by Stacey Lynn
Except now isn’t the day.
I spent an hour this morning at the funeral home and then the cemetery where Eleanor was buried. I still can’t believe she’s gone. I’d barely been able to choke out the eulogy I gave at the funeral service, too many emotions, too many memories colliding inside my chest and making it burn.
Gone.
Fuck. It shouldn’t be a surprise. The woman is—was—eighty-nine years old.
On the other hand, just last week she was still taking her daily swim in the ocean, sexually harassing her twenty-four-year-old pool boy, teasing him about someday showing up and cleaning her pool in a mankini instead of his company’s khaki pants and green polo shirt.
The woman is crazy. Was.
Shit. I yank at the tie wrapped around my collar.
It’s more of a noose than an accessory at this point.
My grandma has been the only woman in my life for as long as I can remember. I have parents; they’re just either depressed, drunk, or assholes, depending on the day. All my good memories are wrapped up in Eleanor and her mansion on a bluff overlooking the ocean.
It’s fucking spectacular. And while I already knew someday she was going to die and leave me her land and her house as my inheritance, I certainly never expected to receive the bomb Eleanor’s lawyer has dropped in my lap.
“I’m sorry,” I say, scrubbing a hand down my face. I yank on my tie again, loosening it and popping the top button on my shirt. “Can you please repeat that?”
Next to me, my dad blusters. He’s either gleefully excited about this or annoyed at Eleanor’s latest antics.
My money’s on both, actually.
Hal Merryweather adjusts his reading glasses and shakes the papers in his hand pointlessly. We all heard it. Hell, the old man wrote the will himself.
“It essentially says Miss Eleanor has bequeathed to you her house and all of her land in Cannon Bluffs.” He clears his throat and I wave him forward. I already knew that. It’s the second part that has me practically shitting my pants. “As long as you find a woman, fall in love, and get married within six months from the date this will is read.”
Damn. Yep. Sounds just as horrible as it did the first time, except maybe worse.
Eleanor’s parents, my great-grandparents, whom I never met, came to Oregon during the gold rush. They were one of the first settling families on the coast. The original house on that land was built by my great-grandfather. It had two bedrooms and a small living room and kitchen. The fucker was tiny, based on the pictures I’ve seen. It also held a family of eight. Six kids crammed into one tiny bedroom. Eleanor used to tell me stories about growing up in the house like it was best time in her life. The current house was built almost seventy years ago when Eleanor and her husband, my late grandfather Roger, decided they wanted to start a family.
As the last surviving member of her family, she not only owned all of her family’s thirty acres of land in Cannon Bluffs, but also held enough to stock to make either my father or me majority shareholder.
She knew me well enough to know I don’t give a crap about the company. I’ll run it when I have to, I’ll work when I need to, but I’m not a business guy. I’d rather kick back with my buddies, grab a couple of beers, shoot some pool, and build shit with my own two hands than sit behind a desk for the rest of my life, pretending the work I do actually matters to people other than increased stock options and annual bonuses.
That’s my dad’s role, so she gave him most of her stock. The rest is to be equally divided between all remaining board members, but that doesn’t matter. They get richer, and my dad is given the prestige of being 72 percent owner instead of a mere 48 percent.
Big fucking deal.
Next to me, my dad chortles as I absorb Merryweather’s words.
Find a wife. Six months. He’s rattled off more specifics, such as the marriage has to last for two full years before I can claim ownership, but until then, it’s held in a trust in my name. I can move in if I want, but I could lose it to a bulldozer if I fuck this up.
If Eleanor weren’t already dead, I’d shake her until she told me what the hell she was thinking.
Except I already do know. Two weeks ago, in a rare show of serious emotion instead of playfulness, she had turned to me and tilted her head.
“Aren’t you done having your fun, Corbin?”
“No, I want to live the rest of my life having fun, just like you do.”
