Saint: A BWWM Romance Novel (The Corbett Billionaire Brothers)

by Imani King

  Rowan’s wife is even pregnant. It took them by surprise, he’d told me. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised too—but then again, Rowan was always that sort. The sort who would have a wife and get married and pop out as many kids as he could. He even said that his wife and kid were making him think about total retirement—and he said that without one hint of hesitation in his voice.

  I stroll over to the window that looks out over the city. SameChat was my ticket to this whole town, and I got in on the app business before it was even big business. And finally, one berserk idea of mine paid off.

  I lift a drink to the hazy blue sky that sits over the city. “To you, Cynthia. Thanks for taking a chance on me.” I’m so grateful even now that I filled out that change-your-information form and clicked that I could be contacted by anyone who wanted to reach me.

  It’s not like anyone would actually contact me, would they? That’s a big what if, isn’t it? I toy with the idea in my head, spinning it around and sipping my whiskey, looking out the big picture window over the vast expanse of the city.

  Rowan told me he was having a little boy. That he never thought his wife could conceive a child naturally, and then there it was, wiggling around on the ultrasound like a little jelly bean. That’s what he said. A jelly bean.

  I smile and sip my drink. I never strongly considered the idea of a child—that’s not the Saint Corbett way. I’m ore of a love-em and leave-em with sore abs and an especially fond memory type of man. All of my other brothers—even if they didn’t think it when they were young—they were the marrying kind, the relationship kind, the romantic won’t-you-bear-my-child kind.

  And that kind of man finds a wife—or a wife finds him.

  I’m not that kind of man.

  And any woman looking at my file could easily discern that information.

  Thirty-seven, still single, head of a start-up for a dating app—one that’s somewhat sleazy, by all accounts. Wildly successful, but totally sleazy. That sums me up pretty well. I suppress a shudder and polish off the rest of my drink. The subtle change that whiskey brings settles over my body—muscles relaxing, the colors of the city brighter and more vibrant, even under the Los Angeles haze.

  It might not be so bad to be that type of man, the type that my brothers are. They never have to make the choice to go to bed alone, and they don’t have to worry about growing old in an empty apartment.

  “Crazy thoughts for a Friday morning, Saint,” I mutter to myself. “That’s all.” They’ll be easy enough to dispel by finding another gorgeous woman to take to bed—and that’s just what I’ll do. Gorgeous women are never in short supply in Los Angeles. That’s one thing about this city—there might be plenty of smog, the driving might be totally fucking awful, and the tourists are enough to drive anyone insane. But the women—there’s not just one in every bar, there’s ten or twenty. Smart, funny, each one more gorgeous than the last. And ready for exactly what I want—a one-night fling.

  I walk to my desk and press the intercom button—a holdover from older, simpler days. But something about it makes me feel like I’m an important businessman in the eighties, instead of a brand new billionaire with too much time.

  “Stacy, book me a table at Hyde Lounge tonight.” I wait for a response, a slight smile forming on my face. It’ll be a nice venue to find some of Hollywood’s most hopeful starlets—or better yet, a successful actress who won’t be the least bit interested in my money. In Los Angeles, I’m not exactly a legend with women in the higher echelon of Los Angeles society. But with the right maneuvering, I could get a few rumors started in the most elite circles. I shrug. It’ll be a good challenge for the week.

  There’s a lengthy pause. The intercom buzzes back at me. “Mr. Corbett, I can book you at Hyde for tonight. But make note, for the next seven days, you’ve scheduled interviews for a new personal assistant.” I can hear the note of hesitation in Stacy’s voice—the rest of my company knows me as the aloof CEO and probably thinks I’m in important meetings all the time. But Stacy, she’s been here since the beginning. And that woman can read me like a book. She knows it’s well nigh time that I’m out and about, making myself a household name.

  I sigh. “Well, just schedule me for tonight then. You have all the interviews lined up for the women? Don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Corbett. I’ve got them all scheduled. Starting at 10AM tomorrow.”

