Once Upon a Billionaire: Blue Collar Billionaires, Book 1

by Jessica Lemmon

  Now that I have enough of everything, though, I understand. I went from working on construction sites to running them. I manage part of Owen Construction, the company established by my new parents and parceled off to their three boys.

  Another foreign concept I came to understand while living with the Owens is that all women aren’t liars. I learned that first from Lainey, next from Deborah. Deb wasn’t free of sin, but at least she never lied to me.

  So why, while I chase Vivian Vandemark, am I suspicious of everything about her? Her fanciful name, at odds with her cheap shoes, the air of superiority that absolutely doesn’t belong on someone who works in a government office…

  I recognize down on one’s luck. I am familiar with hard knocks. This woman isn’t either of those things. Even though she’s dressed like she wants me to believe she might be.

  Paranoid, much, Nate?

  Not sure I ever recovered from my youth. I’m suspicious of everyone at first. Maybe my first impression of Vivian was right and she’s a fox in sheep’s clothing. Maybe she’s lying after all.

  Time will tell. It always does.

  “Ms. Vandemark.” I catch her easily. She isn’t navigating construction debris in those shoes quickly. My dressy leathers aren’t doing me any favors, either, but I move faster than she does. If it weren’t for a meeting with the mayor soon, I’d be dressed a hell of a lot more comfortably. I check my watch and swear under my breath. I’m going to be late thanks to this fiasco. Fantastic.

  She picks up speed as best she can, grumbling something I can’t discern. So, okay, I might’ve overreacted. I’m not a big fan of the word “no,” which is why I favor forgiveness over permission when it comes to decisions I make about my job sites. Gary also lied to me. And after I gave him a sizeable “gift” to hurry things along. So disappointing.

  Vivian hit a hot button when she threatened to shut me down. Hell or high water, I will finish this job on time. Her stomping in here all pomp and sass and threatening a shutdown puts me up Shit Creek, sans paddle. She pummeled one of my sorest spots.

  Still. I didn’t have to act like a horse’s ass.

  “Viv.”

  “You had your chance, Owen.” She stops walking and faces me. “You used our valuable time by sledgehammering a wall. Why don’t you take down the rest of them while you’re at it? I’ll send over an inspector to check your wiring and we’ll take care of the pesky paperwork issue you’re having.” She gives me a disingenuous smile. “You can expect a penalty fee and a lengthy delay, but I’m sure your bank account will bounce back.”

  I have to fight not to react. She knows, somehow, that I hate being delayed. It’s her arrogance that makes her more than what she seems. Mild-mannered city workers don’t breeze in like they own the place. Even Daniel can’t look me in the eye when he’s angry about something. And Gary? Incentivizing him to speed up the paperwork process wasn’t remotely difficult.

  It took me years to establish Vivian’s confidence in business situations. I used to be an asshole, but, very recent sledgehammer incident notwithstanding, I’ve learned some finesse.

  I try that next.

  Smiling, I spread my arms and try to look affable. Not easy for a guy of my size but sometimes it works. “Come on. You don’t want to shut us down. How can we fix this issue succinctly? Quietly.”

  She chokes on a laugh. “Does that smooth-as-a-fox move work on most inspectors? Is that how you wooed Gary into falsifying your paperwork?”

  “It wasn’t falsified.” I grit my teeth.

  She shrugs as she flips a few strands of silky, dark hair sticking out from under her hardhat.

  What a beautiful, stubborn pain in my ass.

  “You can’t shut us down. I have friends in high places, Ms. Vandemark.” My smile vanishes. I’m not fucking around here, and she needs to know that. Gary was a pushover. Most men are when you meet their price, and they all have one. I didn’t want to deal directly with Vivian’s boss on a trivial matter, but she’s not giving me much choice.

  “Watch me,” she says breezily and then marches away from me again. What happens next happens so fast, I don’t have time to think. I just react.

  The chunk of rock she steps on tips, her right high heel snapping. Off balance, she flails, arms out, heading straight for the dumpster. I bolt into action and close the gap between us in record time, catching her in my arms. I slam my shoulder into the metal bin in the process—where her forehead would have hit if I hadn’t been there.

