Dirty Stranger (The Dirty Suburbs Book 3)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  I glance over to my left to find six feet, four inches of burly Jakob Wilkinson thundering down the hallway. A gasp escapes my lips right as our eyes connect. His pace slows and the scowl on his face melts away. "Isla?"

  A smile instantly spreads across my face at the sight of my rugged, scruffy brother-in-law. My ex-brother-in-law, actually. "Hey Cowboy," I say padding over to him and climbing onto my tiptoes to steal a hug. He barely reciprocates, giving me a single tap on my shoulder before pulling away.

  Jakob is one of those people who abhor physical contact. He's a bit standoffish and reclusive. Most of the town's residents avoid him, dismissing him as grumpy and antisocial. But during my time married to his worthless older brother, Jakob let me in just a little bit. I know for a fact that beneath that gruff exterior is a big, protective (but well-hidden) heart. He’s the one I call whenever I need help with tasks that require a bit of muscle. For example, he set up the carport tent over my parking space at the studio at the beginning of winter. That means I don’t have to worry about shoveling my car out on the days when the landlord refuses to clear the snow just to spite me.

  "You clean up really well," I say as I brush a piece of lint off his shoulder. He's in a black button down shirt with black pants and black leather shoes, a paper folder tucked under his arm. He looks incredibly handsome.

  He grumbles his thanks under his breath.

  "What are you doing here, anyway?" I don't mean to be nosy but Jakob rarely leaves his family farm on the edge of town.

  He sighs scratching his bearded chin. "Some fucking investors are in town. They invited me for a meeting. They wanted to talk about the farm."

  My eyes widen in surprise. "The farm? I didn't know you were looking to sell." Jakob takes great pride in the fifty acres he owns running alongside the highway. He spends his days tending to the vegetables in the greenhouses and caring for the animals that graze in the fields. I find it hard to imagine him giving that all up for a handsome payday.

  "I'm not looking to sell," he growls. "I just thought I'd come hear them out and maybe I could get an investment but what they have to offer is a load of crap that I wouldn't even use as manure. That's how fucking useless their offer is."

  I laugh.

  "Anyway, this whole thing was a waste of time."

  My stomach tightens instantly. "I'm meeting with the same investors," I tell him. "I was hoping that they'd be nice. And that they'd fall in love with my business concept." My naive optimism is already starting to deflate upon hearing Jacob's experience.

  He shakes his head. "Sorry Isla. They're playing hardball. They want to buy me outright for half of what the farm’s worth and they want me to stay on for three years to train their new team for nothing extra...A load of bullshit."

  "So you didn't make the deal."

  "Nah, I told that arrogant trust fund brat where to shove it and I walked right out of there."

  "Trust fund brat?" Sammie had mentioned three old guys when she set up this meeting for me. She never mentioned that I'd be pitching to some entitled rich kid who's never had to work a day in his life for all of his good fortune.

  He shrugs a broad shoulder, wearing a scowl. "Well, he looked like a trust fund kid. All WASP-y and smug."

  Just as I'm about to question Jakob further, Fiona comes hurrying down the hall. "Isla, they're ready for you, sweetie." Before I can say a word, she's off scolding a worker who is carelessly yanking an old fashioned sconce off the wall.

  I breathe out a shaky exhale and smooth my hands down the front of my charcoal gray polyester trousers. "God, I'm really nervous now," I mumble under my breath. Billionaire investors don't often roll into small, middle-American suburbs handing out stacks of cash. My entire future is riding on this meeting. This has to go well.

  Suddenly, I wish Reuben were here with his encouraging words and soothing presence. I stopped by the coffee shop this morning, hoping to see him before my meeting. But he wasn't at work. Just my luck that he didn't have a shift on the morning that I needed him most. Spending time with him last night had turned out to be incredibly calming. And that toe curling orgasm didn't hurt, either.

  Jakob offers a terse smile. "Don't sweat it. They'll probably hand you a blank check and a key to a security box at the bank. You aren't exactly big and gruff like me." He's trying to be reassuring in his own special way. "You can do this, Isla."

  My tongue is heavy as lead so I just give him a curt nod and attempt a quick smile. I move down the hall on wobbly knees and unsteady feet, deliberately replaying Jakob's encouragement in my head. "You can do this, Isla...You can do this, Isla." I repeat it like a sacred transcendental mantra as I straighten my blouse and run a hand over my hair. I pause with my hand on the doorknob and take a single centering breath.

  I walk into the room with a smile despite the pounding of my heart. “Hello,” I say as my eyes quickly scan the row of businessmen sitting stiffly at the conference table in front of the window. They wear custom fitted business suits in dark shades, perfectly knotted monochromatic silk ties, cuff links and expensive watches. But my gaze immediately ricochets to one in particular. The young, handsome, perfectly groomed one sitting at the far left. Stunning honey eyes. Thick, dark hair. Dimpled chin. Lips pressed into a firm, unflinching line.

  It can't be.

  "Reuben?" His name spills from my gaping mouth.

