Rich Boy: A Royal Landlord Romance (Blue Collar Bachelors Book 5)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Sadie howls at the peek of her climax, her body going rigid, shaking with pleasure. Spread out in the chair, she's holding onto the beautiful moment for as long as possible.

  She's waiting. Her body says that she's waiting for me.

  I should be touching her right now. I should be kissing her. Fucking her.

  But I can't move. Not one limb. I know that the slightest movement and I'm going to spontaneously combust.

  And she's stretched out on her chair, head lolled to the side, chest heaving. One hand is clasped on the inside of her quivering thigh. The other hand is gripped around the vibrator. Still boneless, she flicks it off. A slow breath passes her lips and she swallows.

  The air shifts. Heavy emotions pulse.

  I wish I could tell what's going through her head but I know it's not happy thoughts. I can see that from the way her eyes flick downward instead of sweeping across to me and the way her shoulders string tight.

  She reaches into the wicker basket and grabs the towel which she wraps around her waist. She rises to her feet. "I’m sorry. I got carried away,” she whispers. “I should go, uh, clean up..."

  Letting her walk away feels wrong. It feels stupid. Because what I want to do is...I already told you what I want to do. But I won't. I have to keep my hands off of her.

  Gasoline and match.

  There's a dumbbell weighing down my stomach as I go back to my apartment and jerk myself off to relieve the edge.

  It does nothing to change how much I want her. But I can’t have her.

  10

  Sadie

  Oooh! Sexy Mama and Daddy Dom in the building!”

  I stride into the office and the door slams into the wall before swinging back in the opposite direction.

  Vivian jolts at the sudden entry, nearly falling out of her fiance’s lap. “Dammit, Sadie. Ever heard of knocking?” Horny, little closet-freak that she is, her cheeks go insta-pink with embarrassment.

  I shoot her a look as she stumbles to her feet and hustles to straighten the hem of her maternity dress. “This isn’t your bedroom, Vivian. It’s my office. Where I do all the very important, very professional things.” I smirk.

  Clinton chuckles, sprawled off in the swivelling chair with a contented half-smile on his face. “Babe, I think Sadie’s figured out that you and I have hooked up a few times at least. I think it’s pretty obvious.” He flashes me a scandalous wink as he tilts his head suggestively in the direction of her swollen belly. He cups his hands around his mouth. “I knocked her up,” he stage whispers and then fist-pumps the air.

  I laugh. The two of them are disgustingly happy. It would be nauseating to watch if they weren’t so freaking cute together. They’re the most unlikely couple. Vivian is a strait-laced good girl and Clinton is an unrepentant rebel, covered in tattoos. They hated each other just a few months ago when Clint moved to town and opened his barbershop next door to the Broken Cupcake. But Viv’s a hot babe so Clinton couldn’t resist for long.

  And rumour has it he pounded her into submission. On every surface of this coffee shop.

  In any case, now, they can’t keep their hands off each other but Vivian’s still a bit self-conscious about getting caught in flagrante.

  Once she’s done getting herself back in order, she leans down and lovingly finger-combs her man’s mussed up hair into place. “You shush! Or else no more hooking up until after the wedding. I should be abstaining anyway.” She stomps a foot. “I’m Catholic, dammit.”

  Clinton rolls his eyes and shamelessly kneads her butt with his fingers, giving her a sexed-up look that would make Chuck Tingle blush like a schoolgirl.

  Damn, Viv—you’ve got it like that?

  “You wouldn’t last a week,” I tell her, laughing.

  Her man scoffs confidently. “She wouldn’t make it past lunchtime.”

  I don’t doubt it. Their chemistry is off the charts.

  Vivian is already melting. Putty in his hands. She purrs, eyes fluttering like a kitten. “Oh jeez, you’re right.”

  With gun-fingers pointed in her direction, I whoop. “You, slutty dame, are my spirit animal.”

  A grin eats up my face to mask the jealousy cinching into my heart like sharp talons as I watch them loving on each other.