  Chest heaving, she’s looking up at me like I’m a sorcerer, her eyes the same whiskey essence as her voice. She blinks long lashes as I take inventory of her face. Fine cheekbones, the barest dusting of pale freckles, and a parted mouth that tempts me to bend in for a taste.

  Her hands are clawing my forearm and as slowly as it takes for her cheeks to tinge rose with embarrassment, the pain in my shoulder intensifies.

  “Are you okay?” I ask instead of what I’m thinking, which is something to the effect of, Motherfucker, that hurt!

  I have an old rotator cuff injury, and as much as I’m loath to admit it, it’s easy to re-injure. Once it’s back, I’m reduced to a whiny, unmanly specimen who can’t point across the room without a whimper emitting from my throat.

  Very unsexy.

  “I’m fine.” She jerks her gaze away as I help her to her feet. She straightens the hardhat, still perched on her head. I can tell she’s embarrassed. I can also tell she doesn’t know how to handle being embarrassed.

  “Stupid goddamned shoes.” She removes the broken one, tenderly setting her foot on the rubble. When she arcs one arm toward the dumpster I catch her wrist.

  “Don’t. You walk to your car barefoot, you’re going to need a tetanus shot.”

  She considers my grip, and then her shoe, and for half a second I wonder if she’ll stomp to her car barefoot to spite me. Maybe.

  In the end, she slides the broken not-high-any-longer heel on and limps to her car.

  I watch her go.

  Her gait is uneven from the varying height of her shoes. She should look silly, but I can’t take my eyes off her. And not only because her ass is wiggling in an enticing way. The long hair spilling down her back is rich and dark against her lighter colored shirt. I recall that smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. Those clear, brown eyes.

  I couldn’t be more intrigued by her if I tried. My shoulder throbs in sync with my heartbeat.

  Before she shuts herself into her car—an older Hyundai with a dented fender—she tosses both shoes onto my construction site. “Throw those out for me, will you?”

  I smile. I can’t fucking help it.

  “Viv!” I shout, and her head pops over the roof of her car. “Call Gary!”

  Her lips form a thin line of consideration. “Call him yourself!”

  Okay, so that wasn’t consideration.

  She shuts herself into her car and drives off, pulling into traffic and blending in with the rest of the cars on the road. My forehead is itchy; I’m guessing because there’s drywall dust in my hair.

  When I turn around my crew is watching me, some smiling, some not. I ignore them and retrieve Vivian’s discarded shoes, taking note of the size before I chuck them into the trash.

  We’ll see if she can be bribed yet.

  Chapter Four

  Vivian

  Daniel came into the office whistling, which seemed like a bad omen. I didn’t acknowledge it just to be safe. One can never trust a good mood on that man. A few hours later, I realize my paranoia was spot-on.

  “Vandemark,” he growls from the opening of my cubicle.

  “Yes?” I don’t turn around, focused on the email I’m typing.

  “Nathaniel Owen is here to see you.”

  “Me?” I spin in my chair and find my boss’s expression as rough as his voice.

  “Yeah. You.”

  “I suspect my raise is forthcoming,” I say with a smile. “I nailed his ass to the wall yesterday and
left him speechless. It was pretty awesome.”

  Aside from my windmilling arms and the breaking of my shoe, that is. Both ruined my exit. However, that graceless tumble gave me a chance to be close to Owen, which wouldn’t have happened otherwise. So, it sort of evened itself out.

  I stand and smooth the skirt of my black dress. I bought it at a thrift store, but it used to be expensive. The hem was torn. I mended it with my passable sewing skills. Given I left my best shoes at Grand Marin, I had to resort to a pair of flats. They’re my only other black dress shoes.

  “It’s been worked out,” Daniel says. He’s no longer happy, but he’s not unhappy. His neutral reaction is as rare as a winged unicorn. “I’ll send him back.”

  “Did he say Nathaniel Owen?” Amber asks from her cube. I peek past my wall to find her leaning out of her own cubicle.