  He glances down at the papers in front of him as if searching for my name. "Ms. Hamilton," he says aloofly. "Isla Hamilton." His eyes rise to mine again and he motions to the empty chair across from him. "Take a seat and tell us about your business." His elbows rest on the table and his fingers steeple in front of him.

  He looks nothing like the charming barista who brings me a soy hazelnut latte every morning. He looks nothing like the man who was lying on my living room floor next to me last night. He looks hard, cut throat. A shark in a suit.

  "Ms. Hamilton?" he repeats.

  I snap back to the present. "Yes." With a shaky step forward, I distribute binders containing my business proposal to the three older men. "I'm sorry," I say eyeing Reuben hard as I sink into the empty swivelling chair across from the group of financiers. "I was told to expect three investors."

  Reuben holds up a palm. "No need to apologize. I was a last minute addition." I try to maintain his gaze, hoping that his eyes will tell me what the hell is going on here, but he focuses on the notepad in front of him, completely unaffected by my presence.

  One of the older men speaks up. “So, Ms. Hamilton, please tell us about your business.”

  I run my tongue over my bottom lip to chase away my nerves. “I’m Isla Hamilton…” I say, slowly realizing that I've forgotten every word of the carefully prepared script that I crafted after Reuben left last night. My mind is completely blank. But I can’t just sit there on mute, so I open my mouth and words start stumbling out. “I-I’m the sole owner of Prasanna Light Oneness Studio. Um, today, I’m looking for a small investment. Just to help with, uh, repairs that need to be done on my studio. Uh, I wouldn’t mind a loan but I’m also willing to give equity if – if that's what you want—”

  Reuben’s eyes bore angrily into me. “Why should I care, Ms. Hamilton? Why should I invest in your little yoga studio in a middle-of-nowhere town like Reyfield?”

  What the fuck is his problem? I stare at him with as much venom as he’s throwing my way. “We offer a range of service. Yoga classes, massage therapy, skincare treatments, reiki healings –”

  “That’s wonderful, Ms. Hamilton,” grumbles the man with the shiny bald spot and the equally shiny venetian red tie. “But I don’t hear anything that interests me in this venture.” The two other men nod in agreement and I feel panic rising in my chest.

  Oh, god. I’m losing them. I’m losing them.

  The intensity in Reuben’s eyes ratchets up. “I agree with you wholeheartedly, Carl,” he says dryly, “reiki healings won’t give me an exponential return on my investment. That’s what I’m looking for. Te
ll me what I need to hear, Ms. Hamilton. Tell me what I need to hear so that I can write you a big, fat check.” He’s goading me on and I’m crumbling under pressure, still reeling from the fact that he’s here to begin with, sitting behind that table in that expensive suit with that expensive watch, twirling that expensive pen between his fingers.

  Who the fuck are you, Reuben Barre?

  My mouth opens but no words come out. All I feel is the anger sizzling in my veins and the tears building behind my eyes. I feel fucking betrayed, blindsided.

  Reuben huffs in irritation, slamming his pen down on the table. “We’ll do the deal,” he growls.

  Shock surges through my body. The other investors look at him like he’s lost his mind. The man with the stringy, white comb-over speaks. “Reuben, she hasn’t made one compelling argument as to–”

  Reuben sticks a hand up, silencing the old man. “Ms. Hamilton may not be able to articulate it, but I see a larger vision for this yoga studio. This venture has potential,” he proclaims. “We could transform the thing into a retreat, an oasis just minutes outside of Chicago. A place where professionals and well-off Chicagonians can come to relax and unwind. I envision yoga workshops, wellbeing retreats, a Nordic spa...why the hell not? Ms. Hamilton just needs partners and the money to make it all happen." He looks at me. "Doesn't that sound like your wildest dream?"

  I bristle as I listen to him paraphrase my words from last night, appropriating them as his own. I want to lean across the table and slap him in the face but I’m too stunned to react.

  The other men sit there, weighing Reuben’s words. “Hmm…” Carl says thoughtfully.

  Reuben directs his attention to me. “So, Ms. Hamilton, how about five hundred thousand dollars in exchange for twenty-five percent equity?"

  The man with the comb-over slams his fist on the tabletop. "Have you gone insane, Reuben? Where the hell did you pull that valuation from?" The other two men look on with bewilderment.

  "Nothing about a little yoga studio in Reyfield is worth two million dollars, Barre! You're not making any sense!” Carl shouts.

  Reuben remains eerily calm despite the protests of his colleagues. "Ms. Hamilton?" He's waiting for my response.

  Every cell in my body is screaming at me, yelling at me to take the deal but I’m so fucking incensed by the shit that Reuben just pulled on me. All this time, he’s been hiding who he really is. I thought I was getting to know him but he’s just as much of a stranger right now as he was that first morning I saw him at the coffee shop.

  I can’t just say ‘yes’ to him.

  "Can I have a word with you?” I say through gritted teeth. “In private?" Out of the corner of my eye, I see the other investors whispering among themselves in surprise.

  Reuben hesitates, annoyance on his brow. He expected me to just accept his offer, no questions asked. But that won’t work for me. No matter how much money he’s throwing my way. I need answers.

