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

by Marcella Swann

  “That guy won?” Ricky groaned. “He won’t appreciate that table. It’s supposed to go in my penthouse hall, not his damned barn.”

  “No kidding,” Tristan agreed. He was with Ricky on this one. Some stupid farmer’s son didn’t deserve what honestly looked like a priceless antique.

  That’s when a fantastic idea popped in his head.

  “Hey, Ricky. Watch this.”

  Tristan slipped his shades on and sauntered right over to Wyatt. The two men could not look more different — one dusty with dirt under his fingernails, the other as polished and glossy as a Vogue magazine issue. Tristan had no doubt he could take on Wyatt Brennan. He’d already dug out his wallet by the time he’d gotten to Wyatt’s side. Confused, the young farmer regarded him with a strange look.

  “Long time no see, Wyatt.”

  “Saw that whole show out there, Tristan. What do you want?”

  Tristan tapped his shades, then pointed to the table. “That. How much?”

  “I’m not selling.”

  “Of course you are. It’s just a matter of price. So, I ask again — how much?” When Wyatt was silent, Tristan turned on the Booker charm. “Now, I know it’s expensive to run a nice old family farm like yours, Wyatt. You name the price you need for a brand new barn, and you got it. You’re not selling a table. You’re gaining a barn.”

  Wyatt was still silent, so Tristan offered three thousand dollars. At a no, he raised it to five. A second no, and he raised it to fifteen. When it got up to twenty-five, Wyatt finally relented.

  “I do need to fix the horse fence,” he admitted with a mutter.

  “Always think of the horses, Wyatt. Pleasure doing business with you.”

  By this time, Ricky had caught up with him after ending his umpteenth phone call about getting all these antiques back to Manhattan. At Tristan’s good news about winning the table, he scoffed.

  “Don’t believe me?” Tristan shrugged. “There it is.”

  The table looked even more beautiful up close. It really was a prize piece. Ricky whistled.

  “Jesus, Tristan. Didn’t think you liked antiques.”

  “I don’t. That Wyatt Brennan over there? The guy who won it? His dad runs the company we’re taking over. I just wanted to show him who’s the real boss of this town now.” Tristan smoothed down his shirt. “All set, Ricky? Let’s ditch this place and go get a beer.”

  “You’re just going to leave that table there?” asked Wyatt. He’d overheard part of their conversation and come over.

  Tristan glared at him. “It’s mine now. What I do with my property is my business. Go back to your farm.”

  “Hey!” Wyatt snapped. “Know what? You can have your money back, asshole. I won that table fair and square.”

  “And I thought you had a horse fence to fix. You were glad to take my money.”

  “I didn’t want to sell it in the first place.”

  Tristan shrugged. “Not my problem. See ya!”

  Wyatt squared his shoulders and stomped off. Ricky laughed. He laughed even harder, though, when Tristan patted the top of the table and announced he’d give it to Ricky. Wouldn’t even charge interest, either. How generous!

  Still laughing, the two of them strolled out of the grange hall.

  Score one for Tristan in Chelsea.

  Now, on to taking over Van Doren.

  Faith stepped back from the fireplace mantel, wiping her hands and gazing up at the beautiful antique photograph of Van Doren Seating. Cubby was right. It looked amazing hung here in her living room. The perfect accent. The rest of her parents’ old Dutch Colonial, tucked as it was behind two towering and graceful oak trees, was still decorated in the same homey country style she grew up with. Her mom died a few years ago and left the house to her as Marie had already married Jack and moved to his farm. Faith settled in nicely, only adding a few personal touches here and there. Like this wonderful photo.

  On her way to the big old kitchen, she checked herself in the mirror. Wyatt was due to show up any minute. The dining table looked great with its lit candles, her roast chicken made her house smell like rosemary and thyme, and light music crooned from the stereo. Her little kitchen counter TV let her know the six o’clock news would be coming on any minute. Lucy’s doggy toenails clicked on the tile floor as she watched her mommy take the chicken out of the oven.

  Faith grinned. “Not bad for a first date dinner, huh girl?”