  “That’s just fine then. That’s just fine.” I go back and sit at my desk. Stacy’s reminded me that I actually have some work to do. I’m lazy like a fox, and my company basically just runs itself. That was always my dream—creating something big, working hard for it, and then sitting back to watch it succeed.

  I scroll through the resumes of the personal assistants vying for the job at SameChat—mostly women, yes. Highly educated, intelligent, and over-experienced for a role like this. That’s what a job like these tends to attract—women who should have better things to do.

  Every resume is better than the last.

  I push away the feeling that my life is moving into a rut.

  “I’ve flip-flopped more than a politician today. The best cure for that is a night out—and a beautiful woman.”

  I keep telling myself that as I finish up the day looking through job applications for an elite position. I’m living my dream. I’m getting ready to go to one of the most exclusive clubs in the city—one that never has a table for anyone. Yet they have one ready for me at the drop of a hat.

  This is the man I dreamed of being for the past ten years, and this is the man that I am.

  Free, wild, utterly unconcerned with what anyone thinks of me. And ready to please a woman all night long. There’s not one reason why I shouldn’t just sit back and enjoy everything this world has to give me.

  I can’t shake the feeling, though—the feeling that there’s something I’m missing.

  Like anything serious, I can shove that sensation down and move it to the very back of my consciousness. I might be wishy-washy on my own time, but Saint Corbett’s public persona is one I’ve worked hard to create.

  Playboy billionaire. Never tied down, never alone. Moving from one place to the next in a constant buzz of energy, stopping with just enough time to please a woman so thoroughly she’ll keep that night with her forever.

  That’s who I am.

  That’s the man I created when I took that $5000 five and a half years ago.

  And no matter what my brothers are doing, no matter what strange sensation that email from the fertility clinic brought up deep in my psyche, I won’t get bogged down in thinking about another kind of life.

  Some woman out there might already be lucky enough to have my child—and that’s the only kind of family Saint Corbett needs.

  Miles away, unnamed, anonymous.

  Unless they come and find me.

  I shake off the thought, and it’s all but completely gone when I arrive at Hyde.

  Funny enough, I don’t go home with anyone at all. And the next morning, I wake up alone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You’re setting yourself up for disappointment, Helena. This man looks like he’s nothing but trouble.” My friend Celia looks over the pile of papers I printed from the fertility clinic. “The sexy kind of trouble.”

  “On paper, he’s not that bad, Cee.” Thank it’s a Friday before a long weekend—students would be roaming around here in droves otherwise. “It’s just when you look up anything else about him online... And then you see his face. And the pictures of him shirtless with that supermodel at the beach.” My voice trails off.

  Those big blue eyes, a shock of messy blond hair that sets him apart from his other famous brothers. And lord, that smile. Even in the pictures, that smile reaches across the distance and says, “Watch out. I’m up to no good.”

  No wonder. Every other article about this man shows him carousing at some club in Los Angeles, a different model-looking woman or starlet dripping off of his arm in each one of t
he pictures.

  Definitely not my type. So not my type.

  Wait, why am I even thinking about whether or not he’s my type? It doesn’t matter a damn bit what type he is or not. If Trixie gets it in her head again that she wants to meet her father--and I bet she will since she just brought it up yesterday morning--I know exactly where he is, where he works, and how he prefers to be contacted.

  “Yep,” Celia says, her voice clipped. “You don’t want anything to do with this one. He’s out every night of the week, it looks like. And look--“ She holds up one of the pieces of paper. “It says here he was carrying a gambling debt from years ago before he started his company. He was way the hell in over his head.” Celia brushes a wave of dyed red hair over her shoulder. I can tell by her body language that she’s already made a final judgment about this guy. “He must have paid it off somehow because he started his company with only five thousand dollars three years later. There are all sorts of articles about the other brothers and their wives--and kids. But this Saint guy, it looks like he’s the lone wolf of the bunch.”

