Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
About the Author
Other Books by Melissa McClone
THE WIFE FINDER
The Billionaires of Silicon Forest, Book One
by
Melissa McClone
The Wife Finder
The Billionaires of Silicon Forest (Book 1)
Copyright © 2019 Melissa McClone
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
Cover by Elizabeth Mackay
Cardinal Press, LLC
August 2019
ISBN-13: 9781944777364
Dedication
To Deb Bishko, Kent Williams, and Al Nash
BFFs • I love you guys • Go Cardinal!
Special thanks to:
Dan Niles, Jennifer Niles, Warren Niles, Mike Orsak, Kent Williams, and Adaline Fraser for answering my many questions. Artistic license taken. Any mistakes are mine.
CHAPTER ONE
As the groom slid the garter from the bride’s leg, guests cheered. Blaise Mortenson didn’t join in. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck and tried not to frown. A multimillion-dollar wedding at a winery in Oregon’s Willamette Valley with performances by singers who graced the top of the Billboard charts and dinner prepared by a Michelin-star chef, yet the newlyweds had included every reception tradition pinned on Pinterest.
Given the bride was a successful event planner, he shouldn’t be surprised. The groom’s two-point-six-billion-dollar net worth meant everything tonight was over-the-top bespoke.
Blaise fought the urge to step outside and check his email. Better yet if he returned to his hotel room and his laptop.
But he couldn’t.
His friends would never let him hear the end of it. And rightly so. Tonight was worth celebrating.
Three down, two to go.
Mason Reese saying “I do” today meant the social media app billionaire was out. He’d lost the bet. Surprising—okay, shocking—because he’d come up with the “last single man standing” wager five years ago.
Half of the six friends participating were now married. All within the past three months. Which was why as soon as Mason announced his engagement and wedding date, Blaise had stopped drinking the tap water in the Portland-metro area.
Crazy, yes, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He even brushed his teeth with bottled water. Call him superstitious or paranoid, but something in the water would explain why his friends were falling in love and marrying so fast. Not that Blaise minded the rash of nuptials or having to purchase each couple a wedding gift.
Only two more to go until he won the bet.
He would be the last single man standing no matter what it took.
Losing wasn’t an option.
His cell phone buzzed. He reached for it.
“The text can wait.” Wes Lockhart pushed Blaise’s hand away from his tuxedo pocket. Wes had added muscle to his frame which had thinned when he was sick. His hair was the longest it had been in two years. “It’s time to join the others on the dance floor.”
Blaise lowered his arm to his side. “What for?”
“Mason’s going to toss the garter.”
Blaise flinched. He took a step back. “No.”
“Yes.” Wes shot him the infamous suck-it-up look. That must be something they taught rich kids at prep school. “Mason expects you, me, and Dash to be out there. Best friends forever, remember?”
The amusement in Wes’s eyes didn’t stop Blaise from feeling his bow tie tighten around his neck, threatening to cut off the blood flow to his brain. Okay, not really, but the outdated garter toss tradition should have disappeared with the dotcom-bubble-crash. That, however, wasn’t the only reason he didn’t want to take part.
He raised his chin. “Mason won’t notice. He can’t see anyone except his bride.”
“Heart eyes have blinded him, but this is what friends do for one another.” Wes’s gaze softened. “The same way you guys made sure someone was with me during my chemo treatments.”
Blaise hadn’t known what to expect being a chemo buddy, but he’d appreciated the time with Wes despite the reason he was there. “That was different.”
“It’s the same.”
Maybe, except…
“Mason will aim for one of us.” The words flew from Blaise’s mouth. “Adam and Kieran did that at their receptions. And remember the rules? If each of us marries within a year of the first wedding, the bet is off. That’s only nine months from now.”
