The Single Dad's New Twins (Billionaire Cowboy Romance)

by Holly Rayner

  The Single Dad’s New Twins

  Holly Rayner

  Contents

  1. Karla

  2. Karla

  3. Garrett

  4. Karla

  5. Garrett

  6. Karla

  7. Karla

  8. Garrett

  9. Karla

  10. Garrett

  11. Karla

  12. Karla

  13. Garrett

  14. Karla

  15. Karla

  16. Karla

  17. Karla

  18. Garrett

  19. Karla

  20. Garrett

  21. Karla

  Epilogue

  Also by Holly Rayner

  Copyright 2019 by Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Karla

  April

  I never come to this part of the city. The sleek high-rise buildings with glass facades make me feel as insignificant as an ant when I look up. Wind whips through my dark, shoulder-length hair as I walk briskly toward the crosswalk.

  I can see the bank across the way. It’s taller than the surrounding buildings, and the towering letters “GFC” sit squarely on the face. Just one of the letters is probably the same square footage as my kitchen. I jab my finger into the crosswalk button, tuck a loose end of my scarf into my blazer, and then hug my arms over my chest as another gust of wind attacks me.

  It’s abnormally cold today for early April in Oklahoma City, but at least the sun is out—for now. There’s a wall of angry-looking gray clouds building up to the east.

  I tilt my chin up to the west and catch a few of the warm rays, along with another glimpse of the intimidating bank.

  It won’t last long, I remind myself.

  It’s just an interview.

  I can do this. No—I need to do this.

  I don’t have any other options.

  I think of the stack of bills on my countertop as the crosswalk finally buzzes and I join the little cluster of people on lunch breaks, crossing the street. Everyone is dressed in business attire; my blazer, pencil skirt and heels fit in perfectly. I’d much rather be in my little kitchen, wearing comfy clothes and an apron and taste-testing the white sauce I’m working on perfecting, yet here I am, braving the wind, the crowds, and the insignificant feeling that downtown induces.

  Just one interview.

  I can do it.

  I reach the bank doors, but before stepping in, I check my watch. It’s one. I’m an hour early!

  Sitting in the bank lobby, getting more and more anxious about my impending interview is the last thing I want to do. What I really need is a little caffeine. I glance down the block, looking for a coffee shop, and I spot a sign I recognize: Romano’s Kitchen.

  I smile, abandon the bank doors, and stride toward the little restaurant. It’s one of the rare, authentic Italian mom-and-pop restaurants in Oklahoma City. Old Mr. and Mrs. Romano moved to America from Italy, just like my gran.

  In fact, Mrs. Romano reminds me a lot of my gran. Hopefully she’ll be in. I miss my gran since she died a few years back, and a good conversation about cooking will lift my spirits—which will be good for my interview. Plus, I know that the Romanos serve authentic Italian espresso; it’s the best in the city.

  I smile as I open the doors to the restaurant and spot Mrs. Romano behind a hostess podium, wiping down menus with a rag. She smiles at the sight of me, too.

  “Karla Moretti! What a sight for sore eyes you are!” She immediately sets down the menus and then comes out from behind the podium to wrap me in a warm hug. At five foot six I’m hardly tall, and yet I stand half a foot taller than the petite Mrs. Romano. She squeezes me for a minute and then steps back and wags a finger at me. “You said you would come in for our Valentine’s Day special, and I made a rigatoni Bolognese for you to try. The tomatoes were so fresh… unbelievable. You never showed up!”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I was busy… These past few months have been crazy. You know how it is to try to get a business off the ground. I’ve been working. It’s hard to get to this part of the city.”

  “I know, I know… work, work, work. That’s what you always say. For years you’ve been saying that! But I hope you weren’t working on Valentine’s Day!”

