COPYRIGHT ©2016 by Camille Coats Checketts
All rights reserved
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.
COPYRIGHT ©2016 by Camille Coats Checketts
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Birch River Publishing
Smithfield, Utah
Published in the United States of America
Cover design: Christina Dymock
Cover photo: Photo by Forewer
Interior design: Heather Justesen
Editing: Daniel Coleman
To my sweetheart of a friend, Christina Dymock. Thank you for being such an amazing example to me and pushing me to be a better writer and a better person. I love your spunky, happy personality and am constantly inspired by your hard work and dreams.
I’ve heard it said that some people come into your life and quickly leave—others leave footprints on your heart. Jeanette and Cami are two wonderful authors and women who have left their mark on my heart. Their overwhelming support, knowledge, and general goodness have pushed me forward as a writer and nurtured me as a friend. That’s why I’m pleased to introduce you to their new and innovative series: The Billionaire Bride Pact Romances.
In each story, you’ll find romance and character growth. I almost wrote personal growth—forgetting these are works of fiction—because the books we read become a part of us, their words stamped into our souls. As with any good book, I disappeared into the pages for a while and was able to walk sandy beaches, visit a glass blowing shop, and spend time with a group of women who had made a pact—a pact that influenced their lives, their loves, and their dreams.
I encourage you to put your feet up, grab a cup of something wonderful, and fall in love with a billionaire today.
Wishing you all the best,
Lucy McConnell
Author of The Professional Bride
I, Maryn Howe, do solemnly swear that I will marry a billionaire and live happily ever after. If I fail to meet my pledge, I will stand up at my wedding reception and sing the Camp Wallakee theme song.
Maryn Howe pulled up to a massive wrought-iron gate. The imposing twelve-foot tall fence surrounding the property was partially hidden behind hundreds of lodge pole pines. They looked almost as intimidating in their grand stature as the well-built guard marching up to her window. Pretending she hadn’t seen the man yet, she quickly dialed her editor and close friend, James, one more time. “Are you absolutely sure about this?”
“You’re going to be fine. He’s only injured a couple reporters… That we know of.” James laughed. He was teasing her as usual, but her nerves were too frazzled to respond. “He invited you, remember?”
“That’s what you keep claiming. But James, I’ve researched the heck out of this dude and he is the ultimate reclusive Richie. He hates the media. Why would he want me to interview him?” She tried to keep the whine out of her voice, but it was proving impossible.
The guard tapped on her window. She held up a finger and flung a pleading smile his direction before staring at her steering wheel to avoid holding eye contact.
“Because you’re beautiful, fun, and a fabulous writer,” James said. “Why do you think I chase you so hard?”
Maryn appreciated the vote of confidence, but James pursued her nonstop so she couldn’t take his word as an unbiased opinion. She kept insisting she wasn’t ready for anything beyond friendship, but he still teased her about marrying him all the time.
“I thought you chased me for my car.” He hated her green Volkswagon bug.
“Ha!” He laughed. “That sense of humor is what I’m talking about. You’ve got this, no worries.”
“Thanks, James. I just keep second guessing this trip.”
“Tucker Shaffer has never allowed media into any of his homes,” James said. “Do you know how many reporters would give up their iPhones to meet this guy, let alone be invited into his lair?”
The big bad wolf’s lair. That’s exactly what she felt like. A little lamb going to the slaughter. She squared her shoulders, prepared for the battle. Fighting for this story was more important than her insecurities. She was going to ferret out all of Tucker Shaffer’s secrets where no one else had been given even a glimpse of the man. Yet, she couldn’t help but admit to one of her closest friends, “I’m scared, James.”
“Liar. My girl is too tough to be scared. You’ve never been scared of anything in your life.”
James thought he knew her so well, but he had no clue how many times she’d been scared as a young child raised by a single mom who worked every part of her tail off to try to secure them some kind of life. She should’ve called her best friend, Alyssa, with her one phone call before she faced the mystery that was Tucker Shaffer. The man who became famous as the inventor of Friend Zone, the social media site that had risen above Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram in only a few short years. He supposedly hated reporters and didn’t care that his PR ratings were in the toilet. He was a stinking billionaire, why should he care about PR?
“He’ll love you,” James reassured her. “You know I do.”
Maryn wished she could ignore that, but appreciated that James was always there for her. “I know you do.”
“Hey. Just because he’s a billionaire, don’t you dare think of falling for him. I know all about your little billionaire bride pact, but you’re meant for me.”
“Who needs a man, I’ve got a career,” she teased. James had their future planned out, but she wasn’t sure if she would ever be ready for that future. She was sure she’d never complete an agreement made at summer camp before she was even in the market for a training bra. All the girls in their cabin had sworn to marry a billionaire. It was something to joke about now. She’d forced herself to become comfortable around wealthy people as she spent most of her days interviewing and interacting with them. James teased her that she had a chip on her shoulder, but she’d never made much effort to chisel it off.
The guard tapped on her window again. He did not look happy.
“Gotta go. Guard dog is getting impatient.”