  She reached down to pet the soft bulldog ears. Lucy huffed and snorted. Just as soon as Faith got wine glasses out, her date — Wyatt Brennan — showed up. She exhaled a quick breath and went to answer the door.

  “Hi!” Goodness, her voice sounded high-pitched.

  After the two old friends — now dates set up by none other than Faith’s boss and Wyatt’s dad, Cubby — had hugged, Faith led him inside her house, keeping up amiable chatter about her birthday party last night. She was nervous that after all this time they were going to take this step. By the time she reached the stove, the cast iron skillet was all heated up and ready for her to toast the garlic bread.

  “It was so cute to see Jack with that little calf.” She smiled, still thinking about her birthday party. He obviously wasn’t, however. “Hey, Wyatt. Everything all right?”

  He didn’t say anything. Come to think of it, Faith hadn’t heard him utter one single word since he got here. Not even a ‘hello.’ Oh God, he was having regrets! Faith bit her lip.

  “Um, Wyatt. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. No biggie.”

  Not that she’d had a date in, like, forever. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d kissed a guy, except for a drunken karaoke night at Floyd’s bar down town.

  “Turn that up,” he said, pointing to her kitchen counter TV.

  Faith leaned forward and cranked up the volume. She was about to ask why in the world Wyatt would rather watch TV than enjoy the delicious roast chicken she’d just made, when suddenly, everything stopped. What she saw on TV made every single word in her head shut up and every idea of a nice Saturday night date completely a moot point.

  Tristan Goddamn Booker was right there. On TV.

  A flirty reporter waggled her microphone under his chin. He faced the camera, like he was looking directly into Faith’s soul, and began jabbering about coming back to Chelsea.

  “What the — ?” “It’s him all right,” Wyatt muttered.

  “I’ll say.”

  This was a much better view of him than she’d had from the road beside the airport. He looked so similar, and yet so not the same. The last time she saw him was right in the driveway. He was leaning against her truck and giving her all these stupid reasons why they couldn’t keep seeing each other now that he was going off to college. Never mind that the University of Michigan was only twenty minutes away. Never mind that they’d declared their love. He’d morphed into this different person in front of her, too cool for Chelsea, and certainly too good for her.

  She’d never laid eyes on him since that day.

  Until now.

  Lucy really enjoyed seeing Tristan on TV. She hopped up on her back legs, balancing herself with her paws on the kitchen cabinets and woofing softly at the screen.

  “He’s a billionaire now,” Faith said after listening to Tristan’s interview. “Well, well.”

  Then, right at the end, off came those shades and out came the most amazing smile Faith had ever seen on a man. It transformed his face and made him look completely hot. For half a second, even she was dazzled by the full force of Tristan Booker. Her stomach suddenly sank down to her knees.

  This confirmed what she saw last night at the airport:

  Tristan Booker was back in town.

  She wasn’t crazy. She’d truly seen him. Why was he here? She wished she’d been there at the grange hall, if only to tell him to get out of town. She abruptly turned the TV off.

  “That’s . . . that’s enough of that.”

  “Thanks,” Wyatt said. “I almost punch
ed that guy today.”

  “Really? Why?”

  He told her the story of what happened at the antiques show. Faith scoffed, one hand on her hip and the other pushing blond strands back from her face.

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t touch him, Wyatt. He would’ve sued you and certainly won.”

  “I don’t know why I let him talk me into selling that table.”

  Wyatt was still upset about it, and no wonder. No guy like Tristan Booker should swoop in and treat people like that, just to be a competitive jerk. She tried to make things better by serving him her delicious roast chicken with carrots and garlic bread. But after about fifteen minutes of awkward silent eating, it just wasn’t going to happen. Wyatt wasn’t happy, and Faith wasn’t either, thanks to Tristan. She walked Wyatt to the door.

  “Yeah, well,” Wyatt said, “I’ll be busy this fall with the farm. You know. Corn mazes, the hayrides, apple picking, and pumpkins.”

  “I get it,” Faith said. “Look, I know that you know about me and Tristan from high school, but that’s so over it isn’t really even worth talking about.”

