But when I pulled open the heavy penthouse door, I didn’t see a member of the Bellagio courtesy staff or a room service cart loaded with Champagne. Instead, I saw a pair of burly, broad-chested security guards towering over me with their arms crossed.
“Mr. Williams, we are here to escort you off the premises,” one of them barked.
“What the—”
“You have five minutes to collect any personal belongings.”
“This is absurd!” I shouted, throwing my arms up in disgust. “I’m calling management.”
The security guards didn’t flinch as I stomped back towards the phone and picked up the receiver, jamming it between my ear and shoulder. My eyes scanned over the options on the keypad — penthouse butler, concierge, room service. I skipped all the way to the bottom and shoved down the ‘0’ key for the operator.
“Guest services, how can I assist you?” a familiar voice answered — the same guy I had spoken to a few minutes earlier.
“Yeah, hi,” I said gruffly into the phone. “This is Duke Williams, in the presidential penthouse. I think I talked to you a few minutes ago about my AMEX?”
“Yes sir, I recall.”
“Well… didn’t you run the card again?”
“I did attempt to process the payment a second time, but unfortunately the card was once again declined, sir—”
“Ok, ok,” I said, rubbing at my forehead. “Let me give you another card. Hold on…”
I set the phone down and started searching the penthouse for my wallet. The security guards grumbled from the doorway, but neither of them moved an inch. I found my wallet next to the mini bar, and then I went back to the phone.
“Try this one,” I said, reading out the sixteen digits from another credit card.
The man on the other line repeated them back to me, then we both waited through several seconds of agonizing silence.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said finally. “That card was declined as well.”
“That’s impossible—”
“I do wish to extend my sincerest apologies for the inconvenience, but we must ask you to leave.”
Both of the security guards hovering in the doorway stepped forward into the penthouse and glared menacingly at me.
“You heard the man,” one of them grinned. “Time to leave.”
CHAPTER TWO | DUKE
I lifted my black Louis Vuitton Keepall duffle bag from the trunk of my Range Rover and swung it over my shoulder, then I tapped the auto-close button on my key fob and watched as the back hatch slowly lowered shut.
Pink and white streaks of cloudy morning sky were reflected in the black mirrored glass of the tailgate. After a particularly miserable and sleepless red-eye flight, I had managed to make it back home to Hartford, Connecticut just in time to watch the sunrise from my front driveway.
Part of me wanted to collapse on my bed and sleep straight through the next five days. The other part of me wanted to get to the bottom of whatever the hell was going on.
After getting unceremoniously kicked to the curb by the Bellagio’s security staff, my bad luck streak continued when I took a taxi to the private jet terminal at McCarran International. I was hoping to book an early flight home, but no dice: turns out the payment that I had made for the private jet booking had bounced, too.
I had spent the next few hours visiting every airline desk in the departures terminal, desperately trying to find a last-minute commercial flight back to the east coast. I finally managed to book the last coach seat on a red-eye that would get me into Hartford’s Bradley International Airport by dawn. I paid using my personal debit card; the only plastic left in my arsenal of credit cards that still worked.
The flight was every bit as miserable as it sounds.
But that’s the least of my worries right now… I reminded myself as I trudged wearily along the brick driveway and glanced up at the house that loomed in front of me: a tudor-style mansion.
My Great-great-grandfather Williams had commissioned the construction of this place back in the 1920s, when he assumed that the fastest means of securing power and influence was to possess as much real estate as possible throughout the northeast.
He wasn’t wrong: my great-great-grandfather had built himself an empire, and to this day the Williams family maintained a catalogue of homes scattered from New York all the way to northern Maine. The West Hartford house was just one of dozens of New England properties.
After I had burned through my shot at an Ivy League education, my parents had given me the keys to this place. At the time I figured it was their attempt to prevent me from becoming one of those insufferable rich kids who sulked around Manhattan, burning his inheritance on art auctions and ten-thousand dollar bottles of rare vintage wine.