“Guard what—”
Maryn hung up, turned her ringer off because she knew James would call back and she needed to focus right now, and pressed the window button. Brisk Idaho air rushed in. How could it be this cold in October? She wanted to go back to California. “Hi,” she said too brightly. “I have an appointment with Mr. Shaffer, Maryn Howe. Word is he’s excited to meet me.” She gave him a huge grin and stuck her hand out the window to shake.
The guard looked at her fingers then back at her face. He didn’t take his hand off his weapon. He was tall and lean with short brown hair and dimples that showed even though he wasn’t smiling. It was hard to take someone with dimples seriously, but the weapon and stern look in his grayish-blue eyes helped. She got the impression this was not just a slacker guard who played Farmville in his guard shack all day.
“Can I please see some identification?” he barked at her.
“Wow.” Maryn yanked open her purse and fished around for her wallet. She found her driver’s license and held it up for inspection. “Talk about a stiff,” she muttered.
The guard didn’t react to her comment. He studied her driver’s license for long
enough that her fingers almost froze then nodded. “Mr. Shaffer is expecting you. Stay on the main road and it will lead you to the estate.”
“Yay for the estate.” She pumped a fist.
The guard arched an eyebrow and almost smiled. Almost might have been stretching it, but his grip on the rifle loosened a fraction. Why would he have a big old rifle instead of a pistol? He looked like he was ready to hunt for bear or something.
“Yay for the hot girl going to meet the big guy,” he muttered.
“What did you just say…” Maryn shook her head, certain she’d heard him wrong.
He saluted her with his gun and a wink before turning back to the gate house.
“Whew. Crazy.” Maryn rolled up her window, put her license away, and cranked the heat. The gate swung open. She proceeded slowly through and followed the winding road through more pine trees than she’d ever seen in her life. They were straight and tall, reminding her of a military unit. She snickered. The guard at the front gate had been a piece of work. Why had he called his boss the big guy? Well, Mr. Shaffer was a big guy from the photos she’d seen, but that guard was off. She wondered if the boss/employee relationship was much different here than what she’d encountered at other interviews.
The long ribbon of asphalt and enormous property stretched around her, reminded her that this guy was the ultra in Richies. What was she doing pretending she could hang with somebody like this? Being raised around wealthy people as the live-in maid’s daughter, she knew her place well. She’d risen to the top of her profession because of her good writing skills, her humor, and a refusal to quit. She regularly interviewed and rubbed cheeks with famous and wealthy people, but the only two of that species she was comfortable around were Alyssa and her new husband, Beckham. Those two didn’t really qualify as wealthy snots as they spent their time and money helping underprivileged children the world over.
Why had she been so excited when James secured her this opportunity? The whole interview suddenly seemed dumb, presumptuous, and far too intimate—flying into Idaho Falls and then driving the rented Mazda hours into the backwoods of Island Park to go to this wealthy dude’s house and what… drag all of his secrets out that he’d never revealed to anyone? Rolling her shoulders, she forced herself to keep driving. She’d worked too hard for too long to miss out an opportunity like this. Tucker Shaffer’s story could propel her into semi-stardom and probably a huge bonus on top of that.
She understood quickly what the guard dog had meant by “main road” as paved paths led off through the trees at different intervals. The road seemed to go on forever. It had to be over a mile before the house came into view, but “house” didn’t seem like the correct word. It was a massive log cabin. Absolutely gorgeous and sprawling. Maryn fell in love at first sight. It was large enough it should’ve been ostentatious, but it fit so well with the forest and river in the background that it was just an extensive of their natural beauty.
She relaxed for a minute, hoping Mr. Shaffer was like his house—big and too expensive, but still comfortable and welcoming. Somehow she was getting a thorough tour of this beaut. She didn’t love rich people, but she did love impressive architecture and design. Crazy that this was only one of his homes. Her research had revealed pictures of beautiful estates in Potomac, Maryland; Laguna Beach, California; and Grand Cayman.
She stopped her rented Mazda in the circle drive and popped out of the door. The wind cut through her light jacket. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. It was barely October and she’d left seventy-five degrees when she flew out of L.A. and it had been a respectable fifty when she landed in Idaho Falls. This may be the most beautiful property she’d ever seen, but why endure the cold this time of year when he could be in California or Grand Cayman?
At least she looked good with gray, skinny jeans tucked into high-heeled red boots and a detailed Levi jacket over a blousy floral shirt. She flipped her blonde curls, knowing attractiveness was a bonus when interviewing grumpy men. She hated to use that card, but sometimes a girl had to utilize whatever tricks she could.
She bounced up the steps and pressed the button. A uniformed butler came to the door. He was perfect—tall, gray-haired, and so starched she wasn’t sure how he moved.
Maryn grinned and stuck out her hand. “Hi, Maryn Howe. I have an intimate chat scheduled with the lucky Mr. Tucker Shaffer.” She knew she shouldn’t tease, but this guy had it coming.
