Rekindled: A Billionaire Second Chance Romance (Lost Love Book 3)

by Marcella Swann

  “It is,” Marie agreed, “but if it isn’t him, then who could it be? If it is him, then he’s got to be back in Chelsea for some sort of reason.”

  Faith helped carry the dirty dishes from the farm over to Marie’s house. “I don’t want to know. The last time I saw him was one of the worst days of my life. It took me a year to get over our really awful break-up. You remember all that, I’m sure.”

  “You loved that boy, Faith. You really did.”

  Faith nodded. “I did. If he’s here now, then I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “My advice? Honestly? Stay out of it. Whatever brought him back here is only going to cause you more heartbreak. Believe me, him just suddenly dumping you and disappearing was a good thing, since he just split. You need to stay away from him. That’s good advice, Faith. You’d be better off to listen to it.”

  “I know.”

  “I know that you know. But it’s true.”

  The women went inside and dumped their dishes in the kitchen sink, then hugged each other. Even as a teenager, Faith hadn’t been the typical kind of head-over-heels girl to fall for someone like Tristan. But he’d been irresistible to her. Smart, hot, and always ambitious. Even at the age of eighteen, he’d been a natural leader. She knew he’d be going places.

  The kinds of places where he’d fly around in a private plane? That was surprising enough.

  Seeing him once more tonight was startling.

  Something about it felt hazy and unreal, like she was on the sidelines of a movie set watching the magic happen right before her eyes.

  But something else about it woke her mind up. It zapped electricity into her brain and turned the voltage up!

  She should stay out of it, just like Marie suggested. But Faith had other ideas about how she’d deal with Tristan being back in Chelsea. He did dump her and split, which meant she never got closure twelve years ago. She never found out why he did it, what he was thinking, or even if she’d ever really mattered to him at all.

  Whatever the reason Tristan Booker had for coming back here, Faith decided right there on the spot that she was going to find out.

  Chapter 2

  Five million on the line. Even though it wasn’t that much money, at least not to a billionaire like Tristan, it was still a matter of pride. He couldn’t lose to Ricky. Not when he’d come here to take over a company he knew better than any other. With any luck, old Cubby Brennan would still be running the place with the same old crew, same old machines, and same old methods he’d always had. Cubby would be a tough nut to crack, but Tristan was willing to take on the challenge. It excited him.

  The view from where he stood this morning was extraordinary. Tristan sipped the exclusive organic coffee that Ricky’s personal chef had brewed, standing at the window and gazing out over the town of Chelsea below. He’d rented this spacious 6,000 square foot house right up on top of the hill. It had enough parking for the limo, SUVs, and other cars parked in its large curving driveway out back. Tristan usually travelled with business partners, personal assistants, and accountants wherever he went. Ricky insisted on also bringing his personal chef, his own assistant, plus drivers and assorted Booker Firm personnel.

  When Tristan flew into Chelsea last night, he’d felt much more relaxed than he did now. But it hadn’t occurred to him that Van Doren Seating would be closed on a Saturday. Right. Small town. Small town means boring, old-school, and totally backwards. A decade in downtown Manhattan had not instilled any patience in Tristan’s character, so this tiny setback was not to his liking. The Booker Firm was not only open every day, but everyone who worked for him was on-call 24/7.

  Closed for business? That was ridiculous and unprofessional.

  At the huge kitchen table, Ricky was enjoying his specially cooked breakfast and scrolling through the local paper online, The Sun Times.

  “The Chelsea Bulldogs lacrosse team’s got a game this afternoon. Wanna crash your old alma mater?”

  “They suck. No thanks.”

  “How about visiting the Cub Scouts’ bake sale at the elementary school?”

  “Shut up, dude.”

  Tristan glanced at his watch. Ten in the morning, and he was already completely bored out of his mind. It was so quiet he could hear his own breathing — not a good sign. What he wouldn’t give for at least some traffic to look at. The silence was unsettling.

  “Okay,” Ricky muttered around a mouthful of crab cake eggs Benedict. “So, we can’t make our move today. Let’s do something else. You know what’s up in this town, so what’s to do?”