But now I was convinced that sticking me in Hartford, Connecticut was really just their way of hiding me.
That’s right: Mr. and Mrs. John Asher Williams were ashamed to admit that their only son was a pathetic failure. And the worst part? I couldn’t even blame ‘em.
While the other parents in their social circle of wealthy, affluent Manhattanites had raised the next generation of doctors and lawyers and Wall Street investors, my parents had to find a way to explain why their own son had fallen short of becoming a success story.
Even my proudest accomplishment — joining the crew at Firehouse 56 — was deemed to be unworthy of their praise or approval. I’d never forget my mother’s reaction when I told her that I had graduated from the fire academy and earned my spot on the crew. Barely able to disguise the disgust in her voice, she had responded with one word: “Why?”
The feelings of disappointment and regret were mutual: they wanted a son they could be proud of, and I wanted parents who loved me. Once it became clear that neither of us was going to get what we wanted, we settled on the current arrangement. Every month the bills got paid, my trust fund was replenished, and the balance on my credit cards returned to $0. In return, I stayed in my corner, far enough away from Manhattan that I couldn’t cause them anymore embarrassment or shame than I already had.
We had stuck to that unspoken arrangement for years. But now, as I climbed the steps towards the front door and found it unlocked, I had a gut feeling that all of that was about to change…
I stepped into the foyer and was immediately met by the stale, powdery stench of my mother’s perfume.
“I’m in the dining room, Duke,” my mother’s sharp voice greeted me, echoing through the wooden walls. I dropped my bag on the silk Isfahan rug that covered the parquet foyer floor, then I made several long strides towards the source of her voice.
Sure enough, my mother was waiting for me behind the lacquered mahogany dining table. The last time I had spoken to her was three days after my twenty-eighth birthday, when she had called to ask why one of her rich friends had spotted me exiting Penn Station in Manhattan. I had explained that I was visiting the city for a birthday dinner, and she had gone silent. She had forgotten that it was my birthday.
Now, my mother sat with her hands crossed on the table. She was wearing a stiff powder blue Chanel suit and a grim expression on her face.
“Have a seat, Duke,” she said, motioning to a chair directly across from her. “We need to talk.”
***
“Cut off?” Brie Wallace gawked at me over the rim of her martini glass. “What does that even mean?!”
“It means that I’m cut off,” I muttered darkly before throwing back the shot of Grey Goose that I had ordered from the bar. “Effective immediately, my parents will no longer provide any form of support, financial or otherwise.”
Brie and I were sitting at Envy, a rooftop bar that overlooked the Connecticut River in downtown Hartford.
In a city like Hartford, where “night life” was defined by a smattering of dive bars and hole-in-the-walls, Envy stuck out like a sore thumb. That was why I liked it so much.
Between the sleek white deck chairs and high-top tables, the soundtrack of electr
opop beats that blared through the speakers — currently a remixed Moloko song — and the backlit neon lamps that cast a sensual blue glow over the bar, Envy felt like an escape from the mediocrity of small-town life; like a taste of the good ‘ol days, when I still lived in Manhattan and had friends who ordered bottle service instead of whatever draft beer was on special that night…
The pretty platinum blonde sitting across from me was another blast from my past: Brie Wallace, longtime friend and confidante, occasional friend with benefits.
Brie had spent the last few years making a name for herself in real estate, peddling properties in the wealthiest suburbs of the Connecticut panhandle. Her illustrious career had hit a snag last year, when she had gotten embroiled in a controversial property deal gone-wrong. As punishment, her brokerage firm relocated her to Hartford.
In typical Brie Wallace fashion, she had turned lemons into lemonade: in six months time, she had dominated Hartford’s real estate market. Her name was on nearly every ‘For Sale’ sign in town, and her face was on every bus stop and billboard. Her slogan: “I don’t just sell houses… I work miracles!”
