The Boss and the Brat: A Billionaire Romance

by Frost, Sosie

  “What did you say?”

  “I said he broke my heart.”

  Mom tutted. “Kenza, hearts are easily mended, especially when a talented designer like you holds the needle and thread.”

  Daddy took my hand. “I did everything in my power to light a fire under that man. He loves you. I can tell.”

  “I know he does—now.” I shrugged. “But you said it yourself. His head is in the clouds. He’s always looking for something new. Cameron didn’t understand what he had with me—what the baby meant. The pregnancy was just another fun little challenge to him, nothing real. He never sat still once in his life. How can I trust that he’ll do it now?”

  Mom winked at me. “Maybe he’s never had reason to sit still. Never had a woman by his side with his baby in her arms to remind him of what’s more important than exploring the world and getting into trouble.” She pointed at me. “And maybe my daughter has never had a man at her side and his baby in her arms, reminding her that there’s more to life than promised jobs and company business.”

  “We know you wanted the opportunity to lead, Kenza,” Daddy said. “But now you have a chance for something greater. Something that won’t suck your life away, destroy your family, and leave you stressed and unhealthy during the best years of your life.”

  Mom held my stare. “The Mackenza Maxwell I raised isn’t afraid of anything, especially falling in love. She might make mistakes—but she fixes them. And the sooner she fixes this one, the better off she’ll be.”

  The anxiety still twisted me in place, and the only way forward was to trust in everyone around me.

  Mom’s wisdom. Daddy’s advice.

  Cameron’s feelings.

  “I just gotta take the chance?” I bit my lip. “What do I do? Chase after him? Hope he doesn’t change his mind in another year?”

  Daddy scoffed. “You aren’t afraid that he’ll change his mind—you worry that he won’t. That you’ll have something you love more than this family’s legacy.” He pulled me close and kissed my forehead. “But loving him doesn’t mean you’re abandoning the family or the business. It means you’ve found what truly matters in this life.”

  Mom couldn’t help but smirk at my stomach. “And soon enough, you’ll have a belly as big as your heart. Should’ve worn your bikini now—in a few more weeks, you’ll be stuck in those maternity clothes.”

  I tugged on my dress. “I think I did a good job on these.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “You made that dress?”

  “Didn’t have anything to pack, so I grabbed it off my mannequin on the way to the airport.”

  Daddy gave me a thumbs up. “It’s lovely.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been making a few items for myself—just hated what I was seeing in the stores and catalogues. Figured I’d make something for myself, so I could at least feel somewhat comfortable.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll be the most stylish pregnant woman hanging around the unemployment line,” Mom teased.

  Daddy shushed her. “Unemployed? This is our Mackenza. All she needs is to take that dress to any designer in New York. Tell them she’s got an idea for modest, high-end maternity wear. They’d buy that design in an instant. Guarantee you, that sort of talent is a million-dollar idea waiting to happen. Just the sort of clothing that might’ve saved Maxwell Intimates twenty years ago.”

  I bolted upright, nearly kicking over the bottle of champagne.

  “What did you just say?” I whispered.

  Daddy snorted. “That dress is gorgeous. You don’t need me to tell you that a maternity line would be a great idea.”

  Only…

  I did need to hear it from him.

  I’d never considered it before.

  All this time, these wasted months, I’d fretted over the coupling of lingerie with our shape wear line. Clothing for the oldest and wisest and something scandalous for the young and risqué.

  But I’d never thought about bridging the gap.

  We’d been so focused on the company, we’d forgotten the most important facet to the business.

  The customers.

  The older women who had entrusted us with their beauty in their most senior years. The younger women who wanted to showcase their sexuality during their wild years.

  But we had completely missed what happened between those times.

  When life changed the most.

  I fumbled for my cell phone. “Daddy, you’re a genius.”

  He winked at Mom. “I’m not one to refuse a compliment.”

  “You just told me what to do to save the company.”