  “There’s nothing, Ricky. This town is dead.”

  “It can’t be completely dead.” Ricky scrolled through the paper some more, tossing out a few more ideas. Finally he stopped, his eyes widening, sounding excited. “Get this. There’s an antiques show today. It’s at some grange hall. What’s a grange hall?”

  “You wouldn’t get it, even if I told you.”

  “The pics look great. I say we go.”

  Tristan went to the large open plan kitchen behind Ricky and tossed the rest of his coffee down the drain. It just didn’t taste good. Ricky’s chef screwed it up. He should’ve brought his own chef. It should be two teaspoons of organic cream, and he could tell there were three. But it wasn’t just that, and he knew it. He was getting grumpier by the second with having to stay in this town one more second. Nothing would taste right until he was out of here.

  Damn it. He thought he’d be able to handle it. Seemed easy enough. Not even a challenge at all. But that was before he was physically back in Chelsea, less than two miles from his high school, his old house, and all the people he knew here…

  Suddenly, he leaned over and took Ricky’s phone right out of his hands.

  “Hey man, what the — ?”

  “There, Ricky. See?” He showed him the screen. “Reporters are there. That’s what I was looking for. You can look through the antiques. I’ll schmooze up the reporters. Where the press goes, we go.”

  “All right. Now you’re talking.”

  “Sweet.”

  By the time the two of them slid into the back of their sleek black limo, they both looked like they were on their way to an opening night at a New York Fashion Week. Never mind that it was a dinky, dirty grange hall in a tiny town. Tristan was going to show these country bumpkins what it was like to have someone of real importance in their midst.

  Tristan reclined in the backseat of the limo, shades on, the epitome of cool. Ricky leaned forward and gawked out the window at the shops passing by. When Tristan casually informed him this was Main Street and the busiest in town, Ricky was floored. He found every small café and shop super “cute” and “quaint,” two words Tristan wouldn’t agree with in this case. He would have chosen “rundown” and “boring.”

  He took out his iPad and started running numbers for the Eastman Foods business. Numbers were familiar. Math made sense. Not this bizarreness of being back in Chelsea, where every landmark oozed ugly memories for him. With numbers, he could almost hear them clicking into place as he added them up again and again.

  He also sent a text to Lacy. He’d much rather be back at his place with her on the marble counters then here in Podunk, USA.

  Yo, we’re in Chelsea. Got the pic — how’d last night go?

  Awesome! Lacy texted back. The lead critic from Food & Wine magazine showed up! He’s writing about me and my restaurant.

  Tristan only dated women who were the best at what they did. Now his Lacy would be known as one of the best young chefs in the country. It was a feather in his cap, and a good shot to his manhood.

  Congrats! he texted.

  Yeah, pretty surreal. I’m invited out to the Los Angeles Food Festival. I’m going to be pursuing that full time. But maybe I’ll get back in touch if I return to New York at some point?

  Tristan barely kept his jaw from dropping. She was dropping him? But Tristan was a billionaire! He had no problem flying out to California to see her. He co
uld meet her.

  I’ll fly out there next week.

  Um…that’s not what I meant, she texted. I’m saying we should quit seeing each other. Lives diverging and all that.

  “You’re kidding!” Tristan said out loud.

  Ricky leaned over. “If it’s Richard Bluestone, tell him — ”

  “It’s not Richard.”

  “Oh, it’s Lacy? Hey, tell her I said hi.”

  Tristan texted her a quick one-word answer of “sure” and shoved the phone in his pocket. “Forget Lacy. Just don’t mention her anymore.”

  “Why? Wait, dude. She didn’t just dump you? Like, right now, by text? Man, that’s harsh!” Ricky was laughing, no matter how crappy Tristan was feeling right now.

  “Forget her, like I said.”

  “Uh huh. Not in a good mood, I see.”

  He huffed a breath through his nostrils. “You’re a genius, Ricky.”

  Ricky kept on laughing. “Maybe some antiques will cheer you up, Mr. Just-Got-Dumped-Via-Text.”

  “Doubt it.”