  I scroll back to the picture of him. She’s right. He looks like a straight up mess. But there’s nothing wolfish in his appearance, nothing that suggests danger. When I look at those blue eyes across the screen, I see a hidden depth of kindness, or at least, I think I do. I might be hallucinating because I want it to be true.

  After all, what would be better than a man who would be sweet to my little girl? It wouldn’t matter if he stayed in our lives, but if he can be kind even for a moment—and maybe even a little bit excited to meet his child by blood—I’d be grateful.

  Because I know my girl. She’ll keep asking until her mama finds a way to make it happen. Losing Kellan from our lives was hard, so hard. All she’s wanted was to know where she came from.

  “Trixie isn’t going to let this one go.”

  “Then hire someone,” Celia says, pulling her chair up right next to mine and putting a hand on my shoulder. “You just need a stand-in.”

  “I’m not doing that to my kid, Celia.”

  She sighs. “I know that’s not a realistic suggestion. But think about this--is it realistic for you to go meet this man and then tell Trixie he’s not going to be a part of her life? That that’s not what he signed on for? Because it’s not. You know that.”

  “He did change his contact consent. He may even have left it blank all those years ago. That’s what the girl said when I called her yesterday afternoon. She said that every man who left his form blank had been recently contacted and asked to ‘re-engage’ with his decision.” I sigh and visibly slump down in my chair, inching away from Celia’s hand. My gut twists. One one hand, I’d be hurting my kid to deny her what she wants. On the other, I’d be hurting her to give her what she’s asking for.

  “Okay, wait—” Celia scrolls through the business page again for SameChat. “It says here he’s looking for a personal assistant.”

  “Celia. No.” I groan. “I can’t go in and pretend to be someone I’m not.”

  She shrugs. “Suit yourself. This would mean you could interview him before deciding if he could meet Trixie.”

  My pulse quickens. She’s right. But this isn’t me--it’s not who I am or what I do. I’m Helena--I plan things. I think about them. I’m honest and honorable and steadfast. Those are even the things I said in my own interview for student adviser at UCSB. “I’m not doing that. I can’t do that.”

  She taps her pen against the keyboard of the computer, causing the page to scroll down so I can just barely see Saint Corbett’s smile. “You are. And you can. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it when you first told me about all this mess. You send in your resume. He will pick you, with your background. And then you go in for the interview. If by some chance you get offered the job, you get to tell him that you decided to stay in your current situation. Simple as that.”

  “Simple, huh?” I tap my nails against the desk. The manicure I got last week is looking worn and old. I wonder to myself if I have enough time to get another one if I’m going to L.A. to meet with Saint Corbett for a fake interview. The idea starts to take shape in my mind. It has its appeal, I must admit. But it mostly sounds like a foolish, ridiculous idea--like something you’d see on a TV sitcom. One that doesn’t get renewed for a second season. “Doesn’t sounds so simple to me.”

  “It is. And no one has to know. This way, no one gets hurt. Not you. Not Saint. And most importantly—not Trixie.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I lean back in the chair and look up at the ceiling. Nothing prepares you for something like this. I wish someone had handed me the answers when I became a parent. At the hospital, when I delivered Trixie, I remember holding her and thinking, “They’re really going to let me take her home? But I have no idea how...”

  Celia gives me an unreadable look. “Yeah, you think about it. You do that.” She looks over her shoulder at me as she rolls over to her desk and leans back in her chair, smiling.

  She looks like that a lot, so I don’t think a damn thing of it. Instead, I file through the student reports I need to look at, go over my advisee GPAs, and approve several essays for study abroad. Saint Corbett is at the back of my mind the entire time. I’m glad there’s no one traipsing around inside my head to see what I’m thinking--because it’s weird, it’s foolhardy, and it’s outside of the realm of anything I’ve ever done.