  “Save it?” Daddy groaned. “Kenza, the deal is made. The Board is holding their final vote on Friday. There’s nothing else you can do.”

  “That’s not true,” I said. “I never got my chance to lead.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “What I should’ve done a long time ago. Instead of looking to the past or deferring to an outsider, I should’ve relied on our core values and principles to help us sell products.” I scrolled through my phone, scanning for the first available flight back to Ironfield. “I’m going to design something worth selling. Maxwell Intimates Maternity Wear.”

  “A wonderful idea…but it came too late,” Daddy said.

  “Nothing’s ever too late.” I hugged them both as I rushed to the house, preparing to pack. “First, I’m going to save the company. Then, I’m going to do what I should’ve done a long time ago.”

  “What’s that?” Mom asked.

  The sunshine and breeze had done me good.

  For the first time in months, I could speak the words without fear, without worry, and without hesitation.

  “I’m going to tell Cameron Mitchell that I’ve in love with him.”

  22

  Cameron

  Not sure what jackass said you could never go home again.

  Home was always there.

  But that didn’t mean a man wanted to go back.

  Mom lived thirty minutes from the Braxton County airport—a small, piss-ant runway better suited for dirt bike races than my jet. A rented car waited for me, but I should’ve leapt out of the plane over Mom’s house. Smacking the ground headfirst might’ve been less painful.

  Didn’t realize how fucking desperate I was until I returned home.

  Or…near home.

  Mom hadn’t stayed in our old trailer. Probably wasn’t still standing, and, if it was, I didn’t want to catch an arson charge burning the damned thing to the ground.

  Fortunately, she’d moved years back. Rejected all my offers to buy her a slice of paradise and instead chose a small, turn of the 20th century two-story red brick home built on a narrow road made of the same bricks. Like the rest of the state, her property lay tangled in the wilds of West Virginia. At some point in the past, the whole damned state had been logged and stripped of trees. The replanting seemed centered on her damned yard. Every last silver maple in the state sprung out of her fence line.

  The trees towered over the block, the only place in the world greener than my bank account. The woods cast shade over my thoughts.

  Just so happened the hints of sunshine peeked between rustling leaves, haloing Mom’s house in a beacon of light.

  Maybe once, it might’ve offered me comfort.

  Not now.

  This place hadn’t brought me any happiness in years.

  And yet…

  I still came home.

  The porch creaked under my boots. Not quite rotten, but stagnant. Like everything else. Waiting for improvements that’d never get done.

  I raised my hand, but I wasn’t sure if knocking was right. Seemed impersonal. Cold. This was my mother’s house, after all. Then again, seemed equally callous to just walk in, as if I’d never left.

  As if I’d traveled to West Virginia more times than never in the past fifteen years.

  I didn’t have to decide. The door opened, and Mom leaned against the frame. Her green eyes surveyed me with a g
entleness only a mother disappointed in her son could offer.

  She’d always been a small woman. Thin to the brink of sickness yet proud beyond our means. She still kept her hair pulled up, tight in a bun that had only ever embellished the lines on her face.

  Though now…

  She looked plumper—at least in the cheeks. Not nearly as gaunt and helpless as I remembered. Age suited her, or maybe it dulled the memories.

  Or maybe the hoodie and jogging pants livened her up. She wore a pink sweatband on her wrists, muddy running shoes on her feet, and slowly removed her white ear buds.

  Good. She’d kept one of the iPhones I’d sent.

  Mom arched a thin eyebrow. Grey. Matching the peppering at her temple.

  “You know…” She chided me with a smile. “You could’ve called.”

  “Would you believe I was in the neighborhood?”

  She held the door open wide for me. “I’m just relieved you’ve got two feet on solid ground for a change. Can’t tell where your head is, but, if you’ve wandered all the way down here, I’d wager you don’t know where it is either.” She tugged on my arm. “Best get inside. Not fitting to leave my son loitering in the doorway. Sure that’s bad luck.”