  Jeez, what luck! Tristan knew he should’ve been there last night at her restaurant. Instead, Richard Bluestone got to talk up his girl — and maybe more than that — and Tristan was back to seeking action elsewhere. Well. He actually had someone in mind anyway. Screw Lacy. What about that Janna girl? She seemed cool. Now he was extra keen on getting out of Chelsea after these two weeks and back to Manhattan. He couldn’t remember the last time he was single. At age fourteen, maybe?

  Before he met Faith, that’s for sure.

  Ah, Faith.

  Just her name popping up in his mind surprised him. He hadn’t expected to think of her. Well, he shouldn’t be thinking of her, so he promptly dismissed the thought.

  A quick text to his personal assistant at the Booker Firm improved his outlook considerably. He wanted her to contact New York Magazine to do a story about him being back in Chelsea. Amp up the press, get his face in print, get himself on TV. That would fix things. Then, once he took over Van Doren Seating, it would make national headlines. Beautiful.

  “Yo, man, I think this is it,” Ricky said.

  He was right. The limo had turned off the road and pulled into the dusty, unevenly paved parking lot in front of the 150-year-old grange hall. It had been this rural town’s agricultural center for decades. Growing up, Tristan came to this same Chelsea Antiques Show with his mother every year.

  As soon as the SUV stopped and they got out, those familiar smells hit his nose. He was shocked at how much he suddenly remembered. The sounds of the crowd, the different types of vintage furniture. While Tristan was reliving his childhood, Ricky gawked at all the people. As an uber wealthy Manhattanite raised by an old school well-off family, he’d never in his life imagined anything like this existed. To him, these people might as well be zoo animals. The two New York men looked crazy out of place in their impeccable suits, polished shoes, starched shirts, and ties, but Tristan wanted them to stare. The more they stared, the more they’d realize how amazingly successful he’d become. Hell yeah!

  It took him two seconds to spot the local news van parked by the grange hall entrance. Perfect. The giant “Channel 8” headline on the side reminded him of watching this same morning news channel with his parents before heading off to school.

  A hot female reporter chatted with her cameraman and held her microphone, twirling the cord around her fingers. When Tristan sauntered up, dressed the way he was, shades on, looking like he’d stepped onto a movie set, he enjoyed watching her eyes widen in surprise. He placed himself between her and her cameraman, bumping the guy aside.

  “What a beautiful morning in Chelsea,” he began, piling on the charm. “May I ask your name?”

  “Amy. And you are?”

  He clasped her hand and brought it up to his lips. What a gentleman I am, he thought. “Tristan Booker. I run the Booker Firm in New York City, and my company’s net worth passed one billion for the fiscal year.”

  “One billion?” Amy stammered. “My, my.”

  “Oh yeah.” He started unrolling his sleeves, revealing his luxury watch. This reporter was already wrapped up in him, having completely forgotten everything else. Nice. “But I’ve got to tell you a secret, Amy. I know we just met, but I trust you. How’d you like to hear it?”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, blushing. “Sure.”

  “I’m actually from Chelsea originally. I know. Imagine that, right? Now, I know you were just going to do your story on the antique show. But, wouldn’t an interview with me be even more compelling? Think of your viewers. How many of them have ever seen a billionaire, let alone had one in their town? That’s news to me!”

  He flashed that smile and swore he saw her wobble on her knees. So, so good. When Tristan turned it on, his charisma shone as bright as the sun. Amy was dazzled. She could barely compose herself.

  The camera was pointing right at him. In seconds, they’d gone live and Amy was introducing him.

  “And we’re standing here live outside the grange hall for the Chelsea Antiques Show, and look who happens to have returned to Chelsea. It’s Wall Street billionaire Tristan Booker. I’m sure our viewers at home have plenty of questions for him, so Mr. Booker. How does it feel to have come back?”

  “Thanks, and do call me Tristan.” He winked at her. This was perfect. Being on camera was something he truly loved. “So viewers, did you see my private plane fly in last night? That’s just one of the many perks I get from my success. I have plenty of plans while I’m back here in Chelsea, so I will see many of you.”