  I look past Mrs. Romano into the restaurant. I can see a good portion of the seating area, and all of the tables are set, but empty. I did spend February fourteenth filling out my dreaded “expenses” spreadsheet, albeit with a glass of wine in hand, in honor of the holiday, but I don’t want to tell Mrs. Romano about that. It’ll only prompt her to try to set me up with her nephew Jake again, or her neighbor who is “such a gentleman—with a good job, too!” or some other bachelor who she thinks would make my sorry life better.

  I’m not in the mood for that, so instead of answering her I say, “How’s business been? Are you filling up in the evenings?”

  “Oh, business is business. People come, they eat, they go. Sometimes a lot of people, and sometimes, like today it seems, not that many. We just keep on cooking. If they know what’s good for them, they’ll come in and get a bite. You’re looking too thin. What, have you been working so hard that you stopped eating? You need a cookie. Roberto just made a fresh batch of cannoli. Let me go get you one, eh?”

  I grin. I thought I caught a whiff of cookie fragrance coming from the kitchen!

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’d love one. Could I trouble you for a cup of espresso, too? I’m about to go to a big interview and I could use a little brain boost.”

  “Is that what brings you downtown all dressed up like you are?” she asks, giving my outfit a once over. “What is it this time? Another secretary job that you’ll quit after a few months?”

  I sigh as I unwind my scarf from around my neck. It’s hot in here, and if I’m about to settle in for a cookie and a lecture from Mrs. Romano, I’d better get comfy. “No, this one’s in banking,” I say. “Marketing Specialist for GFC Bank, down the block.”

  “Why is it you keep taking these corporate jobs?” Mrs. Romano asks. “You don’t like them. Your heart isn’t in them. You should be working for yourself by now, selling your food. Your cooking is your gift, Karla. It’s like Roberto and me. We cook, people come eat; we share our gift. You should do the same.”

  “I would if I could,” I say, stuffing my scarf into my purse. “Believe me. But sometimes sharing your gift doesn’t pay the bills. I’m getting behind.”

  “Getting behind” is putting it mildly, I think, as I recall the ten thousand dollars of credit card debt I racked up due to my last attempt at getting my Karla’s Kitchen brand off the ground. Five thousand went to website design and launch, and another five grand went to an advertising campaign that failed spectacularly. I still have hundreds of cases of red sauce sitting in a warehouse downtown, and no orders coming in. But I’m close—really close. I can feel it. There are just a few tweaks I need to make to my ads, and I’ll really be onto something.

  But before I can fine-tune the ads, I need to make some money. Then, it’ll be off to the races again.

 
I get lost in thoughts about my business as Mrs. Romano bustles off to the kitchen. In a few minutes she’s back with a chocolate dipped, cream-filled cannoli on a plate, and a small cup of steaming espresso. She places both on a high table next to the hostess podium, and then pushes a tray of silverware and stack of napkins to the edge of the table, out of the way.

  After pulling out a stool that was tucked beneath the table she says, “Sit, sit! I want to know what you think about the filling. We’re trying a new kind of ricotta; Roberto thinks it’s too heavy, but I like it better than the last. If you agree, we’ll beat out Roberto two to one.”

  I can think of worse things to do than cast a vote on cannoli fillings, so I set my purse down and then perch on the stool. I lift the cookie and am about to take my first bite when the restaurant door opens.

  A guy walks in—a handsome guy. I’m talking really handsome. His muscular, six-foot frame is made even more impressive by the added height of his Stetson cowboy hat, and the bulk of his faded, brown leather jacket. He’s even wearing jeans and snakeskin cowboy boots. It’s strange to see his rough-around-the-edges attire after being mired in sleek looking suits since I stepped out of the downtown parking garage. What’s even more strange is that this guy looks familiar.

  My mouth is still hanging open, the cannoli poised in front of it, as the guy greets Mrs. Romano. She smiles at him warmly, too. “Garrett!” she says. “I thought we might not see you today! It’s well past your lunch hour.”

  He smiles. “I know, I know. A meeting ran late.”