  I don’t sit around actively wishing for Mr. Right to come pounding down my front door but seeing these two crazy kids, basking in their Diana Ross/Lionel Richie, Endless Love kind of love, I can’t help the tightening ache in my heart. For a split second, I wonder what it would be like to have a relationship like that in my life.

  Xavier’s face flutters into my thoughts and I’m quick to grab the fire extinguisher of my mind and extinguish that crazy thought A-fucking-SAP. Because that’s just insanity.

  It's true. I want to bang the guy. Big time. And I thought he wanted me, too. That’s what his body language was screaming at me. But I was clearly deluded. He totally blew me off when I touched myself in front of him. He just sat there and stared at me like I was freak show on exhibit at a museum.

  And beyond that, there's nothing compatible about us. He more than mere 'high society'. He's royalty. He's going to be a king. And me? No one has ever mistaken Sadie Nicols for a 'lady'. I'm not princess material. Not with these wide hips and these tattoos and this thick skin.

  And even if I were delusional enough to think I could be a prince's girlfriend, he lives on the other side of the globe, in some fairytale country I can't even begin to imagine.

  There's no chance for Xavier and me.

  Anyway, while I’ve been standing here in fantasyland, foreplay between the sex fiends in front of me has been revving up at an alarming pace. Clinton is nibbling at Viv’s collarbone and another mewl slips past her lips. It’s obvious the two lovebirds have forgotten I’m even standing here. Things are about to get not-so-G-rated. Fast.

  “Sooo…I think that’s my cue to leave.” I hustle over to the couch against the wall and grab my backpack from the floor where I left it when I came in. I make a hasty dash for the door before I end up with an eyeful of my boss’s O face.

  My paycheck isn’t fat enough to pay for the therapy I’d need to recover from that.

  “Are you on your break?” Vivian calls after me just as I’m about to skitter down the hall.

  “Yup,” I say as I hoist the strap of my backpack onto my shoulder. “Natalie’s got the shop covered while I’m on lunch and I’ll be sitting out back in case she needs me.”

  “That’s fine.” Viv’s eyes narrow only slightly but it’s enough to get me worried. “By the way, Reese and I have a few things we need to talk to you about.” I hate the way her voice dips with gravity when she says that.

  Shit—am I in trouble or something? Did I find a way to fuck up the cupcake shop already? “Oh…”

  She waves a hand dismissively as Clinton’s impatient arms come around her waist and yank her back into his lap. “It can wait. We’ll set up a meeting for next week. Sound good?”

  Sounds terrifying.

  “Sounds grrreat!” I punch the air in an over-the-top show of enthusiasm.

  Did I just say that in a Tony the Tiger voice?…Oh boy—I think I just said that in a Tony the Tiger voice.

  I can’t lose this job.

  But Viv seems blissfully unaware of the turmoil this morsel of information has incited in me. She’s back to nuzzling her rugged piece of man meat. “Bon appetit!” she calls out absentmindedly without looking up at me.

  “Thanks,” I say tepidly as I trudge out of the room.

  Clinton growls into her cleavage. “Bon appetit to me! I’m about to feast!”

  With a knotted stomach, I jet far away from those two and swipe my lunch out of the fridge in the kitchen. I’d been starving for the grilled cheese sandwich and ramen soup I whipped up this morning but after this conversation with Viv, I’ve lost my appetite. A burst of sunlight assaults me when I push open the back door and take my usual perch on the cracked concrete step.

  I’m inte
rim manager of the Broken Cupcake. As the word implies, my position is only temporary but I really like it. I’m learning so much running the cupcake shop. It feels like I’m putting the things I learned in school to practical use. I’m gaining real world experience handling employees and dealing with suppliers and satisfying customers. This job is what helps soften the blow that I had to skip the semester because I couldn’t come up with my tuition money. So if I lose this too…I don’t even want to think about how devastated I’ll be.

  I hate the uncertainty. I hate not knowing what happens next. I feel like my entire future is in limbo and it’s driving me crazy. All because I made one stupid decision…

  No, Sadie. It wasn’t a stupid decision. It was the right decision. It was the right decision. Maybe if I tell myself that enough times the resentment might subside and I’ll finally start to believe it.