Blaise sounded like a kid on the verge of a tantrum, but he couldn’t help himself. So much money was at stake he had to be careful. Sure, the six of them were wealthy. They weren’t called the Billionaires of Silicon Forest—Oregon’s version of the Bay Area’s Silicon Valley—for nothing. But he wanted…more. Winning the five-hundred-million-dollar pot and bragging rights would help him reach his goals that much quicker. Normally, he allowed things to play out in due time, knowing the payoff would occur, but not with the bet. He felt compelled to make it happen. Sooner rather than later.
Wes laughed. “I can’t believe a piece of lingerie is scaring the mighty, hard-nosed Blaise Mortenson.”
“Not scared.” Blaise’s spine went ramrod stiff. “But Kieran caught the garter at Adam’s wedding. Mason caught it at Kieran’s. Whoever catches Mason’s…”
Wes eyed him warily. “Last week, you claimed they fell in love because of the water.”
Blaise shrugged. Not that he was indifferent or unsure. His ability to recognize patterns had made his company—and him—successful.
“The water. The garter. Who knows? But no need to take chances.” He would rather get poison ivy or the flu than catch the wisp of fabric soon to be tossed. “You go out there, I’m—”
“Coming with me.”
Not about to budge, he squared his shoulders. “What about the Wonderkid?”
“Right here.” Dashiell Cabot, AKA Dash, hurried toward them.
Taller than both Wes and Blaise, Dash pushed his light brown hair out of his eyes. His bow tie was crooked. So was his cummerbund. The guy was more comfortable in a hoodie and sweatpants. And until his company had brought in a high-level handler to teach Dash how to act like a CEO, that was all he’d worn—even to board meetings.
Known as the Wonderkid of Silicon Forest, Dash had founded a company in his freshman dorm room and dropped out of college before his junior year. Five years ago, just in time for their bet, he became a self-made billionaire at twenty-three. A few people called him Midas because whatever new data mining product he developed became that industry’s gold standard.
Dash had tackled insurance and military. Who knew what was next for him?
“I stepped outside to take a call,” Dash explained. “There’s a project milestone we need to reach, and someone had a question.”
Wes blew out a breath. “There’s more to life than working a hundred hours a week.”
Yeah, right. Try one hundred and twenty, but Blaise didn’t roll his eyes as he once might have. Wes didn’t deserve that. “You used to do the same.”
“Emphasis on used to,” Wes said without missing a beat. “Cancer makes a person reassess his priorities.”
“I’m sure it does.” Blaise was grateful Wes was in remission. Until he’d gotten sick, Wes had worked more than Dash and Blaise combined. “But work is the most important thing in my life and always will be.”
“Until you meet the one,” Dash chimed in. “Then things will change.”
Say what? That was the last thing Blaise expected to hear coming from the biggest nerd among them. Given they all had a few geek tendencies—though Wes not as much—that was saying something.
Wes’s gaze snapped to Dash’s. “What do you know about the one?”
“Nothing.” Dash sounded as if that was an unusual position for him to be in. Given he was one of the smartest people on the planet, it probably was. “But each time I pull an all-nighter or spend the weekend at the office, everyone says that.”
“It doesn’t matter where you sleep,” Blaise said in a matter-of-fact tone. He had a pullout couch in his office. Dash had a futon. “A bed is a bed.”
“Exactly,” Dash agreed. “Plus, people fail to understand I already found my one.”
Wes’s jaw dropped.
Blaise understood his surprise. Dash dated women who sought him out. The ones who didn’t mind him working so much stuck around until they realized they’d never be more than someone to hang out with when he had free time, which wasn’t often. “Who?”
Dash’s grin lit up his face. “Zel—”
“Video game princesses don’t count,” Wes interrupted. The disdain on his face matched the tone of his voice.
Blaise laughed.
“Even if she’s perfect?” Dash asked, sounding like a gaming-addicted teenager. Then again, he’d always been the baby of the group—age-wise and maturity level.
“Even then.” Wes sounded older than thirty-five, but he’d always taken on the role of their big brother. “But if your new top-secret project involves general intelligence, we can revisit the princess being your one after you make a prototype of her.”
