And Then He: A Rogue Mountain Billionaire Novel

by Kateri Collins

  “Yes,” I snap. The corner of my lip curls as I catch a whiff of his breath—a lethal combination of stale coffee and cheap cigarettes.

  “Good. Serve him and get moving. I don’t pay you to loiter all day.”

  If there was a parking spot for the employee of the month, it would be mine. I show up to work every day, on time or early. Granted, the upstairs apartment is not a far commute, but I work my ass off, take extra shifts, and cover for no shows, but I keep my mouth shut. Student loans, limited job opportunities, and my dislike of confrontation put a lot of things in perspective.

  I carry over Jeb’s coffee and apple pie and set them on the table.

  “Sorry if I got you in trouble,” he says.

  “I can do that all on my own,” I say in a pathetic attempt at flirting. “He’s a bit of an asshole, but I need the job.”

  “Tiffani!” Walter growls.

  “Do you need anything else?”

  “I’m good right now, thanks.”

  I pull out some extra napkins and set them on the table. “I’ll be back to check on you.”

  “We’ll make it a date,” he smiles before taking a bite of pie. His lips wrap around his spoon, and I remember the other things his lips are good for, at least in my fantasies. I turn away and busy myself filling napkin dispensers.

  I can’t believe Jeb is here in the Diner. Just yesterday, I clicked back on the image of him and his band, Dead Heat. I’ve probably refreshed the picture a hundred times since the reunion. According to Google, Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, and a half dozen other social media sites, an image of Jeb Rolles does not exist in cyber space aside from that picture. And with my old yearbooks M.I.A. and Cassie flying all around the country, the Jeb Rolles of our Freshmen and Sophomore years remains a mystery. I can’t imagine the hot, dreamy guy before me being an awkward, big eared, pimply faced boy like the rest of them.

  A hand reaches out and grabs my arm. “Tiffani.”

  “Ahhh!” I jump, pulling my hand away. His red hot touch sears my skin.

  “It’s just me,” he whispers. His soft smile turns my insides to mush.

  I release a long exhale as my senses return.

  “I gotta run,” he says. “I left money on the table for my bill and your tip is under the plate. See you around.”

  “See you,” I manage to reply to his disappearing back. My eyes travel down to his perfect rear end, but the loose khaki shorts don’t show it off like the jeans he wore at the reunion. The front door jingles as it opens and closes. He waves at me through the blurry window and strolls off. The feel of his fingers on my arm reminds of the way his fingers felt on my bare leg and the way a single finger almost sent me to climax when he trailed across the arch of my foot.

  Under his plate, there’s a folded one hundred dollar bill and a one dollar bill with numbers written on it.

  “I hope your friend left money,” Walter sneers behind me.

  My heart skips a beat and I shove the tip in my apron. I grab the five and hand it to Walter. “Keep the change,” I snap before disappearing to the far side of the restaurant.

  Behind the closed door of the locker room, I withdraw my clandestine cache. With shaky fingers, I turn the dollar bill over and study the ten digits written in permanent black ink. I close my eyes to avoid staring at the numbers, but it’s too late. Without even meaning to, I’ve already memorized it.

  I take several deep breaths to ground myself to the smells of old gym shorts and bacon grease, as I squeeze the bill to my chest. Loneliness is a seductive mistress.

  Chapter Twelve

  The late day sun sits low on the western horizon as I step onto the brick sidewalk. There’s something calming and nostalgic about the streets of Wellsboro, a quaint town along the northern tier of Pennsylvania that time forgot. In 1874, Wellsboro went up in flames, and the townsfolk exchanged their native lumber for brick, so even the big bad wolf can’t blow their town down.

  Home to the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon and the Lumber Riders, the minor league baseball of the New York Mets, the downtown consists of the Diner where I work, a few boutiques, a small private college, and a handful of bars and nightclubs to keep the college crowd happy and the tourists entertained. What the town lacks for in size, it makes up for with thousands of acres of untamed wilderness surrounding its’ borders.

