by Cole, S. Ann
I Choose You
Book Three of The Billionaire Brothers Series
S. Ann Cole
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2013 S. Ann Cole
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Cover by S. Ann Cole
Table of Contents
Author’s note:
Dedication
Appetizer
Acknowledgement
Chapter 1 Angel’s Feather
Chapter 2 The ‘B’ Word
Chapter 3 Ineligible
Chapter 4 Choosing Her
Chapter 5 Nothing Complicated
Chapter 6 You Bit Me
Chapter 7 Undo Me
Chapter 8 Contemplating
Chapter 9 K. Kingston
Breathing
Chapter 10 Outside Inside
Chapter 11 On Sarah’s Watch
Chapter 12 Mark Me
Chapter 13 Trev’s
Chapter 14 Sweet Sins
Chapter 15 Unexpected
Chapter 16 A Need for Speed
Chapter 17 Sarah’s
Chapter 18 Drive Me Wild
Chapter 19 Falling
Chapter 20 The First Wife
Chapter 21 Taking what’s Mine
Chapter 22 Pansy or Alpha?
Chapter 23 Screwed
Chapter 24 Shattered
Chapter 25 Bad Girl
Chapter 26 What, What, and WHAT??
Chapter 27 Taken
Chapter 28 What Happens to Bad People?
Chapter 29 Staying
Chapter 30 Assholes = One Chance
Chapter 31 Mr. Hopeless
Chapter 32 Island Lovin’
Chapter 33 Carpe Diem
Chapter 34 Chapter One
Series Epilogue The Nelsons’ Happily Ever After
Natalio & Sadie
Love & Axia
Trev & Krissy Part 1
Trev & Krissy Part 2
Father Nelson
About The Author
Contact Ann
For The Reader
Author’s note:
I Choose You is the third book of the Billionaire Brothers Series, but even so, it is a standalone. Therefore, you needn’t read the previous two before reading I Choose You.
This book ends the series, so there is a bonus at the end: a Series Epilogue.
If you have not read the previous two books, you may just skip along to the ‘Trev and Krissy’ epilogue — that’s if you don’t want to read about the other couples.
Whether this story works for you or not, I appreciate you taking the time to read it.
And, oh…
Happy reading!
Dedication
For all the one-woman soldiers out there, treading life’s rocky roads on their own. This is to let you know, you are not alone.
Never stop believing in yourself because others have stopped believing in you. Everyone, that includes you, has their season.
Just wait…
~
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
—Emily Dickinson
Appetizer
Broken Wing
(Written in Shakespearean English)
by: S. Ann Cole
Angel,
Perfection is thy name.
But, Angel,
Why art thou maim?
Angel,
You were sent to mend.
But, Angel,
Why on I doth thou depend?
Angel,
I await from thee my token.
Wait, Angel,
Art thou wing truly broken?
Angel,
I art a sinner,
I art a mortal,
I art too blemished
For thy perfection
But, Angel,
If thou sayest
Thou art imperfect
I’ll mend thy wing
To thy satisfaction.
And, Angel,
If thou druthers
To stay impaired,
I’ll give thee a smile
For being as guile
Because, Angel,
I stumbled in love
Upon first sight,
With an eye of flaw
With emotions raw.
Angel,
I prithee,
Say thou art imperfect,
So I can free thee,
And make thee my perfect…
Mortal.
Chapter 1
T. Nelson
Angel’s Feather
His name was Trevillo Marco-Dean Nelson.
And he was a hellion.
Okay, okay, he wasn’t really a hellion. But people tended to refer to him as such; he merely acknowledged it being said.
Rakehell, miscreant, asshole, Devil Boy were just a few of the disparaging names he’d been dubbed. For the life of him, though, he couldn’t understand why.
He wasn’t a bad person. Not to himself, at least. He was an extremely wealthy man who provided jobs and opportunities for a decent living for thousands of people around the globe. He governed incalculable charities, fed the poor, clothed the unclothed, and helped the underprivileged. For heaven’s sake, he rebuilt an entire parish after that bitch of a hurricane twirled her destructive little skirt tail across several states and uprooted a vast amount of lives and homes. Talk about ‘home-wrecker’.
So, you see? He wasn’t too bad. Actually, he considered himself as normal as any other human being.