  Wyatt shrugged. “Fine by me. I just don’t think we’ll have time to see each other.”

  “Right.” She put a hand to her forehead. “I’m a busy girl, too, working for your dad.”

  “Yep.”

  “Yeah.”

  There wasn’t anything else to say, so Faith watched Wyatt walk out to his truck and then drive away. She returned to the kitchen and picked up a scrap of roast chicken to give sweet little Lucy, who gazed up at her with big droopy brown eyes.

  “Here you go, girl.” Faith sat down on the floor next to her dog, rubbing those massive wrinkles. “Just you and me, like usual. I guess that’s how it’s going to shape up. I’m thirty now. I don’t really see any other male humans banging down my door.”

  She’d had a couple of relationships here and there, with workers at the Van Doren factory. But then they’d get a job in Ann Arbor or Dearborn or for another car company, and they’d move on. It bugged her — really bugged her — that still to this day, Tristan had been the one man she’d really fallen for. It took her teenage self by surprise and was the deepest, most fulfilling and loving relationship of her life.

  But that jerk she saw on TV?

  Not the same guy. Not by a long shot.

  He was so full of himself she barely recognized him.

  “What am I going to do with you, Tristan?”

  Chapter 3

  “Check. Hello, did you hear me? I’m asking for the check.”

  “All right there, sonny.” The elderly waitress with a big smile and an even bigger heart added more coffee to his mug. She shuffled away, making Tristan groan.

  “She won’t be back for a year, at that pace.”

  Ricky chuckled. “Well, I was the one who suggested we have my chef make us breakfast. You were the one who said no.”

  “Now, you get to pat yourself on the back.”

  The tiny Chelsea Café was a sweet and homey place with blue gingham curtains, red and white striped tablecloths, and vintage pictures on the walls of farm animals. A soft hum and bustle of Sunday morning chatter was around Tristan, as well as the delicious smells of coffee, buttermilk pancakes, and maple syrup.

  But to him, the coffee was watery, the pancakes soggy, the maple syrup too…syrupy. He couldn’t find anything he liked about this place.

  He just wanted to go to Van Doren and have that company for himself. The longer he waited, the more he wanted it. Every moment away from his goal was a moment wasted, and Tristan hated wasting time. He had the contract written up for Cubby to sign, and he knew exactly what he’d do once that signature was on the dotted line. He was so impatient he twitched his leg and kept bumping his knee against the café table.

  “Relax, dude, will you?”

  “Shut up, Ricky.”

  “Hey, I’m just making the most of being in the boonies. I know you said there isn’t much to do here, but — ”

  “I said shut up.”

  Ricky finished his coffee. “Say, Tris. How ‘bout you go back to New York? I’ve taken over companies before. Leave Van Doren to me. Then you can just chase that Janna girl all you want.”

  Tempting, but no. “Van Doren’s mine, Ricky. This is my prize to win. You don’t get to win the bet that easy.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  The waitress came back with the check. Finally. Tristan couldn’t stand being here.

  That’s when the front café door opened, and an enormous crowd started to bustle in. Oh, that’s right. This was a small town, and the Sunday morning churchgoers were arriving. As soon as Tristan spotted two familiar faces, he tried to duck. Damn it, that was Faith’s sister Marie! And stupid Jack Paulson, looking just as dumb as he had back in high school. Marie and Jack must be married now, and had three kids to show for it, jumping up and down beside them.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Tristan told Ricky.

  He lifted the fabric of his designer suit jacket to shield himself and attempted to scoot by the Paulsons without being noticed. But he was on the news last night, and somebody looking like him and dressed like him would never go unnoticed in Chelsea.

  “Tristan!” Marie’s hand went right to her mouth. “Oh, I saw you on TV last night.”

  Ignoring Marie, Tristan pushed past Ricky and the rest of the crowd, fighting through the chattering, slow moving bunch on his way out to the sidewalk. Sheesh, that was close. As if he wanted to talk to her! First there’d be the small talk, then she’d tell him about Faith, and it would all go downhill from there. Dodged a real bullet.

  But a new surprise was waiting just as soon as he left the cafe. An absolutely gorgeous and excellent condition 1956 powder blue Ford Thunderbird slowly crawled up in front of him and parked. Oh, and who should be waving at him from the driver’s seat?

  His own mother, Wanda Booker.

  Her husband Floyd Bean, a guy who still wore the purple round Lennon glasses and leather jacket popular from his ‘60s rock band youth, sat in the passenger seat beside her. Tristan could see his smile lift the corners of his thick mustache.

  Wanda put her beloved car in park, hopped out, and came over to see her son, both arms wide open. She had the same beautiful thick brown hair as her son, worn in two long braids tied with feathers. Her old faded tie-dye T-shirt looked surprisingly good on her, as did her thick silver and turquoise jewelry. Tristan smelled her signature patchouli perfume as she embraced him and kissed him on the cheek.

  Ricky definitely had a confused look on his face, until Tristan explained he knew these two weirdos.

  “Weirdo?” Wanda asked, leaning back to get a good look at him. “I’m not the one dressed like such a hot shot. What, you come back to town and don’t even tell your own ma?”

  Tristan straightened his jacket, wiping her Chapstick smooch off his cheek. “No, I didn’t. Will you ever forgive me?”

  Wanda looked cross, but only for a second before folding her arms. “Of course, kiddo. Introduce me to your handsome friend here.”

  Although Tristan wouldn’t admit it out loud, he was glad to meet up with his mother again. She invited them to Floyd’s bar to catch up soon. Ricky thought that was a great idea, and he offered to bring his own special aged craft beer from his buddy in Brooklyn. None of this watered down Chelsea stuff.

  “So, Tris.” Floyd tucked his hands in his pockets. “We saw you on the news. What brings you back here?”

  Tristan should’ve been prepared to tell him something, because there was no way he was going to say he was here to take over Van Doren. That would send a panic through the town. That bit of info needed to be kept quiet until he could make it a reality. He mumbled and stuttered a few “ums” and “uhs” before Ricky rescued him.

  “My idea.” He took out his phone and showed Tristan’s parents the pictures from the antiques show yesterday. “I’m refurbishing my Manhattan loft with authentic vintage items.”

 
; “How neat.” Wanda showed off her Thunderbird. “Me and Floyd like the old stuff, too. I fix up cars, and Floyd plays on an authentic 1960s Gibson at his bar.”

  “That’s quite the car,” Tristan praised.

  “You boys wanna see more, you can come on over to our house.” Wanda squeezed her son’s shoulder. “Door’s never locked.”

  With his plans to take over Van Doren, Tristan didn’t see how he’d have the time. “I’ll see you before we leave town, but we’re busy, Mom.”

  Wanda glanced up and down Chelsea’s Main Street. Minimal traffic and a couple of people strolled down the sidewalk. Not much going on. Not much at all.

  “Busy with what?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

  “A project. Ricky’s helping me.”

  “Well, well.”

  One more enthusiastic hug for both of them, and then both Wanda and Floyd went into the café for their weekly Sunday morning breakfast.

  On the drive back to the rented house, Tristan kept fiddling with his iPad. He was still silent and tense as they got to the house, and he paced around the living room like a caged lion.

  God, coming back here really was the worst idea he’d ever had. There was nothing to do in Chelsea, he kept running into people he knew, and what he wouldn’t give for an upscale dinner on 5th Avenue! If there was one thing to make him even more frustrated, it was sitting around being bored out of his skull.

  He escaped into his computer to do some trading and quickly cleared a profit that made him grin. That was better. He honed in on what he wanted, and went after it.

  Just like he’d go after Van Doren tomorrow. Monday couldn’t come fast enough.

  “Good girl, Lucy,” Faith praised her little bulldog. Lucy finished her business and got a piece of leftover chicken as a treat. Faith smiled to see the dog gobble it down so quickly. It was pretty funny.

  She was glad to have Lucy. Ever since she found out Tristan was back in town, she’d been confused. Would she bump into him? Of course she would. Chelsea was so small. But what then? She couldn’t come up with anything to say to him, and all she felt was increasing anger and disappointment that he’d left her so many years ago.