The butler gingerly pressed her fingers, not so much as raising an eyebrow at her lingo. “Pleasure, Miss Howe. Please come in to the study.”
Maryn gawked at the foyer with three stories up and one down of stairs, windows, and open space. The woodwork was unreal and when she craned her neck around the grand staircase she caught a glimpse of what must be the main living area. Ooh, she had to check out this house more. The only television shows she ever watched were on the Home and Garden Network featuring amazing homes.
The study was tasteful with windows showcasing the never-ending trees outside. The sun shone brightly today, but Maryn almost found herself wishing for a snowstorm. It would be amazing to see that forest become a winter wonderland—if she could stay inside with a warm cup of cocoa. She was getting more than a little ahead of herself. There were claims that Tucker Shaffer had thrown reporters off his property before. She’d better make a fabulous impression if she wanted to stay long enough for cocoa and a snowstorm. She smiled. She could only be herself, and if he didn’t like that, she could do the flight of shame back to L.A. At least then her toes would be warm.
The butler gestured to a leather armchair. “Please, sit. Mr. Shaffer will be up shortly.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name, my friend,” Maryn said.
His eyebrows arched before his face returned to its former expressionless shape. “Mr. Braxton, at your service, ma’am.”
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Braxton.” He was a funny old guy, so stiff and proper. Just another reason Maryn disliked wealth, it made the hired help into zombies. She should know, her mother had been the perfect, little maid doing everything the master of the house wanted, a sickening amount of everythings. Maryn vowed she’d never be a servant or a master and had carved a career out of sweat and starvation, only taking help from her best friend, Alyssa, and Alyssa’s Granny Ellie, may that saintly woman rest in peace.
“You as well, ma’am. Pardon me.” He swept from the room.
Maryn wasn’t sure if she’d offended him or not. She shrugged and instead of sitting like he’d asked, perused the room, taking in the stately furnishings and lack of feminine fluff. The pictures she had of Mr. Shaffer showed a well-built, attractive, thirty-something business kind of guy. This house and the staff she’d met so far screamed uppity, but there was something about the massive desk covered in papers and the books lining the perpendicular wall. She stepped closer and was pleased to see Cussler, Clancy, and Baldacci mixed in with business and finance nonfiction books. Nice.
For just a second, she dreamed of cuddling up in one of the overstuffed leather chairs next to the fireplace and reading a book. She just needed some snow, a cup of cocoa, and an invite.
“The reporter is here?”
Braxton nodded quickly.
Tuck gestured to himself. “I’m a sweaty mess, Brax.” He’d come back from a long run and immediately gone to his gym to box, losing track of time as he slugged it out with a punching bag.
He was drenched in sweat and if the pinched expression on Braxton’s face was any indication, he smelled as bad as he feared. “You’ve got to stall her, let me shower quick.”
“Um, well.”
Tucker couldn’t help but smile. He loved seeing Brax disconcerted.
“What do you suggest I do?”
“Give her a tour of the house. No, wait, I’m supposed to do that.” He was racking his brain to remember all the stuff his PR people told him. Why couldn’t he have invented something like Apple or be a real estate investor? Nobody se
emed to care that Steve Jobs or Donald Trump were jerks, but supposedly Tuck needed a welcoming image because Friend Zone was a social site.
“See if she likes books. Let her read for a few minutes.”
“Books?”
“I don’t know. Offer her tea and crumpets or something. What do I pay you for Brax?”
Braxton cracked a half smile. “Not very much, sir.”
“Exactly. One of the few times I have people over and you need to do your job.” Tucker smiled. Braxton was an adopted grandfather, a former family practitioner, and worth almost as much as Tucker because of the companies Tucker had started in the old man’s name. Braxton and Johnson thought it was funny to play butler and guard when they had an unsuspecting guest and bet on which one of them was more believable.
“I will try.”
Braxton pivoted to leave.
“Wait, Brax. What’s she like?”
Braxton tilted his head to the side. “Different than expected. Snarky, warm, and very, very beautiful.”
He walked away and Tuck sat there for a few seconds wondering what she’d done to make Braxton describe her as snarky and warm. Johnson was supposed to greet her at the gate, he thought about calling to get his friend’s impression, but he didn’t have time.
No matter how his PR people begged, he liked the life of a recluse. Well, not really a recluse as he had his three best friends. He’d gone through his teenage years as a chubby foster child. None of his families seemed to dislike him, but no one but Braxton had ever cared much about him either. He despised people who thought he was someone to fuss about now that he’d grown a foot, shed the fat, and was worth over a billion dollars.
Tuck jogged through the basement, past the theater, entertainment room, and indoor pool. He tried to sneak up the stairs so she couldn’t hear him coming and investigate. Hurrying through the foyer so he could ascend to the third floor which only housed his rooms, he couldn’t resist peeking into the study. A small woman with a cascade of blonde curls stood next to his bookshelf with a Baldacci novel in hand. Hmm. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but someone who was interested in Baldacci couldn’t be too bad, could they?
The Feisty One: A Billionaire Bride Pact Romance Page 1
