Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Also by Jessica Lemmon
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Copyright
For my “cuzin” and lifelong friend, Jenny.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Michele Bidelspach for all you do to make my books a success, including this yummy cover. When I requested a long-haired billionaire with facial hair who didn’t wear a suit, you didn’t balk. Publicity mavens Jodi Rosoff and Michelle Cashman, for making publicity look easy when I know you work your tail feathers off. And Jessie Pierce, for your quiet efficiency.
Thanks as always to my agent, Nicole, for your help and praise. I wouldn’t be here without you. Thanks also to my husband, John, who unnecessarily steps out of the spotlight to ensure I have plenty for myself. You’re a big part of the reason I shine.
A special shout-out to Tracy Slemker, who talked with me at length about prosthetic limbs. Any mistakes are my own. Lastly, thank you to Brock O’Hurn for sharing your photos (which inspired Tag Crane’s physical features) and for your encouragement to chase life’s dreams. I wish you continued success with yours.
Chapter 1
Eyes closed, Rachel Foster drew in a steeling breath, shut out the din of voices at the surrounding tables in the bar, and said aloud for the first time ever, “Mom, Dad, I resigned from my position at the design firm after Shaun took credit for my work. I moved out of our shared apartment and took a job as a bartender instead.”
Other than background chatter, silence greeted her. She held her breath for a few seconds before opening her eyes. The fifty-something guy across from her blinked, fries gone cold on his plate.
“Should I have started with my ex taking credit for my work, then moved to the resignation? Or is it best to open with the bartender bit?” she asked him.
“I think they’ll love you no matter what.” The man on the guest side of the bar, who’d agreed to play the role of “Mom and Dad,” smiled.
Oliver Something. He had kind green eyes, a plain face, and thick hair dyed a shade too dark for his age and skin tone. He was a regular at the bar where she worked, enjoying the same exact meal (turkey club, no mayo) each and every week. He always ate, but never drank alcohol, only soda. And he had a big, beautiful Great Dane, a dog she would soon be in charge of while living in his gorgeous apartment.
She really needed to learn Oliver’s last name.
“You say that because you’ve never met them.” She grabbed the soda gun from behind the bar and refilled his Diet Coke. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell them at all.”
“Rachel.” He brushed his hands on a paper napkin. “I’m old enough to be your father.”
“Uncle,” she corrected, being generous.
“Older uncle. Either way, I have longer perspective than you do given that I’m closer to the grave, and I’m advising you to tell your folks what’s going on.”
He was right, of course. She hadn’t told them anything, and the least they deserved was the truth.
After her and Shaun’s relationship had imploded, she’d grieved alone and put on a happy voice for her mother’s phone calls. Inside, she’d been aching. Two years was a long time to be with someone. She had begun to accept his faults—like the fact he was grouchy in the evenings and could be abrasive and critical—but when he’d betrayed her and took the promotion she’d earned, she pushed the eject button without a second thought.
“I’ll tell them.” Eventually. She wasn’t ready to call her family in Ohio and drop on their lap that their successful, city-dwelling daughter was not watching the gold nameplate go up on her corner office door. Instead, she was stacking dirty dishes in a bus tub and cleaning sticky, disgusting residue out of the rubber mat over which she poured libations for eight hours a night, five to six days a week.
Still better than being stabbed in the back by the man who was supposed to love and protect her.
She took Oliver’s plate as he reached for his wallet. He extracted a credit card, which he used to pay for everything to earn miles for his many business trips, and set a gold key next to it.
“Front desk knows to expect you tomorrow. Adonis has been asking about you since you stopped by last week,” he said of the Great Dane with whom he shared a life.
She pocketed the key with a smile and settled the bill, swiping the card on the machine a few feet down the bar.
“The front desk was incredibly thorough and scares me a little.” Last week when she was there, they required two forms of ID and took a photo of her to put in their database. “I’m surprised they didn’t ask for fingerprints.” She tore off the receipts and handed them over with a pen. “Adonis is gorgeous, but let’s both admit he only loves me because of the liver treats I fed him.”
Oliver laughed as he signed the receipt. “His loyalty is easily bought. Like his owner’s.”
“Truer words.” She accepted the pen and the receipt, glancing at the tip line to see that Oliver had once again tipped the amount of his meal, which she used to yell at him for but now accepted that he wasn’t going to listen to her no matter what.
“Thank you for doing this, Rachel,” he said. “I didn’t expect to be in Japan for an entire month.”
“You’re welcome.” She’d confided in Oliver one late night how her roommate situation wasn’t working, and she needed to find a new place to live, never imagining he’d offer to solve her problem. As it turned out, he was due to go away on business and his dog sitter had double-booked herself. He’d asked Rachel if she’d take the gig, sharing that he couldn’t stomach the idea of Adonis in a kennel. When he told her his address, Rachel had nearly drooled on the bar top between them.
Crane Tower. Oh la la.