  In my ten months of living in Wellsboro with limited funds and a nonexistent social life, I have gained an extensive knowledge of the trail system. At the end of each shift, and that can range from the late afternoon to the early evening, my trusty dog, Fischer, and I disappear into the wilderness to escape the confines of low expectation. Hours later, I return to my apartment mile weary and work exhausted. I shower, eat dinner, and crawl into bed only to begin the same routine again the next day. I’m more reliable than the post office.

  So, the grand excitement of my day, hell, my week, is visiting the new outfitter down the block from my apartment.

  I plan to buy a new pair of hiking boots with Jeb’s tip, and I refuse to feel guilty about not putting the money into savings or paying off some bill. I’m tired of being practical and always doing the right thing.

  Among the cluster of mountain and road bikes on display outside the store, a green Giant mountain bike catches my eye. I hop on and imagine myself barreling down the steep slopes of the Gorge Trail rockhopping at top speeds with my hair on fire. Out of curiosity, I check the price tag, and I think my hair actually lights on fire. My pants, too. A semester at Slippery Rock costs less than the mountain bike. I slide off the saddle and hope no one accuses me of scuffing the leather.

  World’s End Outfitters rivals any major box sporting goods. Kayaks, canoes, and whitewater rafts hang from the ceiling. A towering pile of inner tubes occupies one front corner of the store. In the center, there’s an entire campground worth of tents, ranging from single person bivies to large family dwellings. The climbing wall makes me drool. Then I notice the scaled down mountain peak and decide to pick up a job application—Customer sales beats serving meat loaf and mashed potatoes with gravy. I hope there’s one hell of an employee discount.

  “Can I help you?” asks an all too familiar voice.

  I turn around. The fruit of temptation is too irresistible to ignore. “Jeb?”

  He raises an eyebrow as he smiles. “We’ve got to quit running into each other like this.”

  My knees melt. Lucky for me, the women’s sales rack breaks my fall. Safely supported, I glance at the rack, the walls, the floor, anywhere but at Jeb. An awkward silence ensues until I find the courage to speak again. “Do you work here?”

  “Well, according to the bank note, I’m the owner and operator.”

  I look around the shop again in awe. “This place is yours? I thought you came back to the states to work on some business opportunities that came up.”

  He opens his eyes wide and waits for me to answer my own question. “Ohhh,” I say, “this store is your business opportunity.”

  He nods. He flicks a blue carabiner against his hand, but his eyes, his amber eyes with gold and green specks, haven’t left mine. Feeling exposed and vulnerable in his mammoth outfitting store, I climb the mini-mountain peak. “So, what brings you to Wellsboro?”

  He laughs as he hooks the carabiner around his belt loop. “I was hiking the Rim trail a few years back and came into Wellsboro for some backcountry camping supplies. I couldn’t find anything I needed—no boots,” he gestures to the floor to ceiling shoe display against the back wall. “No tents or mattress pads, not even hiking socks. The town is so charming and quaint, and with its proximity to state parks, state forests, and game lands, I recognized a business opportunity when I saw one. I stopped in about ten months ago to see if the town was the same as I remembered,” he pauses to watch me.

  Ten months ago, Drew and I drove east on Interstate 80, leaving the Rock and Bob’s Subs behind for the thriving metropolis of Wellsboro. Ten months ago, my possibilities seemed endless.
<
br />   “Well obviously, you still liked what you saw,” I say.

  He adjusts a few women’s t-shirts on the rack a few feet away from me. He’s close enough that I catch a whiff of his cedar and cinnamon scent. It reminds me of my favorite running trail. I try not to sigh as I inhale his sexy man scent, so different from the fresh, cool wave of Drew. He shuffles some more shirts, before looking up and smiling. “I bought the building then and there.”

  My eyes bug out. The brick building he so casually refers to is the old East Penn Bank and Trust and takes up half the block. As one of the most beautiful and historically significant buildings in Wellsboro, it didn’t come cheap.

  “I have some other businesses I’d like to bring to town, but I thought the first store should be an outfitter.” He straightens himself up. “So, what can I help you with today?”

  “Oh I…,” I avoid his gaze by staring up at the orange and yellow kayak above me. “I just wanted to stop in, look around, and say, ‘Hi,’ to the new owner.”