  Garrett… Garrett… The name rings a bell. Suddenly I know why he looks familiar. I saw his headshot on the GFC Bank website! This man is Garrett Green, one of the founders of the bank.

  His gaze shifts over to me. I quickly set the cannoli back down onto the plate, snap my mouth closed, and offer him a polite smile.

  As his eyes meet mine, all thoughts of his position at the bank flee from my mind. My brain slows down; thoughts cease entirely. I’m engulfed by a sense of this man’s presence.

  His eyes look into mine with intensity. I feel frozen, pinned under his gaze.

  I’m already hot in my acrylic blazer, but suddenly I feel myself heat up even more. His eyes stray from mine, and as I watch him quickly look me over, I get the distinct feeling of being judged—in an appreciative manner. This guy likes what he sees. He cocks the corner of his mouth up in a half-smile, and he gives me a slight nod.

  “Howdy,” he says softly in my direction.

  I feel myself blush as his eyes meet mine again. My whole body becomes tingly and alive. Butterflies come to life in my abdomen, and for the first time all day the fluttery sensation is not due to nerves about my interview. Instead, the excitement is all due to this handsome specimen before me.

  I think I’m supposed to say something back to him. But what? I’ve never greeted a billionaire before, let alone one as handsome as he is.

  “Hi,” I manage. My voice comes out timid and shy.

  Thankfully Mrs. Romano jumps in. “Garrett, dear, this is Karla Moretti. If you think my marinara is good, you should try Karla’s. She learned it from her grandmother, who came over from Sicily. Isn’t that right, Karla?”

  I know she’s prompting me to start a conversation with Garrett, but I feel too flustered and tongue-tied.

  A vague and breathy, “That’s right… Sicily,” is all I can manage, while still ogling Garrett.

  Garrett seems amused by my breathy tone. Maybe he’s used to having this effect on women. His grin grows broader as he says, “I bet it’s delicious. If Mrs. Romano says it’s good, it must be. Looks like you’re having a bit of dessert.”

  “Taste-testing,” I say, relaxing slightly. “It’s a tough job, but…”

  He laughs and finishes my sentence for me. “Somebody’s got to do it, right?”

  I grin. “Right,” I say.

  Mrs. Romano chimes in. “Karla has the most discerning palate. It’s what makes her such a good cook. She’s picky. She won’t just settle for any ingredients. She only wants the best. Isn’t that right, Karla?”

  I’m sure Mrs. Romano is now speaking just as much about my dating life as my preference for ingredients, and this makes me blush.

  Garrett seems to pick up on her insinuation, too, as well as my discomfort. Instead of blushing, it seems to only make him more confident. His eyes twinkle with more amusement, as he takes me in again, head to toe. I watch his eyes linger on my left hand, and my naked ring finger.

  “Only the best, hm?” he says, his deep, gruff voice sending a pleasurable shiver through me. “You must be a smart woman.”

  I’m not sure how to respond, but my elderly match-making friend has an answer on the tip of her tongue. “College-educated—top of her class, with a degree in business. She’s as sharp as they come. She just works too hard. You both do. I see you brought work with you again, Garrett.”

  She points down at the briefcase in Garrett’s left hand—which also has a naked ring finger, I note. I’m happy that the spotlight is off of me.

  Garrett lifts his case slightly and says, “You got me. I’ll be taking a working lunch. Is it okay if I take a seat in the back?”

  “Go right ahead,” Mrs. Romano says, motioning toward the back of the restaurant. “We wouldn’t want to hold you up.”

  Garrett thanks her, and then nods in my direction. “Nice to meet you, Karla,” he says, tipping his hat in my direction and once again sending pleasurable shivers up my spine.

  I turn and watch him disappear around the corner. As soon as he’s out of sight, I look at Mrs. Romano and raise my brows. “That’s Garrett Green!” I say in a loud whisper. “He’s one of the founders of GFC Bank!”

