Billionaire Mountain Man

by Claire Adams

  Chapter Seven

  Cameron

  I sat in the driver's seat of my car, staring at the steering wheel. I was parked on the street by the building, not my usual parking spot, but I didn't think I was staying long, so it didn’t matter. I didn't want to, but this had to be done. I couldn't bury my head in the sand with the number of people that were depending on me. I looked out of my window up at the building. Porter Holdings—it literally had my name on it. My name and my father's name, and that was the reason I had even bothered getting out of bed today. I didn't have the luxury of moping, not when that building and everyone in it was depending on me to tell them what was next.

  Cool, but what was that? What was next? I wasn't sure. Every possible outcome had come to me, even some of the impossible ones. The messages from my dad and Brett about how this had been in the cards for me since the day I had been born had been ringing louder and louder in my ears. This was it. I was taking the wheel at Porter Holdings because the pilot flying my parents’ jet hadn't done a good job of doing that himself. My hands gripped the steering wheel as I felt heat start in my chest. Over and over, I thought about it without wanting to, and it gave me the same reaction each time.

  I had just gotten to the office after dropping my parents off at the airport. I had been preparing for the ten-day absence. I might have even been a little excited, getting a taste of what my dad wanted for me once he retired. The first thing I had wanted to do was have a meeting with Brett to discuss things. I hadn’t been able to call him because he had come bursting into my office, telling me he had to tell me something before the phone calls started, and I had to find out that way. The plane went down, Cam. They’re dead.

  I closed my eyes and tried to calm down. No one was at fault, and if anyone was, it wouldn't change what had happened. My parents were still dead, and I still had a job to do. The first thing I'd have to do was probably hold a meeting, talk to Brett definitely. He'd know what to do. I'd ask him for help, but sooner or later, I'd have to lose the training wheels. I sighed and got out of my car. The air was getting colder; it would start snowing soon. Just what I needed after what had happened last week.

  I got out of my car and slammed the door closed, catching my reflection in the window. I looked like hell, which was fitting since I felt like it too. I hadn't been able to sleep very well or very much since I had heard the news. I hadn't been able to do very much of anything, not work, not eat, not think. It was real now but almost too real. Watching the caskets get lowered into the ground…there had been no running from it. They were gone. It was still fresh, so it stung, a lot. So much it was hard to imagine that I'd get to a point when it didn't hurt.

  There weren't that many people on the street; the ones that were were heading to work. I had to ask a couple women crowding the sidewalk to let me by them as I tried to make it into the building. They were two girls, mid- to late-twenties if I had to guess. They had stopped to look at something, so I turned to see what could have distracted them so much. It was a car. Aston Martin DB9, black. Beautiful car, I could concede to that, but they didn't like the car for the beauty of the design or the craftsmanship. I'd bet anything they were more interested in meeting with whoever had pockets deep enough to have afforded it.

  Fuck, I thought, heading into the building. The hits weren’t about to stop, were they? My parents had been my reminder, one of the only ones that I had had that there were good things and good people if you searched hard enough. They were gone now, and the darkness I lived in got that much blacker. The person who owned the car probably knew it would get that kind of response, and that was why they had gotten it. It was a car. What the hell kind of person were you if your best feature was the fucking car you drove? Relax, I tried to tell myself, heading into the elevator. It's none of your business that other people have to buy things to make themselves feel good. I knew that intellectually, but I also knew I’d be thinking about it all day.

  "Mr. Porter?" I wasn’t alone. Another man was in the elevator with me. A man I had seen around but never gotten the name of.

  "Good morning," I said.

  "Sir, I didn't think... I heard what... it's a shame what happened to your father," he said haltingly. I just nodded and took it. He meant well, even though he wasn't good at showing it, and I didn't really care to hear it from him. That was the thing; it didn't matter whether anyone meant well. People gave their condolences to make themselves feel better, not to make me feel better. It was a long, awkward ride up to the top floor. People got on and off on two different stops before I finally did.