  “Hi!” I wave to him from the top of the peak, before I climb down.

  The corners of his lips turn up. I honestly never realized I was so funny until I met him.

  “I’ll see you around,” I say on my way out.

  “Tiffani, wait!” He yells. His voice sounds thick with emotion.

  My heart stops beating for one…two…three seconds. I slowly turn around. “Yes?”

  He hurries over and points to my feet. “Please, don’t tell me you’re still wearing those heavy beasts.” His lips droop like he bit into a rotten apple.

  Hello, inadequate and embarrassed. Oh, how I’ve missed you.

  “I…, I…,” I reach into my brain for some coherent argument that would justify my old, worn boots. “Yes. Yes, I do. They get me where I want to go.” I lift my right boot up and swing it back and forth to prove my point.

  Jeb drops to his knees in front of me. Memories of a similar scene three months ago plays out in my mind. Me, with a tight red dress and matching thong. Him, with a black t-shirt with those big silver wings that stretched across his muscular chest. His sexy, full lips inches from everything that makes me a woman. An audible noise, somewhere between a moan and a gasp, escapes my lips. My face turns an even deeper shade of crimson. There’s no end to my torture.

  Jeb, being the gentleman he is, pretends he didn’t hear me. He hooks my right knee with his left hand and grabs my boots. It’s the most physical interaction I’ve had with a male in weeks. I’m practically at orgasm. I fight to keep my eyes open and not make any sudden movements like shoving my sex right in his face. “Do you have any idea how much these babies weigh?”

  “Umm, no?”

  He releases my leg and swipes his hands across his cargo shorts. “I can’t let you leave dressed like this.”

  That’s right baby, take it all off.

  Tiffani Beth, he means your boots…YOUR BOOTS!

  I swallow and try to maintain some level of composure, but I feel like a kid who giggles every time someone says ‘balls.’

  He grabs my hand. Every nerve ending jumps to attention, as he leads me to the women’s hiking boot section. I beg my sweat glands to cooperate and not soak us like a wet sponge. “Jeb,” I say, “I’m good. I really don’t.” My face flushes again. I hate talking about money or in my case, lack of money. I don’t have enough for one boot, let alone a pair, even with his tip.

  He dismisses me with a careless wave of his hand. “Tiffani, we’re old classmates. If we can’t take care of each other, who can we take care of?” He gently pushes me down on the snowshoe bench and turns to the wall. The palms of his hands rub back and forth against each other. I remember when they slide down the back of my calf. “Now, let me see what I want to get you into.”

  I know what WE can get into.

  Tiffani Beth…

  The sunlight from the window catches the gold highlights in his brown hair. He reminds me of Zeus’s son Perseus. Dangerous, tempting, and positively irresistible.

  I’m in big trouble.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Now, remember to stop back in and see me,” Jeb says as he leads me to the front of the store.

  A new pair of blue and gray nylon hiking boots adorns my feet. Jeb tucked my old leather ones under my arm.

  I hesitate again. “Jeb, I’m really not comfortable taking these. Let me give you something.”

  He pushes open the door and stands against it. “Nonsense. Let me do something nice for you. Besides, it’s good for business. Think of yourself as a walking infomercial for World’s End Outfitters.

  I stop in front of him. “But Jeb,” I say.

  He brings his finger to my lips. My eyes open wide and I feel warm in places I know I shouldn’t, at least not with Jeb anyway. “Hush.”

  I drop my eyes and step back to break the spell. “Thank you.”

  Every time I’m around Jeb, I imagine him taking my clothes off. I need to get away from him and onto the trail before I do something I’ll regret and this time I won’t be able to blame the alcohol.

  “Tiffani,” he shouts from the storefront. My heart stops. A shiver of a thrill rushes through me.

  ‘Be casual. Be casual,’ I chant to myself, as I turn around. “Yeah?”

  “I’m singing with a new band at Liquid Saturday night. You should bring some friends.”

  I moan. I can’t help it. Jeb singing at a bar? An intoxicating elixir of brilliant and sexy that could only mean trouble. Except. Except. He will be on the stage and I would be in a public place with a crowd of people. That’s harmless. Completely harmless.