  She nods. “And a few other companies, too, I hear. He’s as wealthy as they come. Poor guy—what good is it, having all that money, when he doesn’t enjoy it? He’s always working. I serve him lunch, and he has his laptop in front of him as he works—barely looks away from the screen.”

  I think of my solo Valentine’s Day date of drinking wine while populating my spreadsheet. I know what it’s like to bathe in the blue light of a computer screen while eating. “He’s busy,” I say.

  “And lonely,” Mrs. Romano adds, with a meaningful look in my direction. “His wife died in a plane crash. I thought it would take him some time to get over the tragedy, but here it’s been almost a decade, and he’s still single. It makes my heart break.”

  “Maybe he’s happy being single,” I say as I lift the cannoli and finally take a bite. The cream filling is delicious. Sweet, but not too sweet—airy but substantial. I reach for a napkin off of the nearby stack and use it to wipe my mouth.

  As I chew Mrs. Romano says, “That’s ridiculous. No one is happier single. Everyone needs to be loved. He’s handsome, isn’t he?” She winks at me. “What do you think? Too heavy?”

  Her questions confuse me. At first I think she’s asking me if I think Garrett’s too heavy, which is absurd, given that he looks like he just stepped out of a fitness magazine. Then I realize she’s referring to the cannoli filling.

  “Not at all,” I say. “I think it’s perfect.”

  “Excellent!” she says, beaming.

  Before taking another bite I say, “Does he come in here a lot?”

  “At least a few times a week,” Mrs. Romano says. “He says it’s the quietest place on the block, since we don’t do any of that fast-food junk that most office-workers want at lunch hour. He gets to enjoy an hour or more of uninterrupted work. He always gets the same thing, too. Beef braciole for his meal, and tiramisu for dessert. Speaking of which… I’d better go tell Roberto to get it started for him. I’ll tell him we’re changing ricotta cheese vendors too. You want me to bring you another cannoli?”

  I shake my head. “No, thank you. This one is plenty. I have to be going soon anyway.” I glance at my watch and see that it’s forty-after the hour. I should head over to the bank, soon, and locate the conference room where I’m to meet
the recruitment coordinator.

  Mrs. Romano hugs me goodbye before hurrying off to the kitchen. I finish the cannoli and my espresso, and then wrap up in my scarf again and brave the wind one again. As I near the bank’s front entrance, I look up at the letters once again. This time, they don’t seem quite so imposing or frightening. Instead, the “G” makes me think of the drop-dead gorgeous guy I just met, Garrett Green.

  Maybe working here wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  I step into the revolving glass door, still blushing from my encounter with the cowboy-hat-wearing stud. It would be fun to work in such close proximity to such a hunk, especially with the chance of bumping into him at Romano’s Kitchen!

  I could get into that. It would beat the working lunches that I’ve been having at home—a mug of tea in hand, bathed in the light of my laptop, fighting with failing advertisements.

  If that’s the case, I’d better nail this interview. That’s a tall order, seeing as I’ve never been good at job interviews, but I’m going to do my best.

  The chance of seeing Garrett again is worth the effort.

  Chapter 2

  Karla

  It takes longer than I expect to find the right conference room, and I feel embarrassed about being five minutes late to my own interview.

  The woman and man who sit across the table from me don’t seem impressed by my apologetic entrance, and the interview quickly goes from bad to worse as the two scowling recruiters give me the third degree about why I’ve had so many jobs in the past eight years, since graduating from college.

  I do my best to explain my business venture, but I end up babbling about sauce textures and flavors rather than impressing the two with my marketing know-how.

  As the interview wraps up, the male recruiter offers me a frosty goodbye, complete with one last disdainful scowl and a curt handshake. The woman doesn’t even bother to shake my hand. Instead, she packs up her papers and heads for the door, barely taking the time to offer up a quick “thank you for coming in today,” before exiting the room.