He tips my chin with his knuckle and I have the crazed thought he might kiss me. Which is insane. I don’t want him to kiss me. I decide I’ll drive my four-inch spiked heel into his toe if he kisses me.
“I have reservations for tomorrow night at seven thirty at Villa Moneta. Join me.”
I’m tempted to refuse, but I’m not sure what he knows, or what he might tell Daniel about me. I suspect Nate Owen could make my life hard if he wanted to. I came to Clear Ridge for an attempt at normal. Have I failed?
“Tomorrow it is,” I reply coolly, my mind a hectic scramble.
“I’ll send a car.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I argue.
“Very well. And, Vivian”—he pats my cubicle wall before he leaves—“wear the shoes.”
Chapter Five
Vivian
I arrive home to find an urn on my doorstep.
At first I thought a florist paid me a visit and the neighbor’s cat dragged off the greenery, but at a second and then third take, I recognize the container for what it is. It’s resting on top of a tiny-font, graphic designer’s nightmare of a menu from the local Chinese restaurant. They deliver. Which is super convenient if you want to eat a lot of deep-fried food covered in syrupy orange sauce while lounging on your sofa.
I stoop to pick up the menu and flip it over, recognizing my brother’s tall, thin cursive when I do.
Dad belongs with you.
I take a step back from the urn as if my father might rise out of it like Marley’s ghost and warn that I’ll be visited by three specters tonight.
“Hi, Vivian!”
I nearly leap out of my thrift-store dress at the sound of Mrs. McAffey’s voice behind me. I turn to my left and find her juggling two bags of groceries awkwardly while trying to insert her key in the door.
“Would you mind, dear?” She smiles, but her smile vanishes when she notices what’s at my feet.
“No problem.” I stuff my brother’s note into my purse and take a bag of groceries from her, positioning myself in between my neighbor and my dead dad.
“Is that…?” She points with her key. “What I think it is?”
“Yes,” I say solemnly. “My cat.”
Ms. McAffey frowns. “You had a cat?”
“My family’s cat. My brother dropped him off. He doesn’t want to keep him in the house. He says he’s having nightmares.”
Before my elderly neighbor can accuse me of having had a really big cat, her expression melts into grandmotherly concern. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
She smashes me into a bosomy hug with her free arm and I pat her while trying not to squish the bag of bread sticking out of the top of the paper grocery sack. “Thank you,” I say, my voice muffled.
“I used to have the sweetest boy,” she says, finally opening her door. I follow her into the kitchen. “His name was Dapper and he was jet black with a little white diamond on his forehead. Prettiest cat you ever saw. What’d your baby look like?”
“Oh, uh…” I glance around the room for inspiration, which doesn’t help. Floral patterns as far as the eye can see. “He was a, um, a gray cat. We found him. In an alley.” There, that’s generic.
“And his name?” She sets down her bag and takes the one from me.
“Steele,” I blurt.
“An appropriate name for a gray cat. I’m sorry for your loss, Vivian.”
“Thank you. I should—”
“Yes, go! I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from your grieving. If you ever want to swap cat stories, you let me know.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m out of there in a flash and picking up my father’s remains. Inside my apartment, I pace the urn from living room to kitchen and back again, indecisive. I have no idea where to put him. Or it. I don’t even know what to call this.
Also, I’m going to choke my brother when I find him. You might think this is a sure sign he’s using again but this stunt reeks of sobriety. Of responsibility, which isn’t something he’s known for.
When news came that my father passed away, I sure as hell didn’t claim the body. Evidently my brother did.
I place what’s left of Walter, Senior on the counter next to the coffee pot and chew on my lip while I think. I grab my phone and video-call a friend from my former life. One of the only people, except for my brother, obviously, who knows I changed my name and ran away from my last life.
Marnie Lockwood picks up on the second ring.
“Vivvie!” Her face fills the screen and I’m happy just seeing her. I haven’t kept in touch like I should, but she’s one of those friends you can fall back in with no matter how much time has passed. “I miss you, doll!”