  “Yep.”

  “Did you really nail his ass to the wall?” Her eyes widen, impressed.

  “Not quite,” answers a low voice. I clock the moment Amber sees him for the first time, somewhat justified she hasn’t shut her mouth all the way yet.

  Apparently, I’m not the only one gobsmacked by Owen’s looks.

  “Nate, good to see you again.” I purposely toss out his shortened name since he corrected me on it yesterday. I do so enjoy irritating him. “Step into my office.”

  I welcome him into the gray square I call home. He indulges me and steps inside. There’s a petite plastic chair in the corner for guests. My desk is a wraparound with my office chair under it. His bulk and his ocean-scented cologne engulf me when he enters the tiny space.

  I clear my throat and lean on the edge of my desktop, trying for casual as I cross my arms over my chest. “What brings you here, Mr. Owen?”

  I find it hard to address him as Nate when he’s standing over me with those piercing blue eyes and attractive bumped nose. He’s authority personified. He’s also disarmingly masculine, and I can’t afford to be disarmed. I haven’t been very, erm, active with the opposite sex in the years since my father’s sentencing. Dating is too awkward, and casual sex unfulfilling. Besides, I can take care of my own needs. There are no strings attached to my vibrator.

  “I have something for you.” He hands me a shoebox.

  I regard it as if it contains a live rattlesnake, blinking in shock when I recognize the script on the box’s lid. Christian Louboutin. I should have known he was up to something.

  I school my reaction, hopefully before he notices. “What’s this?”

  “Shoes,” he answers. “To replace the pair you broke.”

  Louboutins are not merely shoes. They represent status and wealth. Just being in such close proximity to this box reminds me of my former closet in Chicago. My reaction is borderline Pavlovian.

  Drool.

  “We started on the wrong foot, so to speak,” he tells me with a half smile. “This is my attempt to make up for it.”

  I hum, suspicious. “Where was your charm yesterday?”

  “This isn’t charm. It’s a peace offering. I was unprofessional.”

  “We’re all wrong sometimes, Mr. Owen. There was no need to buy me a gift.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t wrong.” He holds up the box. “Please.”

  Much as I want to argue how wrong he was, I instead take the box and remove the lid. Before I mean to, the words “Pigalle Follies” fall from my lips.

  I had a pair of these. I felt beautiful whenever I slipped into them. Crafted in black veau velours with those iconic red soles, this particular pair boasts four-inch spiked heels. They’re divine.

  “You know your shoes,” he comments arrogantly.

  “So do you. This is a fine pair.” They retail for about half a month’s rent. My mom bought me my first pair of Louboutins. I didn’t keep any when I downsized, telling myself I didn’t need them. Holding this pair makes me miss her. “I can’t accept them. Obviously.”

  “Of course you can.” He fishes a paper tucked behind one of the shoes and unfolds it. I thought it was a receipt, but no, it’s an electrical inspection signed by none other than my surly boss.

  “Wait…how…”

  “Like I told you, we passed. Daniel and I had a little chat and he realized he was mistaken in assuming that Gary lied.”

  Daniel walks by, his face an unreadable mask. Owen turns to look over his shoulder before his eyes once again land on mine.

  “Did one of your henchmen pay Daniel a visit with a sledgehammer?” I ask.

  This elicits a sharp, brief laugh from Nate. His grin is equally brief, as well as my reaction. Full head-to-toe goosebumps. My nipples tighten. I lean in his direction the slightest bit.

  I’m not typically attracted to assholes, I swear. Either I’m having an off day or Nate Owen is emitting hallucinogenic pheromones.

  “Our inspection passed because we are compliant, not dishonest. Daniel assumed the opposite. He had a change of heart this morning, which worked out nicely for my schedule on the site. We’re back on track now. Isn’t that great?”

  “Fantastic.” I offer him a wan smile.

  “And I don’t have henchmen, by the way. I do my own dirty work.”

  The word dirty sends my mind into a freefall. Then, I imagine Nate in the mob and threatening Daniel’s life. That stops my visceral reaction to him in its tracks.