Not only would she live in his glorious fifteen-hundred-square-foot apartment, but he was also paying her. Generously. She could add the money to her savings and put a deposit down on her own place. It was either that or move back home, but she wasn’t willing to concede the battle yet. Chicago may be kicking her around, but she was tougher than she looked.
She hoped.
Once she found a better gig than bartending, a professional and brag-worthy profession devoid of rat-bastard, promotion-stealing boyfriends, she’d be good to go. Not because bragging about her job was important for her, but it was for her parents. They were the ones who were so proud of their daughter, the “city girl.”
Oliver bid her adieu and left as Rachel’s roommate-slash-coworker, Breanna, stepped through the door he held open for her.
At the bar, Bree slid her coat from her arms and stashed it beneath the register. “Soooo. How’s Daddy Warbucks?”
“Bree.” Rachel laughed as she washed a beer glass in the double sink. That roommate situation that wasn’t working? It had
nothing to do with Bree or her significant other, Dean. Rachel adored Bree, and vice versa. They’d become close in the two months since Rachel moved in with her, when both Bree and Rachel swore they’d be roommates for years. Then Dean proposed, Bree said yes, and he moved in and well…Rachel was now a third wheel.
She didn’t want to be in the way of what her friends had, which was special. She could tell because she knew what a relationship looked like when it wasn’t right. It was strain and silence and frustration and animosity brewing under a surface that no one disturbed.
“I’m going to miss you when you go live in luxury for a month.” Bree pouted, pushing her full lips out. Her chin-length brown hair was smooth tonight, her eyes sparkling thanks to glittery eye shadow.
“No, you won’t. You and Dean will probably run around naked the moment I leave.”
Bree grinned.
Rachel was happy for her friend. She’d met Bree at Dusty’s, a bar that was a downscale Andromeda. Bree had been working through the last week of a two-week notice.
They’d bonded almost instantly, which Rachel did with almost no one. By the time she’d made the decision to leave her marketing job, Rachel called Bree to ask if the Andromeda Club was hiring.
It’d occurred to her that when she’d moved to Chicago alone, she intended to be an island. She’d never expected to have a roommate—certainly not one she was dating—and since the whole Shaun debacle, she’d become anxious to reclaim her island status. She’d hate to think she’d lost the ability to be independent after coming to depend on a man who wasn’t dependable in the end.
Her recent breakup with her boyfriend of two years, being homeless, and losing the job for which she’d attained her degree was a series of minor setbacks.
Living with a dog was the bridging step from roommate to once again living on her own, and she would take it. Somewhere in her lived a fearless woman who was ready to take on a new adventure.
Rachel was determined to find her.
* * *
Tag’s oldest brother and CEO for Crane Hotels, Reese Crane, had no love for the board of directors around the conference table. As of last year, when they’d razzed Tag about lagging profits at the hotel and pool bars nationwide, he had recently put them on his shit list as well.
Today, they’d changed their tune.
“Given that the losses fall within an acceptable range, we are downgrading the bar issues at Guest and Restaurant Services from a code red to a code yellow.” Frank smiled at his own joke, but the only thought in Tag’s brain was that the older man’s teeth matched his code. “Thank you for your careful preparation, Tag. Now if you’ll excuse us, Bob, Lilith, and I have a meeting to attend downtown. This marks the end of our agenda. Unless either of you have anything to add?”
Tag had plenty to add, but when he opened his mouth, Reese spoke for him.
“Nothing on our end.”
Tag felt a muscle in his cheek twitch. Reese cast him a sideways glance as the board shuffled into the hall. The door shut behind them and he faced his brother.
“The term ‘acceptable losses’ isn’t bad news.” Reese arched an eyebrow.
“Loss should never be ‘acceptable,’” Tag growled. “The board harps on falling profits in the hotel bars last year, but as of thirty seconds ago they no longer care?”
Tag dropped his unused number 2 pencil to push a hand through his hair, then remembered it was pulled back. Long, nearly to his elbows, he preferred wearing his hair down, but for board meetings he wrangled it into a low-hanging ponytail/man bun hybrid. He’d also wedged his wide shoulders into an uncomfortable button-down and wrapped his bulky thighs in restrictive trousers. He felt…not like himself. Agitated about being here, about this whole downgrading thing.
Ever the underestimated brother, he shouldn’t be surprised that they’d shrugged him off. Even if Guest and Restaurant Services wasn’t his baby—and it was—he’d consider cooperating worth it if the board left him the hell alone and went back to whatever it was they did when they weren’t giving the Crane brothers grief.
“I prefer to handle this, not ignore it,” Tag said.
“They know you’re capable. They’re not worried. Take that as a compliment.” Reese shrugged easily, taking it in stride. A far cry from where he was a year ago, when he nearly went apoplectic on Frank.
The board had tried to keep Reese from becoming CEO, citing disapproval over Reese’s playboy lifestyle. The good news was Reese had ended up with a wife—now ex-wife, soon to be his wife again (long story)—but at the moment, Tag was having a hard time finding his own silver lining.
He didn’t consider futility a compliment.