I could use one of those ‘Brie Wallace miracles’ right about now…
Since Brie specialized in making the best out of a bad situation, she was naturally the first person I turned to after being savagely disinherited.
“So… that’s it? You’re just cut off? Just like that?” Brie blinked at me in disbelief. “No warning? No ultimatum?”
“Oh, there was an ultimatum all right. According to my mother, I have one year to prove that I’m capable of ‘turning my life around’,’” I explained, paraphrasing what my mother had told me in the dining room that morning. “Otherwise they’ll be meeting with their lawyers, and making my disinheritance permanent.”
“Turn your life around? What does that even mean?”
“Who knows,” I sighed. “These are my parents we’re talking about. It could mean anything. My mother probably won’t be happy until I’m trained like one of her Pomeranians, barking and sitting on command.”
I thought about my mother’s miniature army of pedigreed white puffballs and I cringed.
“So what are you supposed to do in the meantime?” Brie asked. “How much did they cut off?”
“Everything,” I said. “No trust fund, no credit cards, no cars, no house—”
“Wait,” Brie shushed me by putting her hand up, “No house?! They’re kicking you out of the house, too?!”
“Yep,” I nodded grimly. “She served with me an official eviction notice and everything. I have thirty days to move out before they change the locks.
“Holy shit,” Brie muttered, looking bemused as she took a long sip from her dirty Bombay Sapphire martini. “But… why?! She must have given you a reason,” Brie pressed.
“Just that I’m a ‘morally devoid deviant,’ and they’re not going to fund my ‘lifestyle of depravity and debauchery’ anymore,” I shrugged dismissively.
Brie pressed her eyebrows together into a thoughtful frown.
“Well… they might have a point there,” she said slowly. “You are pretty morally devoid.”
“Oh, I am, huh?” I raised an eyebrow, and her lips twisted into a flirty smile.
“Yeah Duke, everyone knows you’re a player. So… where are you going to go?” Brie asked, reversing our conversation back to the more pressing matter at hand.
“I was hoping you could help me with that, actually,” I grinned. “I hear you’re quite the miracle-worker when it comes to real estate.”
Brie scrunched up her nose and puckered her lips together, wrinkling the layer of shiny hot pink lip gloss.
“I’m not sure that you can afford me,” she teased.
“Too soon,” I shook my head, then I glanced over at the backlit neon bar and motioned for the bartender to bring me another shot of Grey Goose.
“Well I’m sure that we can find you something,” Brie said reassuringly. “Although it might be a few steps down from what you’re used to…”
“That’s fine. Tudor mansions aren’t really my style, anyways. I’m more a modern, minimalist kind of guy.”
“Minimalist?” she repeated with a disbelieving smirk. “I assume that by ‘minimalist,’ you mean a studio apartment with linoleum flooring and popcorn ceilings?”
I grimaced as the waiter swept by, depositing a shot glass of Grey Goose on the glass patio table in front of me.
“Have you thought about getting a roommate?” Brie asked once the waiter had left.
“A roommate? Seriously?” I scoffed. “Are we trying to make my life sound like the plot for a cheesy 90s sitcom? ‘Down-on-his-luck fireman seeks awkward living arrangement with kookie Craigslist roommate. Hilarity ensues!’”
I could tell that Brie wanted to laugh, but she just rolled her eyes and smirked instead.
“What about one of the guys from the firehouse?” she suggested. “They’re all single, right? One of them must be looking for a roommate.”
I flicked through my mental Rolodex of names and faces, picturing the eleven other men who made up the crew at Firehouse 56. For each guy, I could think of at least one compelling reason why they wouldn’t want me for a roommate: Brady Hudson had just gotten married, Bryce McKinley lived with his four year-old daughter, Troy Hart liked his privacy too much…
Then I landed on Joshua Hudson and something clicked.