  I thrust the shoebox against his torso.

  “Unlike everyone else you come in contact with, I don’t accept bribes.”

  “It’s not a bribe. I have what I need. This visit to your”—he studies our surroundings—“office…was for show.”

  “You put on a good one yesterday.” I nudge his middle with the shoebox he’s refusing to take. It’s like pushing against a brick wall. The corner of the box crumples on impact.

  “How do you know a damn thing about Christian Louboutins?” His tone is more curious than accusing.

  “I’m a woman. How the hell do you know about them?”

  “The shoes you tossed out yesterday cost thirty dollars at a discount shoe warehouse. I looked them up.”

  The way he’s talking, like a cop who has information on me, is making me nervous.

  “Maybe I’m a fashion junkie who can’t afford the finer things.” My voice is smaller than I’d like it to be.

  He considers my outfit. Slowly.

  “Did you used to be a shoe salesman, or do you have a foot fetish?” I snap, hoping to knock him off course and gain the upper hand.

  “Neither. I’m observant. I’ve been in the presence of a lot of very wealthy women, and I know how they carry themselves. How they behave in certain situations. They can smell a knockoff from an authentic name brand fifty yards away. Even so, I haven’t yet met a woman who uttered the words ‘Pigalle Follies.’”

  “Maybe you should choose your company more carefully.”

  “Maybe you should,” he counters.

  We stay in limbo for a moment before I blow out a gusty laugh.

  “You caught me.” I hold my free hand up like I’m confessing. “I fence stolen shoes as my side hustle.”

  “No, you don’t. You’d have worn a more expensive pair today if that were true.” His eyes rake over me and I resist the urge to squirm under his blue inspection. “You’re not trying to pretend to be rich. You’re out of place in middle class, aren’t you? You belong in the upper echelons, yet you’re hiding in the suburbs.”

  His assessment is scarily accurate. I cover with a laugh, but it doesn’t sound convincing. “Very funny. Much as I’d like to indulge your fantasy—”

  “Would you?” he cuts me off to ask. The blood rushes to my face. Now I’m thinking about what his fantasy could be. A rogue, sinful wave of heat rolls through me. It’s not as unwelcome as it should be. He’s taking up half my cubicle, his eyes boring into mine. “You don’t belong here.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  My heart mule-kicks my chest. What does he know?

  Maybe he figured out my
real name is Vivian Steele. Maybe he spotted old courtroom footage or stumbled across a snippet of press from years ago. Despite my darker hair color and six years of maturity since, he could have recognized me. Damn me for running my mouth at the site yesterday. I should have laid low at the office.

  I’m not ready to start over so soon. I want peace, and if a billionaire like Owen knows my real name and needs me in his pocket, this gemstone of information is the perfect bit of intelligence to keep me in line.

  But I don’t kowtow to rich folk. Not any longer.

  “I… I don’t know what you mean,” I stall. It took a lot of effort to reach this mediocre point of existence. A name change, legally, is a series of frustrating hoops and a lot of waiting. I don’t want to change my identification. I don’t want to move. Find a new apartment, a new job. A new friend, if Amber can be considered a friend. Fudge the truth about my patchy, and mostly fabricated, work record. Leave my life behind. Again.

  My father took my life from me once. I’m not starting over.

  “I think you do.” He takes the box, extracts one of the shoes and bends on one knee. While my mind reels, he gingerly lifts my foot, his calloused palms smoothing along my calf.

  Unbidden, visions of the fantasy he alluded to burble to life. One where those palms touch more than my leg.

  “I have an offer for you, Ms. Vandemark.”

  Did he overemphasize my last name or am I paranoid? He removes one of my flats and slips on a Louboutin in its place. It’s as different as climbing into a shiny new Porsche when you’re used to driving a Camry. Or a rickshaw.

  He takes the other shoe from the box and makes the swap as well.

  “A perfect fit.” He presses his hands to his thick thighs and stands. He’s closer than before. We’re not quite chest to chest, but it wouldn’t take much to bring him there. God, he smells good. “That’s the shoe you belong in, Vivian.”