“I miss you too.” She also makes me miss parts of the world I told myself I was glad to leave behind. I minimalized when I left the world of the wealthy. How much stuff does a person need, anyway? “Your skin looks incredible.”
“Pierre,” she explains, touching her cheek. Pierre is her esthetician. He’s a miracle worker. If I had two-hundo for a facial, I’d totally get one. “You look…well, I love you, but you look not good.”
She doesn’t mean my skin, though I should exfoliate more.
“I’m not.” I flip my phone around and show her the urn. She gasps.
“Is that…”
“In the flesh.” I scrunch my nose. “Or not. You know what I mean.”
“Where? How?”
“Walt dropped it by my house.”
“I thought your brother was in Atlanta.” Marnie smooths one caramel-colored eyebrow with a manicured fingernail. I miss mani/pedi day too.
“Well, evidently he’s in Clear Ridge.” I look out my front window like he might leap out of the bushes. “I’m surprised he didn’t dump the urn into a trashcan somewhere.” I admire the decorative chalice holding my late father. It’s nice. If urns can be nice. “Or sell it for drug money.”
“He must be clean,” Marnie says, arriving at the same conclusion I had.
For now, I think but don’t say. It’s too sad to say aloud.
“What are you going to do with it? Or should I say ‘him’?”
I shake my head at my friend. “No idea.” On either count.
“I have something else to show you.” I tilt one Louboutin and point the phone at my feet.
Marnie gasps. Again. She knows I don’t wear anything showy in my new life. “Where did you get those?”
“From a billionaire.” I smile at my friend’s shocked expression. “I went to shut down his construction site and broke a heel. He showed up at my office with these.”
She tucks her chin and lifts her eyebrows. “Who is he? Anyone we know?”
“Like all billionaires know each other?”
“They all knew your dad,” she quips.
I sigh. “That’s what I’m worried about. This guy told me I belong in these shoes. That I don’t fit into the middle class.”
“Was he complimenting or threatening you?”
“I don’t know.” And I don’t, not for sure. “I can cause him trouble on this project if he doesn’t follow the rules. He has a reputation for finishing projects on time and cutting corners to do it. He wasn’t happy when I showed up with a roll of red tape.”
“Money can make that go away, Viv.”
“That’s not what the nest egg is for,” I say. “It’s for emergencies.”
“And you being threatened isn’t an emergency?”
“It’s for Walt-themed emergencies,” I mumble.
“You have to stop punishing yourself, Viv. Your father’s sins aren’t yours to absolve. He died for them, you know.”
That part makes me sad. He had the chance to help people but instead he robbed them. I change the subject. “I have a date tomorrow night.”
“Wow, I don’t hear from you for six months and then you call with all the news. Congrats.” Marnie lifts a glass of bubbly and I know it’s our favorite brand of champagne without seeing the bottle. We shared many a glass over brunc
h, or at girls’ nights, or on random Tuesdays.
“What are you celebrating?” I ask, nodding at the glass.
“Nothing big.” She turns her head and rests her left hand on her cheek really obviously. The size of the diamond solitaire on her ring finger could signal an aircraft.
“He asked.” I smile, happy for her but slightly hurt she didn’t call to tell me. We’re growing apart, no big surprise there. I feel like I live on a different planet than I used to. Aaron and Marnie have been dating for seven years. She and I had many conversations revolving around whether or not he would ask. “I can’t believe it.”
“Me neither. My last name’s going to be White.” She rolls her chestnut-colored eyes and then we both laugh.
“It’s about time something good happened to you, Marn,” I say, meaning it.
She sobers quickly and holds the phone close so that her face takes up the screen. “You too, Viv. You too. We should talk more.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “We should.”
Chapter Six
Nate
I’ve been plagued by thoughts of Vivian since I walked out of her cubicle, the soft vanilla scent of her perfume tickling my nostrils. It wasn’t cloying or sweet. It was musky. When I sank to my knees to put those shoes on her feet, the scent intensified like she’d slathered fragranced lotion onto her long, smooth legs.