There were just two (2, dos) small (teeny, tiny) defects of his — or unredeemable habits, one could say, that made truly normal people deem him rotten:
One, he fucking swore a lot.
Two, he was a proud enabler of adultery and consciously steered clear of any female sector whose ages were below his on the calendar.
Did it make him a hellion because he enjoyed spraying F-bombs on everyone like a swear-word confetti gun? Or because he enjoyed dating screwing around with women who were five to ten years his senior, married, engaged, or otherwise entangled?
No? He didn’t think so either.
It’s not like he was strapping goddamn bombs to his chest, robbing banks, blowing up airplanes, hitting on pregnant women, peeping through little boys’ windows with his dick in his hand, or sending naked pictures of himself to underage vaginas …
Guess the world saw him in a different light than he did. To himself, he was just Trevillo Marco-Dean Nelson: a good guy. A
really good guy.
You’ll see. Then, perhaps, you’ll agree.
At present, he was trapped within the confinements of his office with his gayer of the gayest male assistant, Milo, browsing through potential design plans for one of his new tower loft constructions. And he was scowling with sheer displeasure. The designs were drafted by one of his best designers; yet, they came across as trite and uninspiring.
With a sharp shake of his head, Trevillo leaned back in his comfortable leather chair, “I’m done.”
Milo glanced at him from across his large oak desk, brows raised. “You’re cutting her? Sarah James is your supposedly ‘best’ designer. You’ve been using her on all the top projects for years.”
“Exactly. And now she’s grown comfortable, which has rendered her predictable. She keeps recreating the same thing every time. I need newness. Innovation. Daring designs. Sarah’s just not delivering anymore.”
Milo nodded in agreement.
An exceptional assistant for the last five years, he was about five feet four inches short, with a wiry frame and a gay attitude. He kept his hair trimmed in a spiky blonde Mohawk, had a wide gauge piercing on one ear and a cage piercing on the other.
Trevillo didn’t force him to wear a three-piece suit — he himself detested suits — he permitted Milo to wear whatever he wanted, so Milo was always dressed in his customary steel-toed boots, tight jeans with studded belts, and stretchy rocker T-shirts.
Many times, he was asked why he hired a freak for an assistant. A careless shrug would always be his reply. Why not hire a freak for an assistant?
See, Trevillo Nelson was unconventional in every sense of the word, so he was perpetually doing the opposite of whatever was expected. Screw world order. He was rich, he was powerful, he was the boss, and he could do whatever the hell he wanted. Some called it rebellion, but he called it shitting-on-dumb-ass-rules.
Milo wasn’t a freak, anyway. He was just gay.
“That’s true. However, you can’t drop Sarah at this moment. The Skylark penthouses, or shells, are already two months behind your planned schedule, and they need to be completed and crossed off the list. You’ve got a lot of food crowding your already laden table, so you need to clear some of these small dishes before the big ones start falling off and smashing into pieces.
“Taking a chance on a different designer — who you’d be putting a helluva strain and pressure on, by the way — to get these penthouses ready on time, might not be the smartest idea right now. You can always dump Sarah after this project.”
That was the answer he never offered to people who inquired about his freak of an assistant. Milo wasn’t a mere assistant. Milo kept things leveled, pointing out the obvious to him when he was being blind and irrational.
Being the boss didn’t deter Milo from telling him point blank when he thought he was sticking his head too far up his ass. Milo knew his shit better than those sniffy punks in sharp charcoal suits.
So, there you have it, he hired a weird, gay assistant because he kicked ass … or licked it … or sticked it … or all the above.
“You’re right, Milo. But as you know, these apartments are unfairly overpriced. They’re all sold out because pompous buyers are expecting something above what’s already out there. This,” Trevillo said, turning around his laptop to face Milo, “is average. The same ole’ shit that’s been in Sarah’s last three projects, with just a slight difference.
“You know what kind of customers I have. Customers who never question price because they know The Dean’s Realty always delivers. If each new building doesn’t transcend in creativity, notices will be made that I’m a fucking dickwad with my prices. Which I am, of course. But, who gives a shit about the price tag as long as they’re happy with the product? Sarah’s not gonna work.”
Milo glanced at the computer screen and shrugged. “So what’re you going to do, then? Want me to send out notification emails to the buyers, informing them completion dates are being pushed back a few months? It’s construction. I’m pretty sure they’ll understand that shit happens sometimes.”