  Doing my best to push down the anxiety, I dig into my backpack and spread open my Supply Chain Management textbook on my lap. Still the bitterness nags at me. I should be in school now. I should be starting my last semester. Building toward my career. Not worrying about whether I’m about to lose my job, my last shred of sanity. But as usual, life squatted and took a big, old dump on my plans when I least expected it.

  But I will finish my business degree. I’ve made that promise to myself and most days, this pipe dream is all that keeps me going, it's all that keeps me from collapsing into a pile of disappointment and defeat.

  I’m a fighter, though. I was never the kid who got the best grades or the scholarships and academic awards but I passed every test, even when it was barely by the skin of my teeth. And I wrestled my way past every hurdle. Because I want this degree so badly.

  Accepting that my concentration is shot today, I slam my book shut and shove my fingers into my hair. I grab my phone from my bag and press it to my ear, berating myself internally as it rings.

  I have one major weakness and life hurled his most recent crisis my way at the worst possible moment. And I hate to admit it but I’m pissed that, yet again, I let myself get derailed by his never-ending stream of drama.

  "Hi Seashell." All traces of resentment vanish when I hear his voice over the line.

  "Hi dad. Were you sleeping?” He sounds weak and groggy, like I just woke him up.

  I hear him shifting around, getting comfortable. “No, no. I wasn’t sleeping.” I love my father but it's hit or miss with him. Most of the time, he’s too busy—or too drunk—to talk. Just as often, he wants a favor and I'm not all that good at saying 'no'. But every now and then, I call him and we just talk, like father and daughter. Totally normal. Those are the chats that have kept me dialing his number after all this time.

  Suddenly, I realize how much I’ve missed him. I haven’t seen him in months. He’s been traveling from city to city, always making excuses about why he can’t come visit. I know I’m a big girl but it still hurts. He’s all the family I’ve ever had and it’s terrifying to think that now that I’m grown up, he’s pulling away from me, too.

  “What have you been up to, daddy? We haven’t talked in a while.”

  As usual, he’s completely oblivious to my chaotic feelings. “Seashell, I think I’ve finally found my true calling,” he declares, his voice brimming with exuberance.

  Oh jeez. Here we go again.

  I resist the urge to groan with annoyance as I wedge the phone between my cheek and my shoulder. Maybe it’s selfish but I’m not exactly jumping for joy at the announcement. My dad isn’t the best judge of characters and situations. The last time he ‘found his calling’, he stumbled right into the middle of a shady online pyramid scheme thingy that got him arrested. And who ended up having to bail him out? Me—the daughter who had been pinching pennies and surviving on ramen for months to save up tuition for the semester. That was not a fun choice to make.

  He’s clearly moved past it, though. From the enthusiasm in his voice, it’s obvious that his debt to me is the last thing on his mind. “I’m a ghostwriter, Sadie!” He pauses dramatically following the proclamation, waiting for my response.

  “A what?”

  “A ghostwriter,” he repeats. “I’ve partnered up with this publishing house. They’re super legit. I write sentient vegetable sci-fi erotica under a pen name—Sammy McCorncock. The publisher handles all the marketing and production stuff. All I have to do is write. I still can’t believe it. I’m getting paid to write books, Sadie! Paid to write books about people having sex with vegetables. And I’m doing it from bed in my pyjamas! I’m living the dream!”

  I open my mouth. Then close it. Then open it again. I think the processing centers in my brain are down for routine maintenance because right now, none of what he’s saying makes sense.

  “I’m an author, Seashell. How many people do you know who can actually say they’re an author?!”

  He seems so damn excited…I hate to be a downer. I really do. “Dad—after the whole affiliate marketing debacle a few months ago, you promised you’d get a regular job. Y’know—a place where you clock in every morning and get a paycheck every two weeks…and wear pants.” I distractedly peel the crust off of my sandwich and throw the scraps at the flock of seagulls by the dumpster.

  He huffs grumpily. “I’m not cut out for a regular job. I’m an entrepreneur. This is so much better than a regular job, honey. It’s my soul-work. It’s very fulfilling. Through the writing process, I get to explore deep-seated emotions that I’ve had buried inside all my life.”