Damn.
She makes me inexplicably curious, and explicably horny. Which doesn’t make a lot of sense. I don’t “need” her—the paperwork Daniel signed was legit, by the way. I greased Gary’s palm for speed reasons only. I didn’t need him to lie for me. My men do quality work. I have a perfect record for finishing the job on the day I say I will finish it and I refuse to allow a power-tripping jackass who works for the city to set me back to zero.
I do what I have to do to maintain my reputation—to maintain the Owen reputation. They took me in and gave me their name—I don’t take that lightly. My reputation is practically inherited. God knows I didn’t do anything noteworthy in my former life.
Anyway, while I may not do everything “by the book,” I don’t mess around when it comes to safety. You can’t cut corners and have a reputation as a decent builder, and I’m in this for the long haul. The Grand Marin project is humming along smoothly, which is always the goal.
Why invite her to dinner, I hear you ask.
Honestly, I don’t know. I lied about the reservation when I arrived to Cinderella those shoes onto her feet. I didn’t have one. I had no plans to see her beyond the delivery of the shoes. I was merely satisfying my curiosity about her.
The inkling that she was a ritzy wolf in shabby sheep’s clothing was reinforced when I slipped those shoes onto her feet. She belongs in expensive shoes. Her back straightened and she held her chin a little higher after I put them on her. Whenever I wear a suit, I feel like an overstuffed suitcase. No matter how well-tailored, it never seems to fit. Much like I feel in high society. I’ll never fit in as seamlessly as my parents or my brothers.
Speaking of, I arrive at the Owen house, cake in hand. It’s our mother Lainey’s birthday today. The entire event will be fancy and catered, and there are probably three cakes in there to choose from. But I know she loves the buttercream frosting at Caketopia, so I ordered her a chocolate-with-buttercream masterpiece in the shape of a Fabergé egg. Genius, right?
The massive front door swings aside and I’m saved from cradling the cake box under one arm to open the door myself.
I’m greeted by one of my brothers.
Archer Owen is the “real” Owen. Born and bred. It’s Benji, Benjamin if you’re looking at his business card, and me who are from much, much humbler beginnings.
“Welcome, Slumlord,” Archer greets with a sharky smile.
“Fuck off.” I grin.
Arch likes to give me crap for building live-works because he’d die before he touched any property resembling residential. He prefers commercial clubs, bars, and restaurants. They’re not my style. I enhance lives. I give people a place to live. I want them to have a taste of the good life, as good as they can get. Not all of us can be adopted by billionaires, after all.
I was lucky. Well, me and Little Orphan Benji.
“Has it started yet?” I ask, taking in Archer’s champagne glass. He’ll switch to bourbon after dinner. We all will. Paired with a cigar with our father, William…if Lainey allows him to smoke one tonight.
“There he is! Only one to go.” Lainey sweeps into the foyer in a slimming black dress and her own pair of Christian Louboutins. If you were wondering how I knew about ladies’ shoes, now you know. She’s opened more than one pair on Christmas morning.
The house is a monstrosity. A big, beautiful, tall, posh, comfortable, warm place. Just like my adoptive mother. Minus the monstrosity part. Lainey’s pretty. And even if she wasn’t, her kindness would make her so.
“Happy birthday, Ma.” Chicago leaks out of me sometimes since that’s where I grew up. This is one of those times.
“Caketopia. You’re my favorite son, Nate.” She kisses my cheek and hugs me.
Archer swipes a hand over his neatly trimmed beard and affects a dramatic eye roll. I hold Lainey closer and soak it in, and not only to rub it in Archer’s face that I’m her favorite. When you have a crappy mom and then the perfect one, you hold on to hugs like these for dear life.
I vowed when I started working for Owen Construction that I would make her and Will proud. She’s told me a hundred times she’s proud of me, and Will at least half a dozen, but my debt to them is so great, I’m still working on it. Probably will be for the rest of my life.
The door opens behind us.
“Finally!” Archer says dramatically.