  I made my way straight to Brett's office, knocking impatiently. He told me to come in from behind the door. He wasn't at his desk. He was at his round meeting table, sitting next to Natalie. Only she looked surprised to see me, which made sense because the feeling was mutual. If Brett had been anyone else, I would have jumped to conclusions, ugly ones about why he would have one of his much younger female coworkers from another department in his office first thing on a Wednesday morning.

  I knew better though, and it wasn't Natalie's fault she looked like that. Her lipstick was red today. Fire engine red. I had gone from barely seeing that woman ever to spending more time with her the past couple weeks than we had together since she had joined the company. Her hair, which I knew now was all the way down her back, was arranged in a complicated bun at the back of her head. I guessed I knew better now than to jump to conclusions about what she would be doing in her much older male coworker's office early in the morning too, but thought it anyway. I was mad and frustrated; I had to dial it back.

  "Cameron," he said, getting up.

  "This won't take long," I said brusquely.

  "We weren't even expecting to see you today."

  "Cameron, we wouldn't begrudge you some more time off after the funeral."

  "Go home, son," he said.

  "I had to talk to you," I said to Brett. "I had to do it today because once I walk out of here, it's going to be the last time." His eyes went wide.

  "No. You stop right there, Cameron."

  "What are you talking about?" Natalie asked.

  "Nobody was ready for this. I thought it would be harder when the time came, but it hasn't been," I started. "I told you, Brett, and I told Dad. This place is his, and I can't be the one to come in and undo all of his hard work. I knew what he wanted, but this is what I want. I'm out, Brett."

  "Cameron—"

  "I made a few purchases in some of the company's past developments. I'm getting rid of them."

  "Cameron, please stop."

  "I understand that the stakes my parents had in Porter Holdings go to me. I want to sell that too."

  "Cameron?" It was Natalie that time, getting out of her seat. She looked as confused as Brett did. "Cameron, please think about this before you decide on anything."

  "I've been thinking all my life, and I get to this same place no matter what, Brett. I don't want to run the company. I respect the work you and my dad did, but I'm not the person who's going to see it into the future."

  "Cameron," Natalie said as she came up to me. "You can’t just quit. Your assets you can sell, but the company doesn't stop being yours just because you don't want it anymore. There are legal—"

  "What? Legal concerns? Why don't you and Brett talk about that? You seem to have a lot to say to each other about me lately."

  "Your parents’ funeral was yesterday. Take some time before you decide anything rash."

  "Don't try to tell me I'm wrong for wanting something different, Brett," I said, looking between the two of them. "I want you to look after things until we can get everything sorted out."

  "Me? What about you?"

  "I already told you, Brett," I said, starting to walk out of the room. "I'm done." I heard the clack of high heels on the floor behind me. It was Natalie.

  "Cameron? Cameron, please stop," she said. I shook my head, walking into the open elevator. She walked in behind me just before it closed. There were four
other people inside with us. Natalie sighed and looked impatient as we descended but kept her mouth shut. Finally, at the bottom floor, I walked out. She followed after me, needing to walk fast to keep up.

  "Cameron, honestly, is this the way you plan to deal with this? By running away?" I stopped and turned to her. Her cheeks were pink, and I didn't know whether it was because of her makeup or her trying to keep up with me in those heels she had on.

  "Honestly, Natalie, why is it that you care so much?" I snapped. She crossed her arms, and her eyes narrowed.

  "You've just gone through a sudden and painful loss. People are going to understand that. Nobody is about to ask for more of you than you can give."

  "It all comes right back down to that. Giving. Me giving the next ten, twenty years of my life to this place like my dad and Brett. The difference is, Natalie, that they wanted to do that. I don't. I haven't for a long time. Losing my dad wasn't some sort of a-ha moment."

