of vodka. I could do that. Maybe. “What if she rejects me?”

  “Then at least you tried,” Archer adds. “Then you won’t have any regrets or what-ifs. Those what-ifs will kill you, man. Trust me.”

  Huh. He’s right. I wonder how I would even get to Cactus, Texas. Fly into somewhere and rent a car, I assume. I don’t know her grandma’s name. But I bet everyone would know who Bryn James is. The most beautiful, sweetest, kindest, sexiest woman ever.

  “I’ll do it.” I curl my hand into a fist and pound it on the table, making my shot glasses and the now-empty beer bottles on top of it rattle. “I’ll go make flight arrangements right now.” I start to stand, but both Archer and Gage wave their arms at me like they’re trying to flag my ass down or something.

  “Slow your roll, my friend,” Gage says, shaking his head with a chuckle as I fall back into my chair, my head spinning. “You need to sober up first. Look at you, three shots of double vodka and you’re done for.”

  “Whatever,” I mutter, my mind filled with images of Bryn. Smiling Bryn. Beige Bryn. Naked Bryn. Sad Bryn.

  I frown. I never want to see sad Bryn again. I need to find her.

  I need to go make that woman mine once and for all.


  Chapter Fourteen

  * * *

  Bryn

  “GIRL, YOU BETTER clean out that chicken coop and something quick! That rooster looks ready to tear into his girlfriends. He sure don’t like walking in shit!”

  Sighing, I toss my phone—the very iPhone Matt let me keep despite having purchased it for work purposes—onto my mattress and exit my bedroom to see what my grandma is hollering about now.

  She’s standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes. I wish we could afford a dishwasher but that’s so not happening. Staring out the window, she’s watching the chicken coop in the backyard, a fragile-looking structure one of the neighbor boys built for her a few years ago.

  “What did you ask me to do?” I sound resigned. Of course, I am, when the only job I can seem to find in this godforsaken town is doing odds and ends for my grandma around the house. I didn’t get that job at the Soap-n-Snip, answering the phone and sweeping up hair. Stacy Jo Nesbitt got that job. She graduated two years after I did, and she already has two babies to take care of.

  She deserves the job far more than I do.

  “The chicken coop, baby doll. It’s a shit storm of epic proportions and that snotty, mean-as-hell rooster hates it when the crap piles up.” Grandma cackles again. She loves saying crazy things, shocking people. As she gets older, it gets worse and usually I ignore it or laugh with her.

  But today, the very last thing I want to do is laugh. It’s hot outside, and I don’t want to be out there scooping up chicken crap.

  “You want me to clean it out now?” I ask, my shoulders slumping.

  “I sure do. Look at that cock.” Another cackle. “He’s gonna peck the head of every chicken out there if you don’t take care of it and quick.”

  I go to stand next to my grandma and see that she’s not exaggerating. The rooster is strutting around in the small fenced-off chicken yard, pecking the head of every poor innocent chicken that approaches him.

  Typical male. That rooster is a complete asshole.

  “Fine,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll go clean it.”

  “Don’t forget your waders,” she calls to me as I head toward the garage. “And a bucket and a shovel so you can scoop up all that crap!”

  I grab the bucket and the shovel she uses special for the chicken coop then slip on the old rubber boots I bought at Walmart years ago that I’d wear when it rained or snowed, which is rare but still. They’re white and hideous, scuffed up after years of wear, but I don’t care. I’m wearing an old ratty tank top and a pair of denim cutoffs along with them. The people of the great Napa Valley would probably shit themselves if they saw me, but I’m out here in my grandma’s backyard with no one around for miles.

  I’ve got nobody to impress.

  Rounding the side of the house, I head for the chicken coop and open the gate, thrusting the shovel out to hold back the rooster, who’s a mean old jerk that would love nothing more than to jump me from behind and spur me with his claws. He’s done it to me before, and I nearly had a heart attack, he scared me so bad.

  But this time I’m prepared. You can’t turn your back on him or he’ll sneak attack you, like your worst enemy.

  God, if I really thought about it, I could learn a lot of life lessons out here cleaning up the damn chicken coop. I laugh and shake my head as I start scooping up the chicken poop, which has somehow piled up into little mountains along the inside of their caged area.

  It’s really freaking disgusting.

  It’s been a month since I left New York City and went back to St. Helena. I went to the winery early the next morning and cleaned all my personal belongings out of my desk. Gave my notice at my apartment, not caring that I had to pay another month’s rent for breaking the lease, even though I was leaving at that very moment.

  I just wanted the hell out of there.

  It took me a few days to pack up all my stuff, finalize some things, and get everything prepared for the move. But when I was finally ready to take off, all packed up and headed to the gas station before I went roaring off into the sunset, I decided to check my mail one last time. And found a check from DeLuca Winery—three months’ wages. Severance pay, it said on the notes line.

  That check both burned my ass and thrilled me down to the bone. I didn’t want to take his pity pay, but I also wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, as my grandma would say.

  I never did quite get that phrase but whatever. It fit.