  I ducked under a wreath made of knotted cloth strung over the doorway. The scraps of material matched the pattern she’d used to reupholster her living room furniture.

  Within the day, I could’ve ordered and had delivered a brand-new set of leather, high-end furniture—right from under the asses of the designers who’d created them.

  But she’d refuse it.

  Like she refused everything.

  “Iced tea?” Mom asked, bustling into the kitchen.

  I followed, nearly colliding with a round pine table serving as her dining area. A mishmash of chairs surrounded the space—short, stout cherry and thin, taller oak. She’d salvaged whatever she could from her old sets.

  Waste not. Her favorite saying.

  Woven, multicolored place mats rested before each chair. Four in total. One spot for every member of our family?

  She still set them, even if we were the only two left.

  And I hadn’t visited in a long time.

  “You must be thirsty.” Mom poured herself a tall glass.

  “No. Thanks.” I rattled my travel mug. “I have coffee.”

  “Figured you’d need something stronger to come home.”

  “Had that first. This is to sober up.”

  “Didn’t do a good job.” Mom tapped the plastic pitcher—the same one she’d had in the trailer. “I made it with mint, your favorite.”

  “I never liked mint. We used it to flavor the tea when we couldn’t afford sugar. Only thing we had.”

  Mom merely chuckled to herself. “Right. Those were some hard times.”

  Hard times?

  They nearly destroyed us.

  And yet, she laughed and chattered like one of the damned squirrels she fed from the birdfeeder just outside her kitchen window.

  She drank from a tall glass painted with sunflowers. Three ice cubes plunked into the bottom. She didn’t bother muddling the mint, just tore the leaves and tossed it inside.

  She picked a spot at the table and patted the place next to her.

  “My son didn’t travel all this way to reveal a childhood aversion to mint.” She sipped her tea with a disapproving glance. “Though, Lord knows, he has enough money to do such frivolous things.”

  “Money you won’t let me spend on you.”

  She gestured over her kitchen, focusing on the few kitschy decorations she’d kept on the walls. An old clock. Cooking utensils. A family photo of me and Julie washing the dishes in the old trailer.

  I hated it. Hated seeing it. Hated letting my gaze linger over it.

  I didn’t like remembering Julie, but on the rare occasion I did, I preferred to imagine her when she still had her lovely blonde hair.

  “There’s nothing I need, Cameron,” she said. “Though it wouldn’t cost you a penny to call once in a while. Especially when you bring such wonderful and shocking news. Perhaps talk of a baby might warrant a visit. I’m sure that jet of yours could drop you right in the backyard.”

  “Not that jet. The helicopter, maybe.”

  “I’ll forgive a little showboating if it gets you here more often.”

  “Want me to come in a boat? I’ve got three.”

  “You didn’t come here to brag.”

  My chair wobbled. Probably from when I was a boy and leaned on two legs. Mom always did warn it’d wear out joints and her patience.

  “I’m not sure why I came back,” I said. “I really hate this place.”

  Mom huffed. “You hate my home?”

  The last thing I wanted to do was insult the only ally I had left in the world.

  “No,” I said. “Just this place. Too many bad memories.”

  Mom was quick to disagree. “Maybe…but we’ve made plenty of good ones too.”

  “None that I can see.”

  Mom squeezed my shoulder and scooted behind me, retrieving a bag of goodies from the breadbox. She grabbed a hideously peach-colored plate from the cabinet and dropped a pepperoni roll into the middle, sliding it toward me.

  Of course she’d still have the Fiesta Ware plates. They were the only thing she’d ever collected when I was young. Never complained when I’d chip a bowl or break a glass.

  I stared at the pepperoni roll, the dough stained orange with grease.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said. “Had some caviar and crackers on the plane.”

  Her nose crinkled. “And?”

  I wouldn’t refuse food from my mother, especially as I’d grown up with so little of it. I took a bite. Chewy dough, and the pepperoni had a good spice to it. Couldn’t find anything like it back home.