“Shit happens. But not with me. I’ve got a rep to maintain.” Trevillo rubbed his forehead in thought. “Who do I have that can deliver this project on time with a commendable design?”
Milo raised a censorious brow, “All your designers are not just good, but great at what they do, or else they wouldn’t be working for you. You’re the one who chose to put Sarah above everyone else because she brought in praises for the Lions penthouses she designed a few years back. That doesn’t mean she’s better than anyone else. It’s just the hype you gave her.”
Trevillo shot him a disgusted look. “Are you my goddamn assistant or my consultant? You’ve got too much to say, dude.”
Milo smirked. “And you listen. Because you know whenever I open my mouth, it’s not hog shit spraying out.”
Trevillo waved him off. “So? Who do we have?”
“The design department of The Dean’s Realty has 110 interior designers. So the answer to that is ‘you have a lot’. The real question is ‘who’s not working on a project at the moment?’.”
Trevillo glared across his desk with a look that told his assistant if he didn’t cut the excessive chatting, he was going to knock his ass out. Cold.
Milo burst out laughing and held his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. Lemme check.”
He flipped open his MacBook and tapped a few keys, while Trevillo opened a drawer on his desk and retrieved his stress ball. He wanted out of this damn office.
“Okay, so everyone’s contracted, but a handful will be available soon. Lisa Monroe will be free from the Barley project in four weeks. Katy Lesley will be free from an addition at Crissida Cove in two weeks, and Krissan Kingston will be free from the Jamz nightclub project in two days.”
“Whoever’s closest to being available, Milo. Christ.”
“That would be Krissan Kingston, but she specializes in commercial venues, nightclubs, etcetera. Would be better to wait on Katy Lesley.”
“No one without versatility would be hired in my company, Milo. Unless you’re telling me I need to fire the manager of the design department for hiring inept workers?” he asked sternly. “She must’ve worked on some residential projects before. Pull up her profile. Check.”
Milo tapped around on his MacBook again then shrugged and slid it across the desk to him. “This is her work on Willow Land from two years ago. That’s the last house project she did.”
Trevillo leaned forward and clicked through the designs. There wasn’t anything awe-inspiring. But then, that was two years ago. If he remembered clearly, people were more than happy with the Willow Land town homes. “Where’s the flaw?”
Milo rolled his eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh. “Mr. Nelson, all your designers are worthy. It’s you who favored Sarah above everyone.”
“This Krissan person it is, then. She’ll just need a little pressure and brow-beating to understand the importance of being assigned to projects like Skylark.”
Trevillo didn’t think putting pressure on any interior designer of his was even necessary. Once someone was called to his office to be directly hired by him, common sense should tell them that their best was required. Being contracted for a high-end TDR project meant one expectation: success. His penthouses were bought by people with status. Somebodies. And that was all his designers needed to understand when handed their marching orders.
“Well, she’s been turning down contracts for residential work. Like I said, she’s only doing commercial venues.”
“She works for me. If I want her to design my damn apartments, she’s going to design them or get sacked.”
“Technically, you’re her boss’s boss’s boss.”
“Which spells: BOSS.”
“She — ”
“Too much fucking lip, Milo! Go. Now. Find out if she’s in today, and have Mike send her up.”
Milo got up and brought his hand to his forehead in
a salute gesture. “Yessir.” He swaggered toward the door with his anti-male gait and said, “I bet you have no idea what Krissan Kingston even looks like,” then hurried out the door before he could respond.
Aside from his main team, Trevillo didn’t see the need to give a squat about knowing his workers. He was rarely ever in one place for too long, anyway.
He came in to the office only on Mondays and Wednesdays for meetings and major issues, because frankly, he hated being in an office. Everything else was left for his trusted team to sort out. Papers and numbers bored him.
Trevillo was a physical man. He preferred to see what words and numbers translated into. Therefore, the bulk of his time was spent on his work sites. Traveling, viewing, purchasing, making deals in unconventional, staying-out-of-offices and sleep-inducing-meetings kinds of ways.
That’s what made him him. He did things his own way, on his own terms. Society could create whatever rules it wanted. Just don’t expect Trevillo Nelson to follow them. Sitting in an office sifting through emails and sending proxies to do the physical work didn’t pan out for him. Offices made him feel caged. So he stayed out of them. Just as he did with relationships with the opposite sex.