  So I went to the bank, deposited all that money and then hit the road. It took me six days, but I finally made it only to find myself with no prospects, no energy, and sadder than I’ve ever been in my life.

  I miss Matt. I was dumb, running away from him and my feelings. He’d been so willing to face the troubles beside me head on, and I walked away. Let him go, let him slip right through my fingers like he didn’t matter.

  God, I’d been such an idiot—I could tear up right now just thinking about it.

  But crying over our lost relationship isn’t going to bring him back or bring me peace. I messed up, and I needed to face facts. Chalk it up to a mistake made and a lesson learned.

  Don’t let a good man go, is what my grandma told me when I explained to her what happened a few nights ago. I’d held onto my story, my blow up with Matt for weeks until my grandma finally found me crying on the back porch and point blank asked what the hell was wrong with me.

  That had been her one sentence of advice when I finished.

  Don’t let a good man go.

  Too late, Grandma.

  Sighing, I rub at my forehead with the heel of my hand before I start scooping up more crap. I should’ve worn gloves, but I forgot. At least I’m not touching the poop directly, thanks to the shovel.

  God, what a transformation I’ve undergone. One month ago, I was in New York City staying at the most beautiful hotel I’ve ever seen in my life, and now I’m digging out chicken shit.

  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

  I fill up practically the entire bucket with chicken poo, constantly thrusting the shovel in the rooster’s direction when he comes at me, always on the defensive around that guy. I’m starting to sweat, I probably stink and my feet feel all squishy and disgusting in the rubber boots.

  I’ll need a shower as soon as I’m done with this horrendous chore. No wonder my grandma doesn’t want to deal with it.

  “Bryn?”

  I still, turning my head to the left. I swear I just heard Matt’s voice call my name. Great. Now I’m going crazy and hearing things.

  “Lousy men,” I mutter, shaking my head and pointing the shovel at the rooster, who looks ready to jump me at any minute. “You’re all alike. Ready to jump on a woman and tear her apart before she can put herself back together again.”

  “Bryn, what the hell are you doing, talking to a chicken?”

  Standing completely straight, I turn slowly, the sun suddenly shining in my eyes. I cover them with my hand to find—

  Oh my God, to find Matthew DeLuca standing in my grandma’s backyard, on the other side of the chicken coop, looking gorgeous in a pair of khaki shorts and a wine-colored polo shirt.

  “I’m not talking to a chicken,” I explain, my voice weak. “I’m talking to a rooster.”

  “Same difference?” Matt asks, a hint of a smile curving his lips.

  “Don’t tell that to the rooster. You’ll only piss him off,” I mutter, turning and pointing my shovel at the very creature I’m talking about, who’d gotten closer to me what with my distracted state.

  My heart is racing, and I can’t believe Matt’s standing here. With me.

  But why?

  “You uh, look good, Bryn.”

  He’s a liar. I look crazy, and I know it. Turning more fully to face him, I kick out one foot, showing off the boots. “You like them?”

  “They’re interesting. I prefer seeing you in those tiny denim shorts though.” He whistles low, a rush of pleasure flowing through me at the sound. “Your legs look mighty lo
ng in ’em.”

  Giddiness courses through me at having him here, with me, in Cactus, Texas, checking out my legs and telling me I look good. If anyone looks good it’s him, all sexy and handsome in the shorts and the polo, his dark hair a haphazard mess, his face covered with a shadow of stubble.

  If I wasn’t dressed like a fool and standing amongst chickens and their crap, I’d run over and throw myself at him.

  “Shit!” I yell when a sharp pinch digs into the back of my knees. I turn and swat at the rooster who attacked me. Turn my back on him for a second too long and look at how he treats me. “Goddamn asshole!” I screech, swinging the shovel at him. Thankfully he struts away, and I snatch up the bucket, backing out of the coop until I feel the gate directly behind me. I unlatch it in a hurry and slam it shut, leaning against the chicken wire for a brief, relieved moment as I try and calm my racing heart.

  Only to turn around and find Matt laughing at me so hard, I’m afraid he’s going to double over and collapse onto the ground.

  Matt

  I SHOULDN’T LAUGH. Bryn just about got the scare of her life, if the expression on her face was any indication. I hadn’t any chance to warn her, and it had been quite shocking to see that rooster fly in the air so fast. One minute we’d been flirting and chatting, the next a wild, puffed-out red rooster came at her, his legs extended and his claws digging right into the back of her legs.

  That had been horrifying. The funny part? The curse words flying out of Bryn’s mouth, made even more humorous by her thick accent. She’d been pissed. Furious that the rooster jumped her and tried to take a hunk of her flesh out of her legs.

  “That wasn’t funny you know,” she says as she approaches, which launches me into a fresh round of laughter.

  “Oh yes, it was,” I say between breaths.

  She stops directly in front of me, dropping the bucket by her booted feet. I look at her, really look at her as the laughter dies in my throat. Despite the crazy outfit, she looks hot as hell. The tank top is torn and bleach stained, clinging to her breasts, and those denim shorts should be illegal they’re so damn short. I can’t help but wonder if she’s even wearing any panties underneath because if she is, they’re pretty damn tiny.