  “Is it necessary to do this now, Ms. Hamilton?”

  I don’t bat an eye. “Yes.” The word is firm and dry as it bounds past my lips.

  Reuben glances at the baffled faces of his colleagues. "Gentlemen, excuse me." He fastens the top button of his suit jacket as he rises.

  I don’t look back as I march to the exit. I pause, waiting until he leans around me and pushes the door open. I march down the hall, the sound of his footsteps echoing in my ears together with my raging pulse. I can’t remember the last time I was this angry.

  When we round the corner, I turn to him, jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest. “You lied to me!”

  He spits out a mirthless laugh. “I lied to you?”

  “You pretended to be some hapless, new-in-town simpleton working a bunch of low-paying jobs when all the while, you’re a fucking gazillionaire business investor looking to steal my ideas and present them as your own!”

  Giving me an incredulous stare, he shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, no. Don’t pin this on me. You wrote my backstory in your mind based on your own mistaken assumptions. That’s not my fault.”

  I’m seeing red now. How dare he refuse to own up to this? “You misled me!”

  “I did no such thing, Isla. How many times did I ask you on a date? I gave you the opportunity to get to know me. On numerous occasions.” He leans in with a taunting smile. “You only wanted my body.” He feigns offence as he smooths his hand over the front of his suit. And now, I'm thinking about the sculpted chest and the rock-hard abs hiding under all those yards of useless fabric.

  I growl. “Now is not the time for jokes, Reuben.”

  His smirk dissipates and his features grow solemn. “Isla…” He reaches for me but I take a swift step back.

  “And what about the people you work with? Tina from the coffee shop, the people from the Opal Lounge, the cashier at the grocery store…They all think that you’re just another employee but you’re, you’re a mole…”

  That TV program, Undercover Boss, comes to mind. The premise of the show is that senior corporate executives disguise themselves as entry level workers and take on grunt work positions in their own companies, basically spying on their workers all in the name of figuring out what improvements need to be made to increase profits.

  Reuben tosses his head back and laughs. “Before you make any more assumptions, I’d advise you to ask questions instead. The employees at the coffee shop, the Opal Lounge and the grocery store all know my real identity. The same is true for the employees at this very hotel.”

  My head is spinning with confusion right now. “What’s going on, Reuben?” I manage to whisper.

  He digs his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “I’m the Chief Operations Officer of the investment consortium that bought all of those businesses, Isla. My brother and I run the venture together.” He jams a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the conference room. “Those old pricks sitting in that room are our strategic advisors. We purchase failing businesses in small towns and save them from self-destructing. After buying a business, I spend a few days working in various positions to get a feel for each job description. It helps me understand the business from an operational standpoint and diagnose inefficiencies. That’s why I was working at Herbivore and the Opal Lounge and the grocery store. I'm sorry if you drew inaccurate conclusions about me."

  I press my eyes closed and take a calming breath. I'm getting a headache.

  As pissed off as I am, I know that Reuben's right. He did try the whole let's-get-to-know-each-other thing and I shut him down each time. I didn't want to give him the time of day (aside from the nights when he was buried ten-inches deep in me). And I made all these judgements about him that turned out to be wildly inaccurate. I have no one to blame for that but myself.

  I force my voice to remain steady. ”How long have you known that I'd be here today asking for an investment?"

  "I'm not very involved in the company's acquisitions division. I usually only get involved once we've purchased a business and are trying to figure out how to fix it. That's why I didn't know about your meeting until you mentioned it at the grocery store yesterday."

  "So basically before we had sex last night."

  "C'mon, Isla," he pleads. He takes a step closer, laying a hand on my hip. I rear back like a wild animal. My palm claps against his cheek with a force that surprises even me.

  Oops! I let myself get a bit carried away.

  He stands there for a moment cradling his face in his hand. But my slap doesn't deter him. If anything, it makes him more determined. "I never meant to mislead you, Isla and I certainly wasn't lying about my interest in spending more time with you." His fingers trail across my cheekbone until he cups my chin in his hand.

  Reflexively, I lean into his palm. Gosh, I get weak in the knees every time he touches me like that. A flurry of confusing emotions swirls inside of me. The lines between business and pleasure are unmistakably blurred. I can’t tell if he wants to help me because my business proposition is so
und or because we fucked ourselves into utter exhaustion on my boho chic couch last night.

  A worker bustles by with a hard hat in hand, startling me out of the moment.

  Wait – what the hell am I doing?

  I retreat to the other corner of the narrow hallway. I won’t let him off the hook so easily. "Don't you try to sweet talk me, mister. What you did is not okay. You sat in my living room and listened to me practice my business pitch and you never mentioned that you’re the one who gets to decide whether or not I actually get that investment."

  A frustrated breath bursts past his lips. "I'm just trying to help you, Isla...Let me." His eyes hold enough heat to dissolve my panties and all my objections, too. Just when I begin to accept the fact that I may not be able to resist his charms, the conference room door opens and Carl’s head juts out. He gives us an impatient look before retreating back into the room, closing the door with a heavy thud.