“Fuck off,” Benji tells him, echoing my greeting. “The hood of Nate’s car is still warm. I haven’t missed anything. Happy birthday, Mom.”
Golden brown Benji takes Lainey into his arms and gives her a squeeze. He’s Israeli, second generation. He was raised in Idaho. William Owen’s sister, Aunt Judy, worked at the hospital with Benji’s late parents and was dating Benji’s then neighbor when his parents died. That’s how the Owens received word that Benji was a parentless kid chock out of family one cold, snowy December evening.
“I’m her favorite,” I tell Benji as I show him the cake.
“I love my boys equally,” Lainey says, betraying me. She pats my cheek, her version of condolences.
Benji was adopted a year before me, when Archer was thirteen years old. I was the latecomer at age fifteen. By then Benji was eleven and Archer was fourteen and I was the shithead foster kid who wouldn’t follow the rules. These two have been my brothers in every sense of the word since the day I was given my own room in a house so nice I couldn’t believe I was allowed to live there.
Regardless of what you’ve witnessed tonight, I’d take a bullet for any of them. I never met a family who cared about each other until the Owens. My parents were less “all for one and one for all” and more “look out for number one.” Had I been raised to completion by Jewel and Jarod Weeks, I would be a blight on society like they were.
I’m wearing a dark suit, sans jacket, for the festivities. Predictably, Benji chose the stylish combo of slacks, a checkered shirt, and a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo shoes. He inherited Mom’s penchant for fancy footwear. Archer is in a sleek gray suit that costs twice as much as mine. The prick. One-upmanship is his pastime.
The front door swings open again and in scuttles Cristin Gilbert, Benji’s “life assistant coach.” At least that’s how he refers to her. The rest of us know Cristin as his best friend-slash-woman who is madly in love with him.
“Hi, guys!” Cris chirps. She’s adorable. Big, doll-like gray eyes, chin-length dark blond curls. She used to work for the Owens, before Benji claimed her for himself. She’s comfortable in this dynamic. The Owens are like her second family.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Lainey tells Cris with a smile. “I’m so glad to see
another woman. Not as if any of my boys would bring a date.” Our mother harrumphs. Cristin sends a look of pure longing over at Benji, who cluelessly doesn’t pick up on it. Mom drags her into the next room.
“How are things with the life coach?” Archer asks, sipping his champagne.
“Life assistant coach. You should consider one. You’d never forget a haircut again.” Benji smirks at Archer’s disheveled locks.
“Exactly what I don’t want in my life,” he growls. “Someone telling me what to do.”
Control is Archer’s thing. Can you tell?
“She is the reason I sit at the big-boy table with the grownups and you two scurry around job sites trying to make the bills,” Benji replies smugly. He runs the finance department for Owen Construction. He’s a math wizard. In other words, he’s really fucking nerdy.
“But you miss all the fun,” I tell him. “Nearly got shut down yesterday. A woman in a pencil skirt and heels was sent to reprimand me for not having the appropriate paperwork.”
“I do love a pencil skirt.” Benji’s interest is palpable.
“You love to be reprimanded,” Archer says, chuckling at his own joke.
I can’t help laughing. That was a good one. I’ll hand it to Benji, though. He has a mystical way with women that Archer and I never quite grasped. I tend to fumble. Archer is as malleable as forged iron. Vivian had it wrong when she accused me of being charming. Benji has the market cornered.
“Nate, when are you going to learn to stop sleeping with the inspectors?” Archer grouses. “It’s unprofessional.”
“She’s not an inspector,” I say, instead of admitting I didn’t seal the deal. There’s always dinner tomorrow. I’m not sure if there's anything to uncover when it comes to Vivian Vandemark, or if my assumptions are off. I doubt it. My gut rarely steers me wrong. Something tells me she’s hiding. Normally, I’d let it go. I have what I need, my site is up and running. But I didn’t miss the flare of heat in her eyes while I was sliding those shoes onto her feet. She tried to pretend she wasn’t interested in me. I know better.
Once Upon a Billionaire: Blue Collar Billionaires, Book 1 Page 4
