Laurel's Bright Idea (Billionaire Baby Club Book 3)

by Jasinda Wilder

  We were back in the kitchen by now, on opposite sides of the island, which was a mint green in contrast with the white cabinets.

  Titus nodded. Glanced out the backyard, his aviators still in place, hat brim pulled low, what I could see of his expression inscrutable. “It’s good. Jeremy and Bex will love this.”

  “Okay, then.” I smiled, a fake, bright, professional smile. “I’ll get the paperwork drawn up and we can put in an offer. You want to come in at…” I prompted, waiting. He didn’t bite, so I finished it with my personal recommendation. “Two-point-zero-eight?”

  He plucked at his beard along his chin. “Nah.” He reached into his back pocket. “What are they asking? Two-six-four?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, two-six-four, five hundred.”

  He had a checkbook in his hands, and a pen. He filled in the amount line and box and signed it. Tore it off, and set it on the counter where I could see it. “Make it out to whoever the hell it gets made out to. Send over whatever I have to sign to Alaina, just get me keys by the end of next week.”

  “Titus, that’s not—”

  He grinned. “Throw money at the problem, and it goes away. They’ve been renting a place and their lease is up next week. I don’t want them to have to sign another lease, and they’re too fuckin’ cheap to buy a place like this. They’re savers, you know? Cash-only life. Which is great. But they need a good home, and I like doing shit like this. It makes me happy to see people I like happy. So.” He slid the check to me. “Full asking, in cash. If getting the deal done means greasing some palms or whatever, fine. Tell me how much and to who.”

  “It takes weeks to close, Titus. There’s waiting periods. Inspections.”

  “The fuck I need an inspection for? Is the house sound?”

  “Well, yes, of course, but—”

  “I got the cash. No bank involved. None of the fancy mumbo jumbo bullshit.” He tapped the check. “It’s a purchase. I pay money, I get the house. The only complication is I want it in their name.”

  He rounded the island, moving with pantherish grace and rock star swagger. Breezed up to me, up against me. Lips nuzzled my cheek, briefly, ghostly. “Make it happen, Laurel.”

  And then he was gone. Just like that.

  Motherfucker.

  5

  I resisted the urge, barely, to chuck my phone against the wall. It was Wednesday, and I was still working on making Titus’s absurd demand happen. The existence of a check for $2,640,500 definitely helped, but the real estate apparatus did not like being hurried, even by that much cash. He’d signed the inspection waiver, but the bank which held the seller’s mortgage was being obstinate about dotting i’s and crossing t’s. But, I think just I’d managed to brazenly bully and intimidate the banker-nerd-in-chief into understanding that my client was determined to own this home as quickly as possible, and then sign it immediately over to someone else as a tax-free gift. It was complicated. It was hard. It required a lot of talking, wheedling, and convincing, and I’d had half a dozen showings in the meantime, and another closing meeting with clients and underwriters.

  An hour after clinching that phone call, I had confirmation that the deal could go through as Titus had requested. I just needed him to meet me for some in-person signatures. Only…I didn’t have his number.

  So, I called Alaina.

  “Hello, Ms. McGillis,” she said, her voice smooth and cultured. “Do you have good news for me?”

  “I do. It’s all set. I have a big stack of paperwork for Titus to sign. I just need to talk him through a few things.”

  “He’s out of town.”

  “He’s the one who wanted this done by the end of the week,” I said, exasperated. “Can I have his phone number?”

  “Mr. Bright doesn’t own a phone.”

  I coughed in surprise. “He doesn’t? Not at all? Not even, like, a secret one only you have the number to?”

  “Nope.” A laugh. “He’s in Chicago for a pop-up—he should be back Friday. Send me the details, and I’ll make sure he’s there.”

  “He really doesn’t own a cell phone?”

  “He really doesn’t.”

  “Not at all?”

  Alaina laughed. “It’s an alien concept, it seems like, isn’t it? But really really—Titus Bright does not have a personal phone and never has.”

  “Wow. Strange.” I sighed. “Well, okay. The deal is ready to go as soon as he’s available to sign this dictionary-sized pile of papers.”