Dash frowned as if his game controller had gone dead.
Wes laughed. “Given this discussion and the fact none of us are dating, the bet might drag on forever.”
“What bet?” Dash asked.
This time Blaise couldn’t stop rolling his eyes. “Last single man standing bet.”
“Oh, right,” Dash said. “I forgot.”
Blaise’s mouth fell open. “How could you forget?”
Dash shrugged. “I don’t think about it. Or marriage. Or anything that isn’t work-related. Unless it’s—”
“A video game,” Blaise and Wes said at the same time.
Wes motioned them toward the dance floor. Blaise begrudgingly went out there.
A drum roll played.
“Are all the single men on the dance floor?” a singer who had recently finished a world tour asked with a grating voice. She glanced around. Her eyes, caked with thick eyeliner and heavy mascara, lingered on him before doing the same to Wes and Dash.
Blaise’s muscles tightened.
Typical.
Except most women only saw their net worth. Much of which was tied up in their respective companies or funds, in his case, but the term billionaire implied an extravagant lifestyle, one with an American Express “Black” card and a Visa “White” card. Few understood the work involved in running a successful company. The attention from gorgeous women used to be flattering to Blaise, who’d been bullied in school, a nerd who girls ignored. Now, he found most women who wanted to date him vapid—the definition of annoying.
The singer glanced at the groom who grinned like a cat waiting for a second serving of canary. “Are you ready?”
Ready for another drink—a shot.
Tequila or whiskey, Blaise didn’t care with the top-shelf liquor being poured by generous bartenders. A famous mixologist had been flown in from New York to create signature wedding cocktails.
Other men, however, whooped and hollered as if the outcome of their evening depended on catching the bride’s garter.
Losers.
But they were welcome to it.
“Smiling won’t kill you, Mortenson,” Wes teased. “Wedding receptions are supposed to be fun.”
“I was having fun until you made me come out here.”
Even if Blaise wanted to argue about being forced to participate, he wouldn’t. A few of his company’s board of directors were here somewhere. They’d been on him about being nicer to his employees. Besides, Mason and his bride deserved better than Blaise causing a scene.
To appease Wes, Blaise forced the corners of his mouth upward in a move he’d perfected.
“Three, two, one…” the singer said into the microphone.
Mason shot the blue and white garter. It soared through the air on a direct trajectory toward…
Blaise cursed under his breath. His tuxedo-clad shoulders sagged.
This had to be a setup.
Too bad because he wasn’t playing.
He shoved the tips of his fingers into his pockets.
The garter hit his left lapel before dropping to the floor.
People gasped.
A few laughed.
Another snickered.
The drummer hit the cymbal.
He ignored them. Otherwise, he might be tempted to scoop up the blue silk and lace-trimmed garter lying across the toe of his patent-leather derby shoe.
Focus on winning the bet.
“Pick it up,” Wes growled under his breath.
Blaise kept his hands in his pockets, but he glanced at Dash.
“Don’t look at me.” Dash held his hands in the air. “The garter is all yours.”
On stage, Mason cleared his throat. Glared. His nostrils flared.
Okay, some action was required.
No worries. Blaise was a fix-it guy.
From his peripheral vision, he spotted a boy. Maybe four, maybe ten. Blaise had no idea how old. He avoided children, but this would solve his current problem.
Pulling his hands out of his pockets along with a hundred-dollar bill from his money clip, he caught the kid’s attention. With a flick of his wrist, Blaise raised the money slightly before pointing to the garter.
Excitement exploded in the kid’s eyes. With the smoothness of a Wimbledon ball boy, he ran onto the dance floor, swooped up the garter, and grabbed the bill out of Blaise’s hand.
Guests laughed and applauded with the doting parents looking on.
As the crowd quieted and men left the dance floor, Blaise pumped his fist.
Issue resolved. Crisis averted.
Time for that drink.
Eager to escape whatever lecture Wes wanted to give, Blