Once Upon a Billionaire: Blue Collar Billionaires, Book 1

by Jessica Lemmon

  “I thought a hard man was good to find,” crows her friend with a hooting laugh. She then winks at me. “Take it from me, girl. You walk away from your sketchy father and become your own woman. His weakness is your power.”

  “Thank you.” That was unexpected. And strangely poignant.

  Nate thanks them too, and starts off toward another couple. I stop walking, my hand in his. He comes back to me when I give his arm a tug.

  “I get it,” I say. “Not everyone knows who I am, and once they do, they don’t care.”

  “Hate to break it to you, kid. You are not the center of the universe. Also, you owe me a thousand dollars.”

  I punch him in the arm. He deserves it. He chuckles, but sobers quickly.

  “No one is after you.” He wraps his arms around my waist. “Not anymore. Walter Steele is dead and his story died with him. It’s up to you, and Walt, to be better than him. Mission accomplished. By both of you.”

  The emotion hits me out of nowhere, similar to the evening I crumpled to the floor at Nate’s house and he scooped me up. Luckily, it’s not grief or despair gripping my heart. It’s gratitude. So much of it, I can hardly stand under its weight.

  I cup his neck and pull his mouth to mine. I taste beer on his tongue. Never the shy one, he deepens our kiss and we receive wolf-whistles for our PDA.

  The band returns to take the stage, making it far too loud to converse any longer. I finish my beer. I dance. I order another.

  I bask in the glow of being anonymous. Ordinary. Overlooked.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Vivian

  It’s official. Nate has turned me into a hibernating bear.

  I wake to an empty bed in the hotel and stretch my arms overhead. The white bedding is muted given the room-darkening curtains. Thankfully he left them open a crack. If not for the wedge of sun streaming in I might have slept even later. I quickly search the room, but Nate, as per his usual, has already risen and shined. Who knows where he’s gallivanted off to. I imagine he’ll return with a gift, or better, breakfast.

  I shower and wash my hair, shaking off the fatigue from our travels and that “one more” beer I indulged in at Pint Haus. That last one is never a good idea. When will I learn?

  I’m in the middle of drying my hair, naked, thanks to my towel falling off mid-blowout, when I hear the door open and close. Nate strides by.

  “Hey, you.” I grab my towel and loop it around my body, intending to flash him when he turns around. What stops me is his expression. Murderous isn’t the right word, but close. There’s a palpable hurt beneath the rage that makes what he’s feeling hard to classify.

  He sets down the white bakery bag and offers me a paper coffee cup. “Cappuccino. Croissants.”

  “How very French of you,” I say carefully, gripping my towel. His eyes go to my hand but they don’t glaze over with lust. Something is very, very wrong.

  He presses his fingers to his forehead as he strolls across the room. I pull on some clothes while he looks out the window, his jeans and T-shirt silhouetted in the sunlight streaming through the now-open curtains. His shoulders are tight. His back muscles twitch.

  I approach on cat’s paws and touch his arm. “Nate, are you—”

  “I saw her.”

  My heart sinks to my stomach. Not at his words, but his tone. He faces me. The hurt triples as some of the rage fades.

  “My mother,” he explains. “I found out where she lives and I paid her a visit.”

  I want to ask how she is but I’m not sure how he found her, so I keep my question to myself. He saves me the trouble.

  “She wasn’t high.”

  “That’s good.”

  “She asked me for money so she could get high. I told her no. She yelled. She screamed. She told me I was abusing her by not giving her the ‘medicine’ she needs.” He speaks through clenched teeth. I have no idea what to do. Touch him or don’t?

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I begged her to go to rehab. I offered to take her right then. Told her I’d pay for her stay and visit twice a month.” His hurt-filled eyes hit me like a sock to the stomach. “Know what she said?”

  I shake my head. I don’t think I want to know what she said. Unfortunately he’s going to tell me.

  “She told me her son abandoned her. That I was dead as far as she was concerned. Then she attacked me. I think she was going for my wallet.” He holds his arm out. In the sunlight, I make out shallow scratch marks.

  “Oh my God. Nate.” I reach for him but he shakes me off.

  “I envisioned reconciling some of the guilt I still feel for leaving her. I thought I could help. I can’t help her if she doesn’t want it.”

  “You’re right. You can’t.”

  “It’s my job to help others.”

  “No. Your job is to provide homes and workplaces for people who want to be part of a community,” I correct. “Not drag people to a conclusion they have to reach on their own.”

  “What about last night?” he asks, a frown carving his brow. “You didn’t need dragged to a conclusion that Walter Steele isn’t running your life?”

  He’s angry and I have to be very careful not to snap back at him, which is so, so tempting. I’ve never seen him like this—not in control. Is this what he looks like when he’s out of it? I throw the words he said to me on the plane back at him.

  “I know what this anger is masking. And so do you.”

  A muscle in his cheek jumps when he welds his jaw together at the hinges.

  “It’s okay to be afraid for her, Nate. You love her.”

  “Yeah, well, she hates me.”

  “She doesn’t. She’s sick. You said so yourself.” Unable to keep from it, I lay a hand on his chest. His big, strong heart thuds against my palm. “You’re not failing her because she won’t listen. Addicts have to hit rock bottom before they ask for help.”

  “And what if they never ask?” His voice cracks.

  I consider his father. My mother. They didn’t ask for help and their addictions cost them their lives. I don’t have any encouraging words to say so I don’t say anything.

  “I have to visit the site today,” he says. “Do you need anything else before I go?”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No.”

  I bristle. I was invited yesterday, but not today. I don’t know if he’s embarrassed for showing his vulnerability or if he needs to process without me around. I respect his need to be alone, even if I am disappointed.

  “Will you be okay here?” Concern leaks into his expression. He’s always caring for everyone else, which doesn’t leave much room for caring for himself. He’s done so much for me. I can’t help but want to return the favor.

  “I’ll be good here.” I force a smile. To alleviate his concern, I say, “I can always go shopping.”

  He reaches for his wallet and I shove his arm. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Your addiction, Vivian”—he pulls out cash and leaves it on the desk—“I’m happy to feed.”

  He drops a fast kiss onto my lips. I hold on as long as he allows. He tastes good. He feels good. I want to heal his hurts, and I know what he likes. We spent last night twisting up the sheets and burying mine.

  “Call you later,” he promises. And then he’s gone.

  With a sigh, I look at the hundred dollar bills on the desk and consider how unfairly his mother treated him. Hasn’t she broken his heart enough for one lifetime? He deserves better. He deserves to be lavished.

  A slow smile curls the corners of my mouth.

  I tuck the bills into my pocket. Looks like I’m going shopping after all.

  Nate

  Seeing my mother was a mistake.

  All the work I’ve done over the years to become whole, or as close to whole as I’ll ever be, was washed away like a mudslide this morning. Similar to the mud puddling under my feet at the construction site from an earlier light summer rain.

  Light.

 
That’s how I felt when I arrived in Chicago with Vivian. So much for my preaching about how I know she’s afraid to claim what she wants. And that stunt I pulled in the bar to prove no one is out to get her… Who do I think I am?

  This morning I rode those good feelings and the high from the sex last night to what I thought was a brilliant idea. I’d visit my mother. What could possibly go wrong?

  Stupid, stupid. Stupid.

  What possessed me to do it?

  Concern, sure, but a part of me was acting selfishly. I was trying to force the final puzzle piece to slide into place. To finally be whole. Not so I can reach a state of enlightenment, which, face it, I’m not sure is attainable, but for Vivian.

  For the first time, I have a strong connection with a woman. I don’t want to be less than she deserves, and she’s a woman who deserves far better than me.

  I was happier without these thoughts.

  “Sign here, Mr. Owen.” The inspector, Bill, hands over a clipboard. I jot my name on the line. “I’ll email a copy to your foreman.”

  “Actually, I need you to email it to me before you leave.”

  He’s taken aback by my request but recovers quickly. “I can do that.”

  I give him my private email and check my phone to ensure it arrives before he leaves. I don’t want to deal with lost paperwork. I can’t take the stress, or afford the time setback if I have to destroy another wall. Though I doubt a smart-mouthed, dark-haired woman in high heels is going to strut onto my site to set me straight again. Lightning usually only strikes once.

  An hour later I’m in a filthy cab, stuck in traffic, my good mood from yesterday a far-off memory. I’m looking forward to two things. Dinner, since I skipped lunch, and a glass of whiskey. Okay, three things. I want to see Vivian, bury my nose in her hair and breathe in her vanilla scent.

  I owe her an apology. I should’ve treated her better this morning.

  I’m used to control. Having it. Wielding it. When it’s taken from me, it fucking pisses me off. Lack of control makes me feel unstable. Like I’m free-falling. My parents favored that feeling, but I never did. I only wanted to hold everything together.

  Viv was right. I was afraid. When my mother wouldn’t accept my help, I feared for her life. For her future. I don’t know which I hate more, being unable to help my mom or Vivian witnessing me at my weakest.

  When I enter our hotel room, I’m momentarily disoriented. Candles flicker from practically every surface in the room. Low flames wink from votive holders on the dresser, the nightstands and the desk. A trail of rose petals leads from the door, to the bed, and off the comforter to the bathroom. I follow the sound of running water to the massive soaking tub in the center of the room. Steam rises, choking the air with mist.

  Vivian is perched on the ledge of the tub, her hand testing the temperature of the water.

  “Finally,” she says, exasperated. “Do you know how hard it is to keep the water warm when I have no idea when or if you’re coming back?”

  “If?” Surely she doesn’t think I’d leave and never come back. “Listen, about this morning—”

  “Shh-shh,” she hushes me and then stands and drops the hotel robe.

  Beneath it, she’s wearing a black, lacy garment that sends every thought out of my head. Her long hair spills over her shoulders and her breasts are tucked into two cups creating a hell of a lot of cleavage.

  “I spent your money,” she informs me with a grin. Her warm caramel-colored eyes sparkle in the candlelight, which also highlights the freckles on the bridge of her nose.

  “You spent it well.”

  “You deserve to be treated too, Nathaniel Owen. You take care of everyone. Who takes care of you?”

  “Odessa,” I answer automatically.

  “Wrong. You only let her do so much. You send her home and serve your own dinner.”

  “I’m very independent,” I argue as she sashays across the room. I’m given a peek of her ass beneath the short skirt of the slip she’s wearing. A strip of black material separates her ass cheeks and I grind my back teeth together. “A thong.”

  She peeks over her shoulder, black lashes fluttering coyly, and then she lifts the back of her nightie to show me the thong in all its glory. “Do you like it?”

  “No.” My hands clench and release the air as I cross the room. “I love it.”

  “Good. You bought it.” She lifts the phone on the vanity and presses a button. “Well, I bought it for you. But you paid for it.”

  “You spoil me.” I can’t wait any longer. I must touch her. Anywhere. Everywhere. I can’t get enough of this woman.

  “What do you want for dinner?”

  “You,” I answer without hesitating.

  She covers the receiver of the hotel phone. “I’m trying to place an order.”

  “You,” I move her hand and repeat loud enough to be overheard.

  She orders two steaks and potatoes, something else and something after that. I’m not listening anymore, having buried my face in her cleavage. By the time my hand slides past the barrier of her panties, she gasps and finishes her order with, “And champagne.”

  “Champagne,” I say against her parted lips, while I part her other lips with my fingers and give her a tender stroke. She’s already wet and the smooth creaminess of her threatens to buckle my knees.

  “Twenty to thirty minutes,” she breathes as she drops the phone.

  “I can work with that.”

  Her eyes flash with lust and heat. This is my favorite look on Vivian Vandemark, hands down.