  Amy continued to ask him several questions, each of them just stroking his ego more and more. Of course, Tristan basked in it like a gorged lion, eating all that praise right out of her hand. Then, right at the end of the interview, with Ricky standing off to the side tapping on his Rolex to get him to hurry up, Tristan faced the camera once more, full on. He took his shades off and flashed that billion-dollar smile.

  Awesome! The interview went perfectly. Tristan had that Midas touch. Everything he took part in turned to gold — and more gold. Eh, so he came back to this tiny, forgotten town? Who cared. He’d go after any opportunity like this to make himself look good.

  “Nice going,” Ricky muttered after he’d managed to pull his friend away from flirting with the hot reporter.

  “Hey man, it’s free publicity for the Booker Firm. Now every one of these hicks will know about us.”

  Ricky was pretty oblivious to the pointed stares they were getting from the farmers in their jeans and canvas barn jackets or the women, each of whom couldn’t help but give them both a double-take. But Tristan saw it all and lapped it up. He was especially pleased when the smartphones came out and his pic was snapped. Both he and Ricky were treated like minor celebrities as they entered the grange hall.

  The dusty, slightly moldering smell hit their noses. The sizeable crowds were milling about, keeping up a steady hum of pleasant chatter with the antiques dealers selling their wares. Tristan didn’t find one thing in here attractive. The furniture was old and banged up, the Persian rugs were tattered, the folk art portraits were creepy, and the pottery dishes were cracked.

  “Smells like death in here.”

  Ricky’s eyes grew wider by the second. He was thrilled to be face to face with the real, authentic old stuff he wanted for his refurbished Manhattan loft. After promptly leaving Tristan’s side, he headed up to antiques dealer after antiques dealer, asking excited questions. More than once, after hearing how low these pieces cost compared to those from Brooklyn, he’d turn to Tristan.

  “They only want a grand for an authentic 1810 chest of drawers. Can you believe it? What a steal.”

  “Right, Ricky.”

  Before Tristan could quite comprehend what was happening, his friend was buying up half the crap in this grange hall. Tristan warned Ricky that in addition to his new junky furniture, he’d get some sort of termite or wood ant infestation. But his voiced concerns went
unnoticed. Ricky Ellesmere was in shopping mode and his money not only talked, it practically flew out of his wallet. Meanwhile, Tristan had sent not one, not two, but three separate texts to Janna, Miss Nature Photographer. And heard nothing back. Damn it. What could she possibly have to do on a Saturday? It made him even grumpier about Lacy’s abrupt dumping. Her loss!

  He was about to send a fourth text, when he passed by some old Van Doren antique sewing equipment at one of the stalls. He wished he could set a match to it right then and there. That company deserved to go under. He could smell those profits, and they smelled better than these rusty sewing tools. Yuck.

  He walked past it and caught up to Ricky.

  “Really, man?” He chastised Ricky buying a dingy lamp base. “That’s dirty as hell.”

  “And cost me fifty, when I’d pay five times that much in Brooklyn,” he said proudly. “I’ve saved ten grand just coming here. No chance of us staying longer in Chelsea than just two weeks, right?”

  “Very funny.”

  “I knew I’d lose that bet.”

  Tristan laughed and clapped Ricky on the back. Suddenly, an announcement over the loudspeaker informed them a raffle was starting. An 1830s dropleaf mahogany dining table was the first to be raffled off.

  Tristan lost his friend in the crowd clamoring to buy tickets to win the table. Bright lights shone on its polished wood surface. It was in perfect condition. Grinning, Ricky bought his tickets. Tristan had to roll his eyes. He’d wanted to be out of this place by now.

  A very cute four-year-old farmer’s daughter in her plaid dress came up to the basket and produced the winning ticket, reading off the numbers in her microphone. No matter how many tickets he’d purchased, Ricky didn’t hold the winning number. Tristan punched him playfully in the shoulder.

  A hand shot up out of the crowd. From among the crowd emerged a familiar face Tristan recognized from high school. It was Wyatt Brennan, Cubby’s son. He’d grown up and sported a beard now, but he was still the same guy from small-time Chelsea, destined to do nothing more important than inherit his father’s farm.