He lifted the report in front of him—the one he’d received months ago. Filled with spreadsheets, numbers, and projected targets, it was seriously structured. And seriously pissing him off.
“Why the fuck did they give me this if they weren’t going to follow through?” The cover read “Fiscal Projections for Food and Alcohol.” The word fiscal was enough to give him hives, but he’d pored over those sheets, those numbers, until his eyes felt like they were going to bleed.
Tag preferred to do things his way, and his way consisted of two main elements: his gut and people. He could rely on himself for decisions and his interactions with the staff to ensure his decisions were carried out. Spreadsheets and charts didn’t translate into good business in most cases. He could relate better to an employee over a beer than he could by sending a memo.
“I came in prepared to discuss numbers, and Frank brushed me off,” he continued, still grinding his teeth over the wasted time.
“Need I remind you how undesirable it is for them to watch your every move? Care to have the paparazzi chasing you around? Parts of you highlighted on social media with a hashtag?” Reese’s wry humor was showcased with a slow blink.
But even the mention of the Twitter debacle and Reese’s nefarious #ReesesRocket hashtag didn’t cheer Tag up.
“Yeah, well, I don’t care what they say. I’m going to make the profits sing.” Tag stood from the desk. “Acceptable loss doesn’t factor in to my plans for Crane Hotels.”
Reese’s lips curved into an almost proud expression reminiscent of their father. Tag pulled in a breath and stood straighter.
Over the years since Reese had been clamoring for CEO, Tag was content to run GRS. He’d risen in the ranks by paying attention and talking to everyone who worked for him. He’d learned how to invest his inheritance, part of which he’d retained since he hadn’t blown it on a college degree.
Tag was self-made, self-confident, and self-aware. He worked for Crane not because he needed to, but because it was his purpose. He had a part to play in preserving their family’s legacy and in no way took the task lightly.
“I’m doing things my way,” Tag stated. “This”—he held up the report, then dropped it into the wastebasket by the door—“is bullshit.”
Reese followed him to the door and flipped off the light. They walked silently through the hall and out into the reception area where Reese’s secretary, Bobbie, was typing, her fingers flying over the keyboard.
“Look forward to hearing more.” Reese slapped Tag’s shoulder. “Don’t let ’em get to you.”
That gave Tag pause. Reese was almost laid-back since he’d been married to Merina, which wasn’t easy to get used to.
“Thanks, bro.”
Reese vanished into his office, where he could be found most of the time. The Cranes—their father, Alex; Reese; Tag; and Eli, who was currently overseas serving in the Marines—were in this battle together. Tag liked everything about that. The way he could count on his family to be on his side and the way he’d rise to any challenge they set forth. The Cranes would never bail on each other.
He waved to Bobbie, who acknowledged him with a brief nod; then he collected his coat and scarf from the coat rack next to the elevator.
He rode down to the lobby and strolled through a sea of white leather and pas
t shining windows. Gorgeous as the Chicago home base for Crane Hotels was, Tag preferred his home office, where he could focus on something other than the purring of the receptionist’s phone and the pompous chatter of the suits occasionally prowling the floors. When he wasn’t there, he was visiting one of the hotels to oversee a grand opening or cut the ribbon on a new restaurant.
The Windy City was living up to her name today, the cold slapping him in the face as he strode out onto the sidewalk. He pulled up his collar and plunged his hands into his black coat’s pockets, welcoming the chilly bite of February.
Crane Tower stood exactly three blocks west of the Crane and was Tag’s proudest accomplishment. His brother may own a mansion, but Tag had purchased an entire damn building. He’d bought it from his father quietly so as not to draw too much attention to the sale a year ago. His penthouse was at the top floor, forty-nine, and overlooked a sea of buildings. He liked the vantage point. He loved being on top. Ask any of his past girlfriends.
Well, dates. Girlfriends was a strong word.
Crane Tower’s doorman, a middle-aged guy whose name Tag did not remember, pulled open the door as Tag was angling to walk inside. The respite from wind was brief though, blowing his hair over his face and temporarily blotting out the vision of a woman exiting the luxury apartment building.
He swept his hair behind his ear and stopped dead in his tracks.
She was blond.
Petite, which put her at least a foot shorter than his almost six-and-a-half feet tall, and wearing high-heeled, knee-high boots that met the edge of a long dark coat, belted at the waist. The wind chose that moment to bless him, parting her coat and revealing gray leggings beneath a super short black skirt. She closed the coat over her like Marilyn Monroe trying to push down her dress and then she caught him looking.
And looked back.
Shiny lips. Thick, black lashes. Cute nose.
A pair of black leather gloves rose to tug a few stray hairs from her sticky lip gloss, and Tag felt a definite stir of interest in his pressed-for-work pants.
Then she was gone, hoofing it to a car waiting at the curb. He watched the maroon sedan pull away, a woman in the driver’s seat, and blinked as the taillights dwindled in the distance. Then he turned for the door again.
The Billionaire Next Door Page 1