  “Like I said, that should be Friday. Could be sooner, could be after. You just never know. He’s not exactly a predictable person.”

  “Wait…you said he’s doing a pop-up in Chicago? What’s that mean?”

  “Oh, well, it’s how Titus operates. He doesn’t do stadiums or any of the usual venues. You don’t book Titus. You don’t buy tickets. He plans these impromptu shows, what he calls pop-ups, or flash concerts. He just shows up with his gear, picks a spot, sets up, plays a set, and leaves. He has Jeremy post it on Titus’s social media—which, I should add, Titus doesn’t even have access to, nor ever sees, he just leaves it in Jeremy’s hands. So, an hour before the pop-up, Jeremy posts the details, and bam, impromptu concert. He has shirts printed with the date and location and a custom graphic, all done by Jeremy. There’s QR codes handed out at the pop-up itself, which lets the audience access the livestream of the show, which becomes a downloadable, shareable video file once the livestream is over.”

  “And he doesn’t charge for this?”

  “Not a penny. It’s all free.”

  “So how does he make money?”

  Alaina laughed. “I mean, the details are private, for which you’d have to ask him yourself, but he owns the masters for Bright Bones’s entire library, all the rights, everything, and he has his own label, so distribution and all that is him—well, Jeremy.”

  “I’m beginning to see why Titus is buying Jeremy a two-point-six-million-dollar house.”

  “Exactly. There’s also the fact that on top of the pop-up tours he does, Titus records as Bright Star and publishes that work for sale, and he’s selling very, very well.”

  “So does he get his various featured artist friends at these pop-ups?”

  “Oh, sure. All the time. This show in Chicago is one of those. Kanye and…god, I forget her name. An R-and-B bassist, a woman. Tiger something? Something Tiger? I don’t know. He was very excited about it. I don’t handle those details, though, that’s Jeremy. I handle Titus’s personal affairs.”

  “I see. Sounds like Titus is very progressive.”

  She laughed. “Well, it is, but it’s also that the whole touring and playing stadiums business reminds him of Tommy, and that’s just too hard. Those two were like brothers, closer than brothers, and Titus is still very broken up from his passing.” She huffed. “Why on earth am I telling you all this? I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

  I wondered myself. “It’s okay, Alaina. I won’t repeat any of it to a soul. I won’t even tell him you told me.”

  “Thank you for covering my indiscretion.” She laughed. “I can’t for the life of me figure out what possessed me to say those things—I’m normally much more tight-lipped about Titus’s affairs. It’s my job, after all. You just seem…I don’t know—”

  “Call it realtor-client privilege,” I cut in, “I’d never discuss a client’s affairs with anyone. We’re good.”

  Friday, 8:55a.m.: the meeting to sign all the closing documents was scheduled for nine. I hadn’t heard a word from Alaina or Titus. I was sitting in my car, sipping a triple venti caramel macchiato, munching on a chocolate biscotti that was the entirety of my breakfast. Which possibly, maybe, potentially, could be a contributing factor in my ever-increasing trend toward bottom heaviness. I mean, I know I should switch to, like, almond milk or some shit, and cut the caramel, and have real food for breakfast instead of what is, essentially, a dessert. But who has time for that? And besides, big asses are in, right? Can I get an amen? Because
mine is going to have its own area code, soon.

  I finished the biscotti, checked my makeup and adjusted a few strands of hair, and then said fuck it and added a layer of deep, violently red lipstick of a shade which I personally referred to as “Lady of the Night Scarlet,” and while I knew in the pit of my stomach why—by which I mean who—I was putting the extra red lipstick on for, I refused to let the forefront of my mind know.

  I was keeping secrets from myself, and we were fine with that.

  Tilting the rearview mirror down, I checked my cleavage: bangin’. Most supportive pushup Wonderbra, lifting and separating and displaying my all-natural 32DDDs to maximum effect, within the confines of a custom-made white button-down—an expensive as hell shirt but worth it so I could wear a button-down without the dreaded boob gap, which was otherwise impossible for someone as busty as me. The rest of my ensemble had been—if I was being honest with myself, which I was assuredly not—chosen with equal care to emphasize my curves: a pleated, crimson leather mini skirt, and my tallest black Louboutin stilettos, because even though I frequently bemoaned the expansion of my derriere, it did look pretty damn hot with the lift-and-tighten effect of four-inch heels and a killer skirt.