  Besides, Cassie’s visiting this weekend, and I promised her a good time.

  Well, she threatened me with life and limb if I don’t prove to her I have at least one friend and a life outside of work.

  I wave to him. “I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks for picking up my groceries, honey,” Mrs. Sullivan says from her doorway.

  My right hand fumbles above the door jamb for my key. “No problem, I’ll let Walter know he needs to stop at the pharmacy for your pills.”

  It’s hard to believe that my neighbor, the gentle and kind-hearted Mrs. Sullivan, is Walter’s mom. The body snatchers worked overtime the night of Walter’s abduction.

  She shuffles out into the hallway. “Honey, you really shouldn’t leave your key out in the hallway. Anyone can break into your apartment.”

  Wellsboro’s population hovers somewhere around 3,291. Mr. Jenkins, the oldest resident at 101 died last week, but Wellsboro added one hot shopkeeper. The majority of the residents live in the beautiful Victorian residential section or on the outskirts of town with a sign at the end of their driveway delivering them from evil by way of Matthew or Samuel or somebody. The criminal element consists of creatures of the four legged variety. Their crime? Acorn theft. Their defense? Something about storing them for winter.

  I balance the remaining bags in the crook of my elbow as I unlock the door. “Mrs. Sullivan, no one wants to get into my apartment.”

  “You never know. You need to be careful, especially without your nice, strong boyfriend around.”

  I laugh as I push open my door. “I have Fischer. He’ll tear any intruder to shreds.”

  A wet black nose pushes into the bottom of one of the bags. He got a whiff of his favorite peanut butter doggy treats. As long as he doesn’t tear into my chocolate frosted bear claw, we won’t have a problem.

  “How’s my favorite boy doing?” I coo at him. He whimpers, not-so patiently waiting for some loving. I set the groceries on the counter and give him the kind of scratch behind the ears his greeting deserves.

  “Ready to go for a run?” His tail propels him to hover mode. “Let me change into some shorts and sneakers.”

  My eyes sweep over to the queen size bed. I forgot to make my half this morning. Drew’s side hasn’t been touched in three weeks. My lips pull in with disappointment. His absence is a constant reminder that my only friend in Wells
boro happens to be the ninety year old mother of my boss—Cass will not be impressed.

  Fischer shoves his head under my hand. I bend over to let him cover my face with kisses. “I know, I know. Who needs friends when you have the world’s best buddy?”

  He huffs in agreement and races to the door.

  An hour later and six miles into our eight mile run, Fischer stops mid-stride. I skid along the gravel and narrowly avoid slamming into the back of him. He steps away, placing himself between me and whatever danger he perceives. His hackles stand on end as he sniffs the air. A low protective growl swells deep within his belly and rises into a warning few would dare question.

  According to Mr. Miller, the cliffs along the Rim trail provide the perfect habitat for mountain lions. I haven’t seen a trace of one in all the months we’ve run this trail, and I sure don’t want today to be my first.

  “Fischer, come!”

  Fischer steps further away from me. His growl drops another octave. I have two options. Stay where I am and run the risk that Fischer will take off after whatever beast is lurking in the shadows or grab his collar while he’s distracted.

  I tiptoe up behind him, speaking in a low, soothing voice. “It’s okay boy, just stay where you are. I’m coming.”

  My sneakers crunch along the path, but the noise doesn’t break his concentration. When I’m within range, I scramble and grab his collar. Suddenly, a shadow crosses the path ahead of us. Something loud and big is coming our way. Maybe it’s a coyote or a black bear. I think you stand your ground with a black bear, but what the heck do you do with a coyote?

  Before I decide my next course of action, Jeb runs up the trail. His eyebrows lift in surprise as he slides to a stop. A puff of dust lifts in the air behind him.

  “Hey Tiffani,” he says as he bends over with his hands on his knees. The ability to speak escapes me. He puts his hand up as his chest heaves in and out After several inhalations, he stands back up. He wraps his hands around his waist. “We keep running into each other,” he wheezes. Beads of sweat pool along the lines of his forehead. “What’s up?”