  "Even if that's true, right now, after what has happened, is the worst possible time you could have picked to walk out. There is so much at stake, Cameron, and whether you want to run the company or not, you have to understand that walking out is going to affect hundreds of people." I ran a hand through my hair, which I hadn't even bothered trying to slick down that morning.

  "That might be true, but it's not enough, Natalie. Not enough for me to stay here." I turned and started walking again. I heard her follow.

  "Wait," she said, catching up. "Can we at least talk about this?"

  "I don't know what else there is to discuss."

  "First of all, anything you want to do is going to involve the other stockholders," she started, matter-of-factly. "Second, nobody is going to trust a decision you made in the wake of your parents' death."

  "Oh, come on."

  "Think about it," she insisted. "You said you've wanted this for a long time, but to anybody on the outside looking in, it would seem like the move of a man driven off the edge by grief and wouldn't be taken seriously." I stared at her, into her unblinking icy blue eyes. She was being serious. Much worse, she had a point. I couldn't imagine why she cared so damn much, why she had basically chased me down to get me to listen to her, but here she was, and she was right.

  "Shit," I muttered under my breath.

  "Do you get it now?" she asked. I did, and I kind of hated her for it. It never ended. Not for me. I didn’t have a clean break from this life, these decisions that had been made for me. The only way out would be painful and drawn out…unless I died in a plane crash too.

  "If you're so full of ideas, tell me what I need to do."

  "How about we come up with that together," she said. "Will you meet me? Not here. For lunch. Tomorrow."

  I sighed, looking at her up and down. She was persistent. She meant to convince me, and failing to do that, she was going to wear me down until I said yes—whatever it would take to get her to leave me alone. I looked at her, really taking in the full package. Her pencil skirt followed the contours of her thin waist and shapely hips down to just below her knees. Her blouse buttoned right up to her throat but didn't completely conceal the evidence of her womanhood. I had never been as pissed off about lunch with an attractive woman as I was at that moment.

  "What time?" I asked grudgingly.

  "It has to be over my lunch break," she said. What are you doing, Cam?

  "Fine. I'll pick you up," I said.

  "Thank you. I'm not going to pretend I know what you're going through, but I know talking to me probably isn't something high on your want list." Under different circumstances, she'd be at the top of my want list, but that was neither here nor there.

  "Don't be late," I said. I waited until she walked back to the elevators before I walked back out into the chilly morning air.

  Chapter Eight

  Natalie

  My heart is pounding. You're nervous, I realized. Why are you nervous? Stop being nervous.

  I could see Cameron. He was just outside the entrance to the building, waiting for me. I wiped my hands on my skirt nervously. They were shaking. Get a hold of yourself, Nat. What the hell? It isn’t like you've never spoken to this guy before.

  "Hey," I said, coming out of the building, or tried to say, at least. It came out as more of a weak croaking sound. I cleared my throat.

  "Ready?" he asked. He was wearing jeans and a sweater with a jacket over top. His hair was surprisingly wavy, loose curls that covered his nape and the tops of his ears. He looked like a different person out of his work clothes. Almost approachable. I followed him out to his car. He asked me whether I had anywhere specific I wanted to go, but I told him I wasn't picky. Least I could do since I had more or less totally put him out, making him come see me when he was ready to burn it all to the ground.

  We ended up taking a five-minute drive to a cafe, still in the downtown area. We rode in silence, which the short length of the trip saved from getting uncomfortably awkward. We were strangers, and that fact had never been clearer. Say something, I thought. But what? I wasn't desperate enough to try mentioning the weather. What the hell did you say to someone who had just lost their parents which wasn't how sorry you felt for them? Nothing. The answer was nothing. Shut up.

  The cafe had a long menu. I took my time reading it from the first item to the last like it was the most interesting thing in the world. My stomach was a mess from my nerves; I wasn't even hungry. Oh my god, I thought, catching myself. Honestly, Natalie, you're almost thirty years old. The last time you were this awkward around a guy was... It had been on my first date, ten years ago. Yes, ten years. It took until freshman year of college for me to get a date. It probably would have taken longer if I hadn't grown my hair out and started wearing makeup. To be fair, that had also been the year that I’d started wearing real bras instead of sports bras every day, so maybe that had had something to do with it too.