  “This is better,” I said.

  “Of course it is. Now, are you gonna tell me why you’re here?”

  Not yet. I deflected the question, glancing over her cramped kitchen.

  “I hired you help. A personal chef. A maid.”

  Mom brushed her hands as if she were banishing the thought like crumbs. “I sent them away.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m more than capable of doing my own wash and cooking my own cornmeal mush.”

  “You could do all that in a brand-new home in Boca.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Far too hot in Florida.”

  “Then I’ll buy you a place in Alaska.”

  “That’s too far from anywhere.”

  I snickered. “And West Virginia is a bastion of industry?”

  “It’s where you came from. It’s home. And you’d do well to remember that.”

  Plucking her patience always sharpened her twang. Knew I was in trouble by how much her vowels elongated.

  I mimicked her with a smirk. “Right. Livin’ down in the holler.”

  She didn’t notice the attitude I’d placed on my I’s.

  “And where have you found that’s any better?” Mom asked.

  “Plenty of places. I’ve been all over the world.”

  Mom said nothing, merely crossing her arms. She expected examples, and I should’ve stopped before I got myself in more trouble.

  “I spent a couple wonderful nights in Milan,” I said.

  “And what made them so nice?”

  Mackenza.

  But she made every place better.

  And everything worse.

  I didn’t answer. “Ironfield’s not so bad either.”

  “You used to hate that city.”

  But Mackenza made it worth it.

  She chased away the gloom. The city never looked that overcast, felt as cold, or smelled as smoggy when I had her sewing chaos in my work, life, heart.

  Mom smirked. “I’m thinking you had other reasons for liking your new home.”

  Why deny it? “I thought I did.”

  “And what were they?”

  “The brat.”

  It wa
s a good thing I was thirty-five years old, or Mom would’ve grabbed the wooden spoon off the counter and cracked me over the knuckles.

  “Are you calling the mother of your child a brat?” she asked.

  In all the best ways. “You had to know her.”

  “And you think you do?”

  If only Mackenza had believed me. “I know her better than she knows herself.”

  This satisfied Mom, but she quieted. “And where is this girl now?”

  I had every reason to push away from the table, hop into my car, and fly halfway across the world to avoid this damned conversation.

  Instead, I parked myself in my mother’s kitchen, took one mournful bite of a pepperoni roll that turned to dust in my mouth, and surrendered.

  “I blew my chance,” I said.

  Mom had waited for this. Her smile wasn’t smug, only comforting. She watched me, her eyes Elk River green.

  “Somehow, I doubt a man as accomplished as you can fail at anything, even falling in love.”

  “Oh, I fucking fell in love.”

  I dodged her smack and apologized. Wasn’t Mom I had to fear with the profanity, but Jesus. Been too long since I’d stayed at Mom’s house, even longer since I’d wandered into our clapboard Methodist church. But she probably said enough prayers for both of us.

  “I’ve never felt this way before,” I said. “I’m frustrated. I’m irritated. I’m constantly fighting with her. But I can’t start my day without her. I can’t go to sleep without her at my side. I’m a fuc—” I cleared my throat. “I’m a mess without her. Here. Take a sip.”

  I passed her my coffee cup.

  Mom humored me and took a drink before sputtering in disgust.

  She excused herself and grabbed a napkin, discreetly wiping her tongue. “That’s almost entirely creamers.”

  “Pumpkin spice. Funfetti. Peppermint. I loaded it up with anything I could find.”

  “Is this some sort of punishment?”

  “No. Yes. Who knows?” I took a sip just to ease that ache in my chest. “Every morning, Mackenza used to bring me an amalgamation of whatever wretched creamer she could find. Now? I can’t drink coffee without them.”

  Mom didn’t hide her smile. “You fell hard for her. So why is she gone?”

  “Because I betrayed her.”

  “How so?” She stiffened, the jogging suit rustling as she bristled with anger. “Cameron Mitchell, don’t you tell me there was another woman.”