Once Upon a Billionaire: Blue Collar Billionaires, Book 1

by Jessica Lemmon

  “Thirty days today,” he tells me with a grin.

  “Really?” He means thirty days sober. Hope blooms to life in my chest. And here I believed that hope had died with Mom.

  “Yeah.” He lifts a cigarette to his mouth, then holds the butt up to the screen. “My last vice. How’s Dad?”

  “Trapped in an urn.” I take a perfunctory look around even though no one could possibly know Walt and I are talking about the one and only Walter Steele.

  “Serves him right.” My brother takes another drag. “I’m in the area.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Pretty close, actually.” His voice takes on a tinny, echo-y quality a moment before I notice a man on the crosswalk who looks a lot like my brother. Identical, in fact.

  He stomps out his cigarette underfoot and I bounce over to him, heedless of who’s watching. He catches me in a bony hug and I hold on to him for a long, long while.

  “You ass!” I let go and swat him in the arm. He laughs, and the sound is heavenly. I missed him like crazy. Since he’s rarely sober and himself, I’ve missed him for a long time. I hold on to moments like this one with both hands. “You look well.”

  He releases me and reaches into his pocket, dropping a bronze coin into my hand a moment later. I turn the coin over, running my thumb over the words “To Thine Own Self Be True.”

  “Whoa. Heavy.”

  “In every sense of the word,” he assures me. “Are you doing anything right now? I thought we’d grab lunch. Or late breakfast. Or coffee. I’m not picky.”

  “Well…” His eyes go over my head to my place of employment. The Clear Ridge Bureau of Inspection. “I have a lunch break but otherwise I’m chained to my desk.”

  “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” He tucks my hair behind my ear and gives me a sad smile. I’m not sure if he’s talking about him or me.

  “Wait, shoot.” I just remembered I have lunch with Nate today.

  “What is it?”

  “You know what? Nothing. It’s nothing. How about there?” I point at the pizza place. “They have amazing calzones.”

  “That works. What time are you free?”

  “Noon.” I mentally make a note to call Nate and break our date.

  After all, a thirty-day-sober Walt is a rare artifact.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nate

  I’m at Grand Marin, scowling while Beck updates me on the final touches for the units on Mulberry Street. Our live-work community is filled with fruity, herby street names. Mulberry, Juniper, Persimmon. The grassy area where there are sprinklers for the kids in the summer is Strawberry Fields.

  “Are we on time?” I interrupt, distractedly squinting into the distance. I’m standing in front of the unit I’m using as an office while watching the cars on the road.

  “We’re on time,” he tells me. He knows my values. Being late is unacceptable. William Owen taught me that. If your project is late, then your client is pissed. If your client is pissed, then you might not be rehired. If you’re not rehired, then it’s back to doing the hard part, which is convincing the client to take you on in the first place.

  I took to excellence like a fish to water. Back when I was a kid, everything was acceptable. Lateness, stealing from my piggy bank, not having food in the cabinets… Chaos. I don’t like chaos.

  Vivian is late for our lunch appointment.

  Very late.

  I told myself I wasn’t waiting for her, wasn’t watching for her, but then both happened simultaneously. Not that she’s chaos, but these circumstances tend to lead to it. I can’t decide if my pride’s been stepped on or if this is a premonition of Things to Come.

  “You okay, Nate?”

  “No. Someone was supposed to meet me here a while ago.” I check my watch even though I don’t need to. I’ve been checking the time every three minutes for the last forty-five of them. No, wait. Forty-six.

  Beck whistles long and low. He knows I don’t like to be late or stood up. I wonder which one my “date” has done. Time to pay Vivian a visit.

  Across the street from CRBI, I park and feed a meter. At the crosswalk, I freeze when I spot her embracing some guy.

  My fists ball at my sides as a flicker of the old rage I used to feel daily sparks to life. It’s unhealthy, that rage. I need to move the needle from rage to disappointment if I have any hope of not losing my temper.

  Is he the guy who ripped her off? She told me he was dead, but people say lots of things to escape or cover for their past. I know someone, intimately, who encouraged their own mother to sign over her parental rights to the Owen family. And then told everyone she died.

  We do what we have to do, is what I’m saying.

  The light changes and I do a neat jog to cross the street. When she sees me, her eyes widen with alarm and she drops the man’s hand.

  I stalk toward her, upset and borderline betrayed. The guy she’s with is tall, rangy, no match for me. Especially when I’m this pissed off. If he hurt her, so help me, God, I’ll—

  “Nate.” Her voice holds more than one note of surprise. Did she think I’d let her stand me up and not check on her? Did this guy do the same to her in the past?

  “Who the hell are you?” I ask him. No sense in wasting my anger on her.

  He smiles, zero caution in his eyes. Zero fear too. He strikes me as someone who’s accustomed to being on the wrong end of situations. I immediately reassess when he offers his hand.

  “Walt St—”

  “My brother, Walt,” Vivian interrupts. Unlike her brother’s, her smile is a touch disingenuous. “Walt, this is Nathaniel Owen, he’s a builder in the area. We do a lot of work with the Owens at CRBI.”

  I shake her brother’s hand and he nods. “That’s cool. Good to meet you, Nathaniel. I’ll let you get back to it, V.”

  “There’s a pan of lasagna in the fridge,” she calls as he crosses the street the way I just came. Her worry is palpable as she watches her brother walk away. Reminds me of the way I used to watch my parents and wish they’d get better. Dangerous, that hope. It comforts you when it shouldn’t and leaves you damaged when the balloon finally pops. And most of the time, it pops.

  “I didn’t know you have a brother.”

  “He lives in Atlanta.” She turns guarded eyes on me. “He’s visiting.”

  “You could have called to cancel lunch.”

  “I meant to. I had a busy day and then Walt stopped in and… He has a way of taking all my attention.”

  I want to forgive her. Family can be stressful. And hers is a doozy.

  “Are you safe?” My savior complex emerges again.

  “From Walt? Yes, of course.”

  Anger. I recognize the emotion as if I transferred it to her. She’s pulling away, building her wall again. “I have to go back to my desk. I already stayed out fifteen minutes longer than I should have.”

  She turns, but I catch her hand. She lets me keep her there, and in that brief wordless exchange I sense she wants me to hold her and tell her it’s going to be okay.

  “Dinner tonight,” I tell her. “My place.”

  “But my brother—”

  “Is a grown man. He can reheat lasagna by himself.”

  “I’m not sure how long he’s staying, Nate.”

  Part of me wants to insist. But I know better than most that family pulls rank.

  “I’ll check in on him and maybe come over after, okay?”

  “Okay,” I agree, even though that “maybe” was in there and she stood me up once already. But I’m hanging on to it because she owes me. Not only a meal, but also an explanation. Specifically, about why her brother is the infamous Walter Steele’s namesake.

  Now I know exactly what Vivian “Vandemark” has been hiding.

  Vivian

  Nate was wrong about my brother. Yes, Walt is physically a grown man, but he’s not capable of caring for himself. He’s been under the care of nannies, drivers, house managers, and rehabilitation centers for mos
t of his life. So was I, but I also ran a chunk of our father’s company.

  That ghost haunts me. I was co-captain yet completely in the dark. I don’t know what irks me more, that I didn’t notice the discrepancies or that my father didn’t trust me enough to confide in me.

  I open my front door and call out. No answer. I check the rest of the rooms for my brother even though the cavernous feel of the place tells me no one’s there. I look in the fridge and find the three portions of lasagna I’d separated into glass containers this morning. If he was here, he didn’t eat.

  I call his phone.

  No answer.

  I stare numbly at my father’s urn before lifting the lid on the canister next to it. It reads “tea,” of which it holds a lot. Beneath the netted bags I have two hundred dollars in cash.

  After a brief check, I see I’m incorrect.

  Had. I had two hundred dollars in cash.

  “Dammit, Walt.” I try my brother’s phone again. A recording informs me his voicemail box isn’t set up. I text him next.

  Don’t use. Whatever you do. I’ll give you all the money you need.

  It’s a desperate plea, but I type in, You’re thirty days sober. I love you.

  I scrape my keys off the counter and rush for the door, nearly bowling over the man in the doorway.

  Walt.

  I blink at him dumbly.

  He’s holding four large reusable grocery bags, barely. “Hey. Heard the phone but my hands were full.” He passes me to set the bags down on the kitchen counter while I stare at him like he’s back from the dead. He might as well be. When I noticed cash missing, I pictured him facedown in an alley or holed up in some meth house in a seedy, falling-down neighborhood.

  I peek into one of the bags and find a lot of fruit. I never buy this much fresh fruit.

  “You didn’t have a juicer,” he tells me. “Now you do.”

  “That’s why you took the money from the canister?” I ask as he pulls a large box from one of the grocery sacks. “To buy a juicer?”

  “Yeah.” His face falls as he absorbs my expression. “Jesus, Viv. Did you think I stole it from you?”

  “Well, technically you did.” I fold my arms. Disappointment isn’t a foreign emotion in my life and I’ve been disappointed plenty by Walt. I know he’s sick and he can’t help it, but the effect is the same on me.

  “I know.” He looks at his shoes. “I thought I’d get a job here. Stay close. Not with you. Not for long, anyway. Maybe you could float me a deposit for first month’s rent—”

  “That money is earmarked for rehab. But you can stay with me for a little while. And if you’re ready, until you find a job.” I guard our nest egg like a mama eagle. The “egg” is the last of our wealth and if I have to spend every dime of it to keep him alive, I will. That doesn’t include apartment deposits. I want to believe he’s conquered his addiction. That fairy tales come true. That love wins. But it’s so damn hard after what we’ve been through.

  “I’m ready.” He kisses my forehead. Then he starts unboxing the juicer. “Do you want one?”

  “I, uh, I have a date.” Sort of.

  “Let me guess. Nathaniel Owen.”

  “Perceptive.”

  “He looked at me like he wanted to pound me into a greasy spot on the sidewalk,” he says. “I have to admit, I like that he’s looking out for you.”

  “I can look after myself.”

  My brother, a handful of packing plastic in one hand, squeezes my arm with the other. “So can I, sis. I won’t stay long. I swear. Just long enough to make myself a respectable citizen.”

  “That could take years,” I tease. It feels good to tease him. It’s a sign things aren’t in a downward spiral for once.

  A bubble of hope rises to the surface. And, oh, it feels good. And weird. And terrifying. Who knew one feeling could be so many things?

  “You’re moving to Clear Ridge? What about Atlanta?” I ask.

  “I left a lot of old friends in Atlanta.” Junkies like him, he means. He pulls the shiny juicer from its home. “I stashed my clothes in the room you’re using as an office. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “That’s fine.” I let out a breath of relief. For right now he’s okay, talking about sleeping on the couch and preparing to juice himself a healthy drink. It’s hard to trust things are okay after they weren’t for so long, but I’m getting there.

  “If you’re sure you’re okay without me…” I mutter, unable to let go all the way.

  “You have cable?”

  “Netflix.”

  “Even better.” He whistles while he rinses off the many parts of the juicer. I consider his cheery state and weigh it against my own unexpected desire to see Nate. “I’m fine, Viv. Go.”

  “If you’re sure,” I repeat.

  “Get out of here.”

  I decide to trust him, scraping my keys off the table and grabbing my purse.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Vivian

  I knock on Nate’s door, expecting him to answer.

  Odessa answers instead. “Right on time, Ms. Vandemark. Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your way in a flash.” She’s wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. We had a house staff when I lived with my parents. Muriel made the best enchiladas in the whole wide world. Dad stole her entire savings and retirement funds. He convinced her to invest with him and promised to 10X her money. The last time I saw her she was in court shooting daggers at me from her eyes. When a good woman like Muriel turns on you, there’s a decent chance God’s not your biggest fan, either.