  This isn't a date though, so what's your excuse now?

  "See anything you like?" he asked suddenly. I blurted out the first thing I read.

  "Caesar salad?" He looked up at me, frowning slightly.

  "Don't starve on my account," he said.

  "Starve?"

  "Salad isn't a meal," he said, matter-of-factly. "It's what you put in a burger between the patty and the bun." I laughed a little. He was right. I was past my salad-on-a-date-so-he-thinks-you're-a-delicate-flower days. He had just startled me. A Caesar salad sounded fine, as long as I got some real food after I had had that.

  I had grown up in Montana. I had killed my own dinner before, and growing up outnumbered one to four by my brothers, I hadn't learned how to be cute with food. No, I had learned that going to college in Portland and learning that some guys thought girls who could finish a sixteen-ounce steak alone were an honest-to-god turn-off. I was over that now, but I'd never forget the look on Darren Hollis' face when I asked for dessert after eating a ten-ounce steak dinner with fries and a milkshake ten years ago.

  "Smoked salmon panini sounds good," I said, looking at him over my menu. I wasn't trying to impress him with my delicate appetite, but I also wasn't twenty anymore. All that food would find its way to my hips and refuse to budge until I completed a harrowing course of calorie counting and exercise.

  "It's on me; you can order what you want," he said.

  "I'm the one who asked you to come. The least I could do is pay."

  He shook his head. "A gentleman never lets the lady pay." I raised my brows, putting the menu down.

  "Is this the year nineteen fifty? I thought chivalry was dead."

  "If it was, you would have been my dad's secretary. Not his lawyer," he said, lowering his menu and looking at me, "and I just wouldn't believe you if you told me nobody had ever offered to cover the bill when they took you out before."

  "On dates, sure, but that isn't what this is."

  "Ah," he said, "so the guy pays when he feels there's a prize waiting for him if he does."

  "Sounds about right," I said, holding his gaze. />
  "How about we change that?" he said. The server showed up, and he broke his stare.

  "Ready to order?" the freckled, college-aged server asked.

  "Yes. I'll have a grilled Rueben, and she’ll have the smoked salmon panini?" he ordered, looking at me for confirmation. I nodded, a little stunned. He asked for coffee with our order and asked me whether I wanted anything else before letting the guy leave. Okay, Cameron, I thought. Ordering for your date, women probably ate that one up. I was kind of impressed, but I wasn't about to let him know that. I knew next to nothing about Cameron Porter, but I had made my fair share of unfair assumptions. He was surprising me, in a good way.

  "So," he asked, leaning forward across the table, "what did you want to talk to me about?"

  "Have you ever felt like the things you were doing and thinking weren't your own thoughts or desires?"

  Our plates were gone, and my coffee was getting cold. I leaned forward, matching Cameron's pose.

  "How do you mean?" I asked. Turned out that brooding thing Grayson Porter had told me his son tended to do? Totally true. When you thought about the thoughtful, deep, tortured type, guys like Cameron weren't the ones that tended to come to mind. It was the other kind, you know, the ones that had a lot less money and a lot more time.

  "I mean people don't operate based on what they want. They do what society tells them to do, what they think they have to do."

  "Like mind control?" I asked incredulously.

  "You could think of it like that. Yeah. Like there are rules and expectations for everyone to follow and nobody realizes that there are other ways to do things."

  "Okay," I said, pausing, "so what? Everyone's a puppet, and someone's pulling the strings?"

  "Like there's a script, and everyone's an actor, doing what they're told, not what they want."

  "Told by who?"

  "By the world," he said, leaning back. "Society. All those little rules people live by because they think they have to follow them."

  "Like working a corporate job, getting married, and having kids?"