She laughs and a cough hits her. I pour her a glass of water and she brushes aside my concern. Her coughing fits are coming more frequently and I’m worried, even if she assures me everything is fine.
“Be serious, Corbin. I want that for you.”
“What?” I laugh. “A wife and kids?”
No fucking way in hell. Lane men aren’t built for families and faithfulness.
She pierces me with an intense expression, one she so rarely wears. I sit up and pay attention. She might joke around a lot, be half crazy by some people’s standards, but she’s wicked smart. “Yes, dear. It’s time. You’re thirty-two years old and you can’t judge all marriages based on your parents’. Mine still holds the best years and memories of my life, even if Roger’s been gone for decades. Do this for me, or at least consider it.”
“I will, Grams.” I’ll do anything for her, even promise her the impossible.
“I know you will.” She grins and turns back to the ocean. “I have a feeling you’ll do it sooner than you think.”
That woman. The memory slams into me with g-force power and knocks me back into my chair. She knew. She freaking knew she was dying, and this was her last request.
Reality is settling in, and next to me, my own damn father is rubbing his hands and excitement is glimmering in his eyes.
Well, fuck him. He’s not getting the land or the house. The last thing Eleanor ever wanted was for her home to be bulldozed and a tourist megamall constructed in its place. Dad’s tried for years to get Grams to sell him most of the land so he can do that very thing. If I can’t keep it, it’ll all disappear due to his greed.
Like hell I’ll let that happen.
“I’ll do it,” I declare. My hands curl into fists.
“Seriously, son,” my dad says. “You can’t manage your own life; you think you can find someone else to take care of?”
I level him with a glare. “Yeah? Because you’ve done such a great job of taking care of the people you’re supposed to? Like Mom?”
His lips press into a thin line. Game, set, match, asshole.
My mom’s practically catatonic these days, spends most of her time alone in her bedroom, only coming out when my dad forces her to galas and company-sponsored events. When she does come out on her own, she’s typically drunk, and a nervous wreck she’ll somehow screw something up.
She used to be this woman with a gentle smile and a lyrical laugh.
Until neglect and lack of love and her husband’s disdain killed all her beauty.
Sure, on the outside she looks as beautiful as she always has, but it’s her inner beauty that’s been stomped and callously murdered without thought.
“Six months,” I state, and stand from the chair. I have to get out of this office before I punch my father in the face. Eleanor would probably love it if I did, though. “I’ll find a wife and get married in six months. I also want a copy of that will delivered to my place by the end of the day.”
“Absolutely Mr. Lane,” Merryweather says. He must be as crazy as Eleanor. He’s acting as if this is all perfectly natural and normal.
Hell, perhaps it is. This is no different from an arranged marriage, and at least I get to choose my bride. Perhaps among the wealthiest in the world, this is how marriage is discussed and determined.
It would explain so much about my dad.
I’m barely out of the high-rise where Merryweather’s office is before my phone is in my hand and I’ve got my buddy Trey on the line.
“Hey, dude. What’s going on? You done
at the lawyer’s office?”
“I need a drink. Anywhere, but I need it now.”
His teasing immediately disappears. Trey and I have been friends since college, met at Stanford, were members of the rowing team. He’s the brother I always wanted. “What happened? Franklin being a dick?”
“Worse, actually. Where can we meet?”
“Pour on Fifth Street.”
A whiskey bar. Absolutely perfect. Who cares that it’s barely noon?
In less than twenty minutes, I’ve got a glass in my hand, Trey across the table from me, and he’s looking just as stunned as I am after I share all the details of the reading of Eleanor’s will.
“Well, fuck.” He tosses back his drink and sets it on the table. “What are you going to do?”
“Drink, but other than that, hell if I know.”
Eleanor brought up my playing the field because she doesn’t get how hard it is for a man like me to find someone who actually likes me. I’ve dated more socialites and daughters of the wealthy than I can count, and all of them typically have one hand on my dick and the other reaching for my black Amex.