  “I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” she gasps as I stroke into her again.

  “Plenty of time for that,” I promise. But of course, she doesn’t listen. She grabs my cock and tugs. Then we make good use of those twenty to thirty minutes.

  We’re still naked when our food arrives. I wrap a towel around my waist and answer the door, palming the guy a one hundred dollar bill. He nods his appreciation and leaves as quickly as he arrives.

  As I wheel the cart into the bathroom, Vivian is slipping into the tub. She added bubble bath and more hot water and now those bubbles are teetering at the edge.

  “Dinner in the tub.” She slicks bubbles up her arms. “It’s been too long since I indulged.”

  I drop my towel and climb in after her. “This’ll be a first for me.”

  Her face lights up. “You poor sheltered boy.”

  “Deprived,” I joke, but after I say it, it doesn’t feel like a joke. I have a lot, but there’s always been something missing.

  “You look like you’re thinking hard about something. What is it?”

  She must’ve caught me at a good moment because I tell her. Sex always limbers up my body. I didn’t know my tongue was as susceptible.

  “I was thinking…about this morning. How I felt walking into this room. How I was the same but different.”

  She cocks her head, listening. Wanting to understand.

  “I tried to take care of my parents. When I couldn’t, I focused on taking care of myself. And when I was adopted by the Owens, and realized theirs was my permanent home, I decided to take care of them.” I let out a heavy sigh, understanding what made me feel light tonight after such a heavy morning. It was more than sex. “You… This.” I gesture to the cart. It’s choked with dishes, condiments, and silverware, a bucket holding a bottle of champagne, and look at that, a whiskey neat. “I’m not used to being taken care of.”

  “You should try it more often.” She hands me the short glass. “It’s actually quite nice.”

  “You didn’t have to do this. After the way I treated you, I half expected you to be pissed off when I came back.”

  “You had a tough morning, Nate. That doesn’t erase everything that happened before it.”

  Fuck, she’s sweet. It’s nice to be understood. To be seen. To be taken care of, my needs anticipated.

  I set my glass aside and wrap my arms around her waist. She turns and I pull her back a
gainst my front. She’s soft and warm and beautiful. I cop a feel because I can’t help myself, but I’m sincere when I rumble the words, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She squeezes her arms over mine.

  “Tomorrow we’ll scout a few options for your father’s remains.” I kiss the edge of her ear to soften the blow. Instead of stiffening against me, she tilts her head and looks up at me. I’m lost in her brown eyes. Even more lost when she smiles softly.

  “Sounds good.”

  I ease into the warmth of her embrace, a good glass of whiskey, and, after, we eat steaks in the bathtub and talk about our day. I could get used to this.

  Hell. I already am.

  Vivian

  We’re standing over my mother’s grave. The day is windy, cloudy, and warm. The marker reads “daughter, sister, wife, mother” and makes me remember that somewhere I have an uncle. Dad took him for all he was worth. Last I heard he was living in Colorado, but who knows where Stephen escaped to. He didn’t have anything to do with us after Mom died. He held Walt and me as accountable as he did our father for destroying her. It was unfair.

  Or maybe, I think with a hefty dose of perspective, it hurt too much to be around us after she was gone.

  Nate is standing off to the side. Not hovering, an effort to give me privacy. A patch of grass is next to Mom’s tombstone. That spot was designated for Dad, but putting him to rest here seems wrong. For a lot of reasons.

  “I don’t want to bury him here.” The moment it’s out of my mouth I know it’s the right call.

  “Okay.” Nate comes closer.

  I haven’t taken my eyes off the flowers we brought. A huge bouquet of daisies. They were her favorite.

  “I don’t want people to see his name and then look over at my mom and think ‘that poor woman.’ I want her to have dignity. They weren’t in love for years, you know,” I say, half talking to him and half talking to myself. “They were more like business partners. There was a chill in the air whenever he came home from work. We all noticed. The jumpy house staff. Walt, when he was there, would climb into himself and disappear. That’s how Mom did it too.”