  “It smells wonderful in here,” I tell Odessa.

  “It should. I’ve been cooking all afternoon.” She waves the towel to invite me to follow. She’s not formal, which suits Nate’s style. “Prime rib, garlic mashed potatoes and French-style green beans await you.”

  I set my purse on a chair in the living room. Tilting my chin, I take in the tall, open ceilings, the black-framed glass separating this room from the staircase that leads to the bedrooms. I smile at the memory of what Nate and I did in this room, and upstairs in the shower. Odessa slips back into the kitchen. She’s humming.

  I’m still wearing the green dress and wedge sandals. I considered changing, but this outfit was meant to be worn on our lunch date and I figured wearing it to dinner was the least I could do to make up for leaving him hanging.

  “Decide to show up after all?” Nate comes downstairs in jeans and a snug T-shirt molding his firm chest. I’ve never seen him in jeans before and the look is, well…it’s fantastic. Worn denim and sneakers suit him. His upper body was built for gray cotton. His hair is damp and combed against his head like he’s freshly showered.

  “Are you upset with me?” I ask, a little nervous he might be.

  “You worried?” He comes closer, and I don’t answer, running my hand over his chest instead. He embraces me and we stand there, soaking each other in. He’s not supposed to feel this comforting and I’m not supposed to be this needy. I can’t help it. Today my brother stopped and restarted my heart.

  “I’ll take my leave.” Odessa clears her throat from the foyer. “I trust you can handle serving dinner.”

  “I can. Thank you.” He watches her go and I watch him. His eyes crinkle in the corners, sexy. Comforting. His mouth loses its smile when he looks at me.

  “I’m sorry for not canceling lunch,” I blurt out. I owe him that.

  “I understand.”

  Funnily enough he sounds like he understands. He doesn’t seem angry that I didn’t join him for lunch, even though I’d have deserved it.

  “Wine?” He releases me and walks to the bar.

  “I’d love a glass.”

  He pours us each one. I take a sip and let out a low hum of approval. It’s a fruity red. “This is very good.”

  “It better be after what I paid for it.”

  The men I used to date liked to brag about what they paid for wine. They’d die before admitting it was overpriced. “You don
’t talk like a billionaire.”

  “You do.”

  I cradle my glass against my chest, my heart thudding against my breastbone. His was a loaded statement, and paired with an unerring stare feels borderline accusatory. “Do I?”

  “You’re Walter Steele’s daughter.”

  My face goes cold and I literally take a step away from him. I don’t know why. It isn’t like I’m going to make a run for it. I’m not a felon. He’s not a cop with a warrant for my arrest. The urge to flee is there all the same.

  “I recognized your brother when you interrupted his introduction. I remember him from when the press was covering your father’s court case. There wasn’t as much focus on you.” He sets his glass aside and plunges his hands into his front pockets. So casual.

  Meanwhile, my heart is racing, my palms sweating. I haven’t been confronted since I changed my name. I thought I’d escaped my past. But here it is, ironically arriving with Walt.

  “You were the good kid,” Nate continues. “Walt made for a better story. Drug addict. Alcoholic. In and out of several rehab joints since he was a teen.”

  “You’ve done your research,” I say carefully.

  “When I saw him across the street I thought he was the guy who originally hurt you. That you’d lied to me about him being dead. I had to make sure you were safe.”

  “That’s not your job,” I snap. Habit. I’m actually flattered by Nate’s concern.

  “You’re right. You’re not my job,” he agrees, sounding perturbed. “You’re not my anything.”

  I hold my breath and nod slowly, trying not to feel the sting of those words. Part of me has known all along I’m alone. Why should I expect Nate to be different?

  I set my wineglass on the bar next to his. “What now? Are you going to try and bribe me or are you going to be a decent human being and keep my identity to yourself? I don’t have a lot of pull at the bureau, so I’m not sure I can help you. Daniel’s petty. He’ll watch me like a hawk once he knows I’m lying, if he doesn’t fire me first.”