Rich women are a pain in my ass. They’re more needy than tolerable, and more insecure than an abused dog.
Fuck. Maybe that’s been my problem. If I need to find someone I can stand living with for two years and get married, I have to find someone different.
I have to find someone normal.
—
We spend the next couple of hours at Pour. Trey’s a wickedly smart app developer and sets his own hours. Built and rough looking, he looks like he belongs inside a UFC cage, not behind a computer, creating new games for hours of mindless entertainment for the masses. The guy’s a self-made multimillionaire and actually likes the shit he does for a living.
Thankfully, since he can work whenever he wants, which is almost all the time because he’s a workaholic, he can also take the day off and spend it with me. After we left Eleanor’s funeral this morning, he’d headed back to his place to get work done on a new app he’s designing. I’m thankful as shit I’ve got the kind of friends who will drop everything and spend it getting wasted with me when I need them to.
Not that we’re drunk. After whiskey glass number two, we put the alcohol to the side, ordered some food, and have spent the last few hours talking about Eleanor, laughing at how crazy the old woman was, and how even more insane her will is.
To show his support, he’s spent the last twenty minutes creating a dating profile for me on several different sites and apps, including Tinder and one of his own: PerfectMate.
No thank you very much.
But the dude’s having fun with it, so I let him work his voodoo Internet magic all he wants while I sit back and scroll through the new Snapchat filters.
“See,” he says, and turns his phone in my direction. A pretty redhead is on the screen, lopsided paper New Year’s Eve hat on top of her head, and an equally cheap horn in her hand with a plastic glass of champagne. “This girl looks cute and fun.”
I set my phone down and peer at her closer. Cute, sweet, and no thank you.
“She’s twenty-two and owns five cats.”
“She’s an animal lover. It means she’s compassionate.”
“I’m allergic to them, dumbass.”
His black brows pull together. “Oh yeah, I forgot that part.”
Laughing, I push his hand away. “Drop it, Trey. I’ll figure this out. Maybe I could meet some girl at the gym. You know, hit on her while she’s on the stair climber and can’t get away from me.”
Where in the hell do normal people go, not to hook up, but for someone who could actually be something more? Beats the hell out of me. My social life is filled with galas and benefits and charity functions requiring tailored tuxedos and a minimum thousand-dollar donation.
“Yeah,” Trey nods, still clicking away on his phone. “That’ll work. Make sure you ask if she comes there often, too. That’ll win her over.”
“Oh, I’ll make her come often.”
He holds up a hand, not even bothering to look at me. “Stop right there. Love you, man, but your moves in the sack are none of my concern.”
“They should be.” I lean back and get the waitress’s attention. It’s well after noon now. And Friday. Time to get back to day drinking. “Perhaps if you took some hints from me you could finally snag your own woman.”
“I’ve got no complaints, asshole.”
I ball up my napkin and toss it at him. “Not many compliments I bet, though, either.”
“Hey.” He lifts his head and winks at me. “You seem awfully concerned about how I work my dick. You want a test drive and too afraid to ask?”
“Shut up, prick.”
“See, more dick fascination. I’m concerned for you, Corbin. Truly becoming concerned.”
I throw my head back and laugh, only stopping when the waitress finally arrives. We order another round of whiskey to drown my sorrows and problems in my favorite amber liquid.
By the time we part, it’s nearly three and I’m just on the right side of loosened up. Not too drunk to drive, just loose enough that the reality of Eleanor dying isn’t as painful as a sword in the gut like it was this morning.
I climb into my car, intent on heading out to Cannon Bluffs. There’s nowhere else I want to be this weekend. Somewhere far enough outside the city so I can be alone, and surround myself with the memories of my favorite person on the planet.
Shoving my gearshift into reverse, I back up, and then shift it into drive to get out of my parallel-parked spot. I’m just rolling to a red light when I glance at my rearview mirror.