  I was the straight-A student at UCLA, the one who never did anything wrong in high school, who made her mother proud. I did exactly what I set out to do—got the job I wanted, the grades I needed to succeed, and the child I always dreamed of. It didn’t bother me in the least that there wasn’t a man in the picture. I had thought I’d get married someday, but having Trixie when I did was the main thing I wanted to do. Ovarian cancer and breast cancer run heavily in my family, so I had her even though there wasn’t anyone in particular in my life.

  It’s the best decision I ever made, and I’ll stand by that every day that I’m living.

  After a while, I fall into the rhythm of my work, and Saint Corbett slips away from my mind—finally. Even that smile and those dancing blue eyes. When I look at the clock, it’s nearly five, and it’s almost time to go.

  But right before I leave, an email pops up from someone named Stacy.

  She’s asking me for an interview tomorrow.

  Tomorrow... Tomorrow’s a Saturday.

  And how the hell did she get my information?

  I scroll down to the bottom of the email, heart beating fast. When I look at the address, it shows a place in Los Angeles that I’m now familiar with—after an entire morning of looking at the damn information.

  SameChat, Corbett Industries.

  “Celia!” I shout, again glad that we’re the only ones working today. “What the hell—”

  “You’re welcome! I mean, it is a terrible idea, but I want to hear all about it!” she shouts back, swiveling back and forth in her chair. She doesn’t turn to look at me, but I can tell she’s grinning fiercely. “I’ll take Trixie for the day. Again,” she says, “You’re most welcome.”

  This is not what I expected to be doing with my weekend.

  And it’s not who I am.

  But for one day, maybe I can play the part.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I just got another message from one of my brothers. Left it as a voicemail and sent a follow-up text message.

  Missed you at the wedding, big bro, the text reads. We all still love you, even though you’re a giant asshole.

  I grin and twirl around in my chair. Nicholas knows I couldn’t make it due to a meeting with a major investor, but he also knows that I probably could have moved the damn meeting. And what I didn’t tell him—what I won’t tell him—is that the meeting was in Cabo, and there happened to be a very sensual dark-eyed beauty who worked for the Mexican branch of that particular firm. And I always like practicing my Spanish. I don’t get nearly enough opportunities.

  I pause. There
aren’t many good ways to apologize to your brother for a fiftieth time, so I decide on a humorous approach instead.

  I went to Dylan’s wedding. You guys are pretty much the same person. I don’t like doing event repeats.

  Nicholas sends back that little emoji that looks like a pile of shit, perhaps implying that I’m a shitbag anyway.

  I’m about to text back when another message from Nicholas arrives.

  I adopted the kids. We are so, so happy. I hope you can find something like that, man.

  Something inside my chest feels like it’s sinking, low and slow toward the pit of my stomach. Strangely, it occurs to me right then that I don’t even remember that woman’s name, the one I made love to for a week while I missed my brother’s wedding. I remember the Hawaiian woman from the week before, but I’m not sure if I could recall her last name. Reading that—it makes me feel like a revolving door, not a grown-ass man with his own company. There’s some kind of emptiness inside, something I can’t fill.

  But that’s insane. You’re Saint Corbett.

  “Pull yourself together, Saint,” I say, a little too loud. The sound echoes through my cavernous office. I open one of the Fiji waters from the fridge behind my desk. A proud sponsor of SameChat, of course. Even the click of the lid seems to fill the room as I crack it open.

  I’m so happy for you, I type to Nicholas. I really am, man. You’re going to be an awesome dad.

  I don’t type the rest of what I’m thinking.

  For me, that ship has probably sailed. Hell, it wasn’t a ship that was ever even in port. The longest relationship I ever had was six months long, and that was back in college. I made the decision when that relationship ended that I didn’t want a wife. I didn’t want a child. But this week, it feels like I’m reminding myself of those decisions again and again. And that’s far more than I think of anything like this.

  Stacy pops her head in and peers at me, her face questioning. She purses her lips like she’s disappointed in me—as a mother of two, she has that look down pat, so much so that it’s fucking scary. I sit back in my chair and open my laptop for the first time that morning.