by MJ Fields
He reeked of family money, and his actions proved that he felt as entitled as all the others I had left behind. From his perfect wavy chocolate brown hair, that looked like silk, to his leather loafers that did not even a scuff mark on them. Well, I decided that maybe this kid needed to be put in his place. I decided that perhaps I could teach him a lesson that his absent parents clearly hadn't thought to teach him. You know, kind of scare him straight, because he certainly wouldn't be getting away with it, not in my family's store and definitely not on my watch.
“Hey! Did you just steal a candy?”
He jumped, startled as I hopped off the stool behind the register and made my way to the entitled little prince who was hiding behind the bulk section, my arms crossed over my chest. To think that the place I once grew up in, filled with hard-working people, is now becoming infested by millionaires. I left New York City to free myself of that nonsense only to find it now spreading here.
He pressed his lips together. “Nnnnn.” He shook his head, waves flopping in front of his eyes. God, but his mom must be a model. His picture-perfect face only infuriated me more.
“No?” I questioned; my voice full of New York City attitude. I may not have been able to convince Townes’ mother that I could be just as tough and manipulative as she was, but I was sure I could pull something off now. “Open your mouth.”
His brown eyes bulged out, and I leaned in closer to him. “Now.”
Before opening his mouth, revealing the evidence to his guilt—a blue-stained mouth—he told me, “My dad will pay for it. I swear! I just needed a snack before meeting my aunt. And I forgot to take money when I—”
I stomped my foot on the floor, silencing him. “Enough.” Inhaling and exhaling for effect, I let my eyes glower. “How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven? By the time I was your age, I had already worked in this same candy store for $5.00 an hour.” I pointed to the battered wooden floor beneath our feet. “And do you know why?” Before he could say a word, I continued— “I’ll tell you why! Because life is about hard work and dedication. Life is about growing something and taking care of it. Life is not about running behind your mommy to pay your debts or getting rid of your fiancée because she wasn’t born to wealth and fame!”
He looked at me with confusion. “It was just a small piece—”
I laughed loudly, shutting him up. “It’s not some small piece of candy! This is life we’re talking about. And that candy was bought and paid for by me. Each piece gets sold so that I can eat. Are you trying to starve me?”
“No, ma’am.”
I stepped closer.
He stuttered, “I mean, y-yes, ma’am. N-no, ma’am. I swear. I’ll be back to pay for it.”
“You better. Five cents, kid.”
He left the shop, and I had to hold myself from laughing out loud.
Did I ever think I’d be a twenty-seven-year-old woman, getting her kicks by scaring rich kids? No. But, man, did it feel good. Better than good. Not that I have any residual anger issues...okay, fine. I realize I have a shit ton of them. But after what I’ve been through, who could blame me?
The moment my relationship with Townes blew up, I packed my bags. He insisted I take the apartment on Bleecker Street, but I do happen to have some pride. I threw my clothes and toiletries in the back of the white Jeep Wrangler he bought me for my twenty-fifth birthday and decided to get the hell out of New York City.
I had called my aunt Gloria the moment I took to the road, crying my heart out to her. She told me that I could help her in the shop and sleep in my old room for as long as I needed. Luckily for me, Townes had been paying for all of our living expenses, which meant that I could save every penny from my job. Unluckily for me, he never paid me much. He had said, “We share everything, so what difference does a salary make?” What an idiot I was. The relationship is done, and where the hell is everything, we “shared” in? It certainly wasn't in the back of my Jeep as I drove twenty-seven hours straight, only stopping for gasoline, caffeine, and shitty gas station chocolate, while talking to my best friend since birth, Jenny Stewart, now Jenny Baker.
Every hour on the hour, Jenny called to check in on me and offer pearls of wisdom and encouragement the entire time. Our friendship was first born by circumstance—our mothers were best friends—and then by choice.
My first breakdown with Jenny happened when she asked me if I wanted her to secure a storage unit to store all the fabulous belongings she’d seen when we FaceTimed, or saw in posts on my Instagram account; so that I wouldn’t have to look at them, until I decided to sell, burn, or save them for when I was ready to take over The City again. When I told her the reality of the situation, that the only things I took with me were my clothes and personal belongings that I packed myself, under the watchful eye of none other than Tinsley Norming—because Townes left without so much as a goodbye for a ‘very important meeting,’—she went into a full-out description of how she wanted to dismember both of them, and where she would bury the bodies.
I love her. She has been, and always will be, my person.
The plan is simple. Get my shit together here in my hometown of Holiday Springs, Colorado and apply for a great job where I can use my business degree and earn credentials for my resumé. Then march my way back to New York City with enough money to rent an apartment as close to Manhattan as possible as an independent woman who doesn’t need a stick-up-his-ass-rich dick to show me I’m anything less than worthy.
I inhale the thought, hoping that it will sink into my psyche if I repeat it often enough. Unfortunately, it hasn’t yet.
But it will.
It has to.
Landing back here in my hometown was the last thing I ever wanted. But what choice did I have? Everything once thought mine was tied to my now ex-fiancé.