I’m not fast enough to react and there’s nothing I can do anyway with a red light in front of me. Instinct forces me to slam on my brakes.
The car behind me slams into me and I’m thrust forward. My head smacks the steering wheel, right before I’m jerked back to my seat.
Chapter 3
Teagan
Oh crap oh crap oh crap!
The car pulls out in front of me before I can stop.
Slamming my foot onto the brake does little to help and everything moves in slow motion. My car slams into the car in front of me, forcing it forward. My elbows lock, hands squeeze the steering wheel, but I still fly toward the steering wheel, stopping myself right before I hit it.
Metal crunches and my car jolts to a stop.
“Damn,” I let out, my limbs shaking.
One second of taking my eyes off the road to plug in my dying phone and my day has just gotten worse than I can possibly imagine.
Heaving a deep breath that does nothing to calm the adrenaline coursing through me, I fling open my car door and stumble to the street. Behind and around me, people have stopped and are staring. Cellphones are out and car engines are idling, waiting to move around the accident I’ve caused.
All I can think is that I’ve just hit someone. A rich someone based on the shiny, sporty car and Mercedes emblem now cracked thanks to yours truly.
I rush to the vehicle in front of me, and as I reach it, the driver’s door flies open.
“I’m so sorry, so sorry. So very, very sorry,” I stammer as the man I’ve hit unfolds himself from his car, one hand on his forehead, rubbing back and forth as he groans. He’s wearing perfectly shined black dress shoes and a black suit that fits him beautifully. Sandy brown hair flops over his forehead.
“Are you okay?” I ask, and he drops his hand.
My heart plummets to my feet as he lifts his head, squinting at me.
I haven’t just hit a rich man.
I’ve crashed into Corbin Lane, playboy, richest son of a bitch in Portland.
Someone, please, kill me now.
“Fuck,” Corbin groans again. His fingers move to his temples and he rubs tiny circles. “What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing.” He squints at me and his hands stop moving at his temples. “I mean, not nothing. I hit you,” I wave my hand toward the back of his car. �
�Obviously. And like I said, I’m really sorry, but you pulled out so fast—”
Two thick brown brows slice upward on his forehead. “I pulled out too fast?”
“No.” I shake my head. Damn it! This is bad. Really bad. The man is worth gazillions. His gaze hits me, and in the sun, his eyes are so crystalline blue they steal my breath.
When I don’t answer, he steps toward me. His eyes narrow, head tilts. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine.” I step back, out of reach of his outstretched arm. Unfortunately, the heel of my sandal catches a small crack and I stumble backward. My arms flail, that awkward and embarrassing pinwheel motion, and just as my backside is about to become intimately acquainted with the street, I’m swept up in a strong muscled arm.
Corbin yanks me to his chest and my hands have nowhere to go except to cling to his arms.
And what nice arms they are. Focus! I shake the cobwebs from my head.
This can’t be happening. This simply isn’t happening. I am not being held by Corbin Lane, in the middle of a street in downtown Portland, with dozens of onlookers right after I’ve smashed the back of his Mercedes-Benz.
My life seriously, freaking sucks.
“I’m really sorry about your car,” I say, my breath now coming in short, harsh pants. It’s the adrenaline crash, not the mind-boggling spicy scent of his cologne that’s making me dizzy. “I’ll pay. I promise.”
With what money?
I suck my lip between my teeth and Corbin relaxes his hold on me, enough to escort me safely back to my Prius.
I reach into my car and dig through my wallet, pulling out my crumpled and hopefully not expired auto insurance card. I turn to hand it to him so we can finish this and I can get on with my disastrous day, when I find Corbin’s gaze fixed on the backseat of my car.
Heat flares on my cheeks and I shake the insurance card. “Mr. Lane? Here’s my insurance. Do you want to write it down or something?”
He turns to me, two thick eyebrows arching again. “You know who I am?”
“I’m pretty sure every woman under the age of sixty in Portland knows who you are.”