  Hair done in loose spirals, makeup on point. Nails freshly French manicured. Rocking my favorite purse, my vintage black crocodile Birkin.

  #Winning.

  It was all in the name of looking my best professionally, of course.

  It had nothing to do with anyone else.

  Nope, nope, nope.

  8:58. Time to go in. No one else in the lot except the ladies who worked here and me. Whom, shit, I hadn’t forewarned that they were about to host a document signing with one of the most famous and infamous humans on the planet. Have to do that before he gets here.

  Notably absent, a particular classic truck—I’d done some research and discovered his truck was a 1948 Dodge Power Wagon. Sexy as hell, is what it was. I wanted a ride in it.

  I wanted to drive it.

  I wanted to be drilled senseless in the bed, under the stars, somewhere up in the Sierras.

  Oops, I forgot, I wasn’t allowed to think those things. I’d gotten my ride on the Titus-mobile, and there was one ride per customer. Done, done, on to the next one, done, done—as Dave Grohl once sang.

  Inside, I greeted Linda, the receptionist, and then called a brief meeting of the rest of the girls in the office, preparing them for the man they were about to meet, and insisting they keep their heads and not ask for autographs or photos.

  Moments after finishing the talk with them, I heard the distinct growl of an old straight-six engine, and saw the massive red pickup park beside my car. The driver’s side door swung open, and a remarkably shitty black flip-flop extended to the ground, followed by the rest of Titus.

  Fuck, he was gorgeous.

  Today’s don’t-give-a-fuck rock star outfit: real, actual, unironically worn, baggy-as-hell black cargo shorts held up by a chrome-spike studded belt, a black, ribbed, wife-beater style tank top, a black slouchy beanie pushed back on his head to reveal a few inches of hairline with the rest of his hair tucked up into the hat, and of course his mirrored aviators. Lip ring glinting in the sun, a different set of beaded earrings running up the shell of his ear, heavy silver rings on his fingers, spike-studded black cuff on his left wrist and a heavy silver watch hanging loose around his right wrist.

  Effortless perfection, rough, hard, ripped, and glorious with cheekbones you could cut glass with. The god of all rock stars.

  Sigh.

  Once was enough, and holy hell that once was epic. But it was over, done with, not to be repeated.

  I heard several sighs behind me. I turned, noted the drooling expressions on the faces of every woman in the entire office.

  I let out a sharp breath. “Okay, ladies. Let’s wipe the drool away and be professionals.”

  There were laughs, but everyone straightened their backs, lifted their chins. I also knew I wasn’t the only one who may or may not have adjusted my top in the wrong direction—to be lower, rather than higher.

  The passenger door opened, and another figure descended—tall but shorter than Titus, black, with a shaved head, neatly trimmed goatee, and thick-framed black glasses, wearing a tie-less suit with a casual air that said he wore a suit every day, maybe even on Saturday.

  Must be Jeremy Mullins, the recipient of the house Titus was about to buy.

  They entered together, Titus holding the door for Jeremy. Titus spotted me immediately and beelined for me.

  A dozen questions fluttered through me all at once: did we hug? Kiss? Shake hands? Pretend we didn’t know each other? Was I capable of looking him in the eyes without having to resist the urge to shove my hand down his pants and see what popped up? Could I do this signing without every other thought in my being a sharp, vivid memory of the things he’d done to me in front of that mirror?

  Titus answered most of the questions for me, by virtue of sidling up to me, leaving an inch or two of space between us even as he leaned against me with one arm casually circling my waist, drawing me in for a casually familiar side hug. His lips brushed my cheek.

  “Jeremy thinks he’s here to look over contracts for me,” he whispered into my ear. “Don’t spoil the surprise.” Louder, then, as he let go and stood away from me. “You look fine as hell this morning, Laurel.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bright,” I said, keeping my smile professional, meaning overly wide and totally fake. “You look…casual.”

  “Was I supposed to dress up?” he asked, snorting a laugh. “I’ve been trying to get this nerd here to wear jeans to work for years, but his ridiculous ass insists on dressing like a professional, whatever the fuck that means.”