I have to regroup.
With that thought and a little bit of pep in my step, I leave the store.
Outside I inhale the scent of the October air and smile as the crisp cold air kisses my warm skin. Shutting the front door behind me, it stops an inch too early—some things never fucking change—the bells above the door chime as I use my entire body weight to pull the door shut. From years of experience, I know that I have to twist my legs to the side to get some leverage.
With a loud yell, it finally closes. “Well, halle-fuckin-lujah!” I look into my purse for my car keys. Shockingly, I find them immediately.
“Do you need a hand?” A British accent has me jumping backward, dropping not only my keys but my bag as well.
Behind me, a sexy as hell voice—completely foreign to a place I once pretended felt like home that I can’t wait to leave again— and on the sidewalk before me, my keys and my coping mechanism—chocolate truffles.
Quickly, I bend down and start to gather the handfuls of single-wrapped, orange foiled deliciousness when the Brit—whom I’d thought I’d ignored long enough he’d get the hint and walk by, leaving me to my miserable existence—steps in front of me.
As soon as I see the shiny, black Ferragamo shoes, a stark contrast to the dusting of the season's first snowfall, I glare up at him as he begins to squat down.
His scent hits me, woodsy, clean, sexy as hell, and I know immediately that this man isn't native to these parts. He’s... one of them. But that accent though...
Shiny, black Ferragamo shoes? The warning bells ring—rich prick alert. Abort!
The sun blocks me from seeing him until he steps even closer, obstructing its blinding rays. And when I look up, my jaw nearly comes unhinged. He holds my gaze and a second, an eternity—I have no idea how long it takes—but I finally steal my eyes back from his magnetic gaze. Completely and totally embarrassed by my gawking and wondering how much of my door-shutting episode he saw. But when he squats down, picks up my bag, and begins shoveling the candy back into it, I realize the door-shutting episode doesn't hold a candle to this mess.
I blink my eyes and look him over. He’s gorg
eous. He must be over six feet tall with chiseled features, eyes covered in tinted aviators, and perfect dark hair, a bit of that sexy salt and pepper dusted around his temples, leveling up his gorgeousness to dashingly distinguished. God, I just can’t. I look anywhere but at him. My eyes dart to the street where a shiny Harley Davidson sits. Looking back at him, I swallow hard. He’s in a leather jacket. A nice one, obviously expensive, too. I can see some tattoos on his forearms. This man is a contradiction if ever I saw one.
And here I am, on my knees in front of another rich prick, whose smirk indicates that he knows exactly the effect he has on me.
I raise my head, ready to snap, but he hands me my keys as he stands and takes my elbow, helping me up, as if I need it. I want to tell him, I’ve only gained ten pounds, asshole, I can do it myself, but he steps back and looks down at me, his square jaw set as if I’ve done something to offend him.
I don’t have to wonder long.
“My son was here. He took a sweet from you?” He reaches in my bag and pulls out a piece of my special stash, unwraps it, and pops it in his mouth, chewing as he reaches in his pocket and then holds out his hand, turns it, and shows me two shiny nickels. Even his damn money sparkles, sitting pretty in the center of his large and heavily calloused hand. “For his and mine.”
Oh, no, he didn't! But my mouth doesn't cooperate, as I open it and close it just like a fish out of water. His lips tighten, fighting a cocky rich prick smirk.
I clear my throat, look above him, focusing on the beautiful oak trees lining the street instead of the drop-dead gorgeous rich asshole in front of me.
With as much strength as I can muster, I finally speak. “You should teach him not to take things without paying for them.” I can’t even deliver my comment with forceful eye contact. Obviously, Tinsley’s ‘lessons’ didn’t imbed themselves as deeply as I had thought.
“Well, I must say you’re obviously a pro at making boys quake. He told me about the verbal tongue lashing you gave him. Let me assure you,” his eyes move from my feet up to my face, “he wasn’t trying to starve you.”
His full lips purse together, telling me he’s trying not to laugh. Without another word and before I can tell him to go fuck a stack of Benjamins or his black card, he walks away, gets on his bike, and drives off.
READ THE BROODY BRIT NOW
The Broody Brit
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Get the complete series
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About Jessica
Jessica Ruben lives and works in New York City, where she spends her days dominating in the court room as an attorney.
Come nightfall, she writes romances centering on gorgeous alpha males and the intelligent women who love them.
Jessica is an insatiable reader, and will devour a few books a week without batting an eyelash. Books have always been her drug of choice, and she has no plans on detox anytime soon. She has three wildly delicious children and a husband who, for reasons unimaginable to her, loves her brand of crazy.
Join Jessica’s mailing list:
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About MJ
MJ Fields is a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary and new adult romance novels. She lives in New York with her daughter and smoochie faced Newfie, Theo.
When she's not locked away in the cave, she enjoys spending time with her family, listening to live music, watching theatre, singing off key, dancing to her own beat, listening to audio books, and reading— of course.
Forever Steel!
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