  “How does writing sentient vegetable porn help you grow spiritually, dad?” My tone is snarky, not supportive at all. But right now, I won’t apologize. I’m so annoyed.

  There’s a world of genuine disappointment in his voice. “You’re interested in business, right? I expected you’d be more encouraging.”

  “Sorry. I can’t be supportive if this is just another scam that’ll eat up your money and leave you in a jail cell feeling violated.”

  “This one isn’t a scam, Sadie!”

  “Like the vitamin supplement pyramid scheme wasn’t a scam,” I mumble under my breath.

  I close my eyes, begging for patience, attempting to decipher exactly where I went wrong. Oh yeah—I used my hard-earned money to bail my dad out of county when he got caught up in a brawl at a multi-level marketing conference. That was a chunk of my tuition money. Grrr!

  "You can't blame me for what happened, Seashell. I invested $150 in that dietary supplement business. They claimed it was revolutionary. They claimed I'd make millions selling that stuff. But the only return I saw on my investment was a nasty armpit rash and mango-scented bowel movements. Of course I was mad. And I expressed that anger with my fists."

  This is so fucking ridiculous. As per usual, dad is living in his little dream world, completely shirking all responsibility. Yet, as far as he’s concerned, I’m the one who’s being unreasonable.

  Nat is right. I need to stop enabling him. It’s time I left him on his own to face the music.

  "Dad, when do you think you'll be able to pay back that bail money from a few months ago?"

  He blows out a loaded breath. Seconds tick by as he concocts a response. "Boy—Sadie, I really don’t see that on the horizon. Business is only just starting to get going. I probably won’t see a royalty check for another ninety days. I'm sorry, honey."

  My spirits sink all the way to my toes. I think my disenchantment reaches through the phone and gives him a good shake because I finally hear something like remorse in his voice.

  "Seashell, I know I’ve put you in a difficult situation. I can't tell you how sorry I am for the things I've done." He pushes a heavy sigh. “I feel terrible that I’ve disappointed you.” His voice cracks. I think he’s crying.

  My hankering weakness is acting up again. My anger begins to melt.

  "It's all right, dad. It's all in the past." The words feel like a lie as I say them. I can't help the vitriol burning my belly every time I think about how he pissed my future away.

&n
bsp; But I’ve always had a hard time staying mad at him. My dad is far from perfect—he’s unreliable, he drinks too much and he has the shortest attention span ever. Plus, he’s terrible with responsibility. But I wouldn’t trade him for the world. Because he stuck around. Unlike the woman who popped me out her birth canal and then promptly packed me up and deposited me on his doorstep. He didn’t even know I existed until my mother showed up to let him know that she didn’t want me and that if he didn’t either, she had no problem dumping me into foster care.

  He took me in with open arms even though he was twenty-one and clueless without two pennies to rub together. He didn’t have much to offer me aside from his love of rock music, his fascination with get-rich-quick schemes and his commitment to perpetually acting a couple of decades younger than his age. But my dad loved me when it mattered most, when he had no real duty to. That means everything to me. So the sacrifices I’ve made for him have been worth it. Despite our differences.

  He explodes into a bout of coughing, pulling me from my thoughts. "Look honey, I don’t mean to rush you off the phone but I have a deadline. I’ve got to go work on my WIP."

  I think I just threw up in my mouth. “Dad, I don’t want to hear about the kinks you’re writing about. Please. I want to be supportive but it’s a little weird for me.”

  A deep laugh comes through the phone. “Not my whip, Sadie. My WIP—my work in progress.”

  “Oh…uh, all right. I’m not up to date on the author slang.” That’s a relief, I guess. I stuff a piece of my sandwich into my mouth.

  His laughter gradually dies down. "Alright. I love you, my Seashell."

  "Love you, too." I feel a tiny tug in my chest when I say it. God—I really do miss him. Even though he just pissed me off.

  “Oh, and Sadie?” There’s a sense of urgency in his voice, like he’s about to tell me something very important.

  “Yeah, dad?”

  “Don’t forget to check out my work, okay? Tell me what you think. Sammy McCorncock. M-C-C-O-R-N—”