“Actually,” I said slowly, “I think I might know someone…”
Josh Hudson was Firehouse 56’s resident class clown and underdog. He had been looking for a place to rent ever since his big brother, Brady, had gotten hitched a few months ago. And if the fact that Josh was still crashing on couches was any indication, he didn’t seem to be having a whole lot of luck finding a place on his own…
“Too bad he’s already got me typecast as the rich douchebag,” I sighed.
“Well he’s only half right about that,” Brie winked from across the table. “You’re not ‘rich’ anymore.”
I gave her a dry chuckle, then I threw back my shot, savoring the burn of the smooth vodka on my tongue.
“Anyway,” Brie shrugged, “It wouldn’t hurt to ask him. Maybe he’d be willing to put up with you, if it meant splitting the rent in half every month…”
She’s right, I conceded silently as I tried to imagine what it would be like to share an apartment with Josh Hudson. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad…
She downed the rest of her martini, then she set her glass in a ring of condensation on the patio table and stood up.
“Come on, poor little rich boy,” she said. “Let’s go look at some apartments.”
I dropped my last hundred-dollar bill onto the table and followed Brie out of the bar.
CHAPTER THREE | DUKE
Nine Months Later
“If we keep showing up to stuff like this together people are going to start to assume…”
“Assume what?”
“You know what,” I grinned. “People are going to assume that we’re—”
“Together?” Brie finished for me, raising one of her perfectly arched eyebrows. “You and me?”
“Yeah, you and me. Like that would ever work.”
“You gotta admit,” I smirked at our reflection. “We’d make a damn good looking couple, Miss Wallace…”
Brie blinked back at me through the mirror, then her face twisted in disgust and she burst out laughing as she wiggled away from me.
“Yeah, right,” she said, still laughing as she reached into her handbag for a tube of Marc Jacobs lip gloss. “I hate to break it to you, Duke, but you’re not really my type.”
I watched her reflection in the mirror as she traced the lip gloss wand over her pout, coating her lips with a fresh layer of pink.
“You sure about that?” I teased.
“I’m positive,” she said firmly. She smacked her freshly-glossed lips together and flipped her platinum blonde locks over her shoulder with a sharp flick of her
wrist.
“And speaking of crowded rooms full of people… we should get into this party,” she nodded towards the supply closet door. “You go first. I need a few minutes to touch up my makeup, anyways.”
“I like the way you always get yourself all dolled up for me,” I teased. “It really keeps the romance alive…”
“Ok, stop talking before I throw up in my mouth,” Brie rolled her eyes, shoving me towards the door.
Today was the official grand opening of Fairy Godmother Beauty Salon and, by the looks of it, the entire city of Hartford had turned up to celebrate: throngs of party guests filled the white-brick lobby, mingling and chattering and swaying to the music and clinking their Champagne glasses together.
I swiped a Champagne flute for myself, then I began to weave my way through the crowded salon lobby, retracing the steps I had made before Brie Wallace and her slinky red dress had lured me into that supply closet.
My eyes were still scanning over the crowd, in search of familiar faces, when I felt a pair of hands grip onto my shoulders from behind.
“I found March!” a voice bellowed. I turned around and found myself face to face with Josh Hudson.
“We’ve been looking all over for you,” he grinned, slapping my shoulder with his open palm. “Without you, we were one month short of having the entire calendar line-up.”
He was referring to the now-infamous ‘sexy firemen’ calendar that Firehouse 56 had released just a few months earlier. The calendar was a recently-reinstated annual firehouse tradition, organized under the pretense of raising money for charity. If we were all being honest with ourselves, though, it was really more of a vanity project…
Since there were twelve guys on the crew, we each got our own month in the calendar. Brady Hudson had led the pack as January, Josh was assigned to the month of February, I had posed for March, and—
“Where are the other ten months of the year?” I asked, glancing around the crowded salon for any trace of the other crew members.
March Heat: A Firefighter Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 2