  Jeremy didn’t laugh, but remained impassive. His arms stretched the sleeves of his suit, and his chest stretched his shirt—he looked as much bodyguard as assistant. “If you want to be taken seriously, you have to dress the part,” he said, in a voice the bottom of a well, his tone educated, proper, and articulate.

  Titus shrugged. “People take me plenty seriously, and I dress like someone let an angry fifteen-year-old girl loose in Hot Topic.”

  I snorted at that, because it was true.

  Jeremy just rolled his eyes humorlessly at Titus—I caught a hint of amusement in his expression though; I got the feeling he enjoyed playing the part of the straitlaced businessman to Titus’s uninhibited rock star libertine. “They take you seriously because every single and every album you’ve ever released has gone platinum.”

  Titus shrugged. “Maybe, whatever. Suit yourself, bro.” He rolled a hand. “Let’s get this shitshow on the road, shall we? Show me what I got to sign.”

  I led the way into the conference room and showed Titus the stack of papers at the head of the table. He slumped into the rolling chair and picked up the pen, twirling it between his fingers.

  He glanced up at me. “All this? For a fuckin’ house? I’m not even taking out a mortgage. What the hell do I have to sign all this for?”

  I sat in the chair kitty-corner to his. “There are waivers, disclosures, agreements, insurance. All sorts of stuff—I’ll explain everything as you sign.” I frowned at him. “You act like you’ve never bought a house before.”

  He laughed. “Because I haven’t.”

  I stared. “You’ve never bought a house?”

  “Nope.”

  “Condo, townhouse, nothing?”

  “No, ma’am. I have never owned a property of any kind in my life.”

  I boggled at him. “You’re worth, like, three hundred million. You’ve never owned a home?”

  “Eight hundred, actually,” Jeremy said. “His net worth doubled when his former label went under and he got his masters back.”

  Titus clicked the pen a couple times. “Which was all you. They were cheating me, and had been for years. You figured it out, went public with it, and they went under. And you negotiated the masters instead of a cash settlement.”

/>   “It’s my job,” Jeremy said. “Anyway. Show me the paperwork before you sign it.” He eyed me. “No offense meant to you, of course, but it’s my job as his lawyer to check everything he signs.”

  “I thought you were his manager?” I said.

  Titus grinned. “He wears a lot of hats. Stanford law degree, Harvard business degree, plus the street smarts of a guy who grew up in the hood.”

  Jeremy just shook his head. “It’s more that you’re too trusting.”

  “If someone’s gonna try and cheat me or take advantage of me, they probably need it more than I do. I’m not worried about it. I just like to make you feel useful.” Titus examined the first page, reading slowly. “Maybe it’s me being dyslexic, but this shit is mumbo jumbo to me. Jeremy, paraphrase.”

  I tapped the page with my own pen. “Allow me. This is a document stating you’re accepting the house as-is, meaning if there’s any future issues, you can’t try and sue the former owners.”

  After that, it was a relatively quick and painless process, as I explained each document to Titus, Jeremy examined it, and Titus signed.

  I still had a few pages left, the portion of the process which signed ownership over to Jeremy. He may have claimed otherwise, but when Titus flipped through the remaining pages, he clearly knew what he was looking at.

  He eyed me. “Yo, I’m getting bored, here. Can we finish this at the house? I wanna see it. Jeremy, this place is killer, you’re gonna love it.”

  Smooth, Titus, very smooth.

  Jeremy shrugged. “You’re my ride, so I’ll go wherever you’re going.” A grin. “But I admit I’m curious as to what kind of a house could entice you to finally buy it. I thought you’d die in that trailer of yours.”

  I frowned. “Trailer?”

  Jeremy laughed. “Don’t let the term ‘trailer’ mislead you. It’s a full-size semi. The tractor part of it has a full set of living quarters for the driver. The actual trailer part is twice as high as a normal semi box, and includes a gym, a sauna, a bathroom bigger than the one I’ve got, a bedroom, obviously, a full recording studio, and a parking spot for his truck. It’s his full-time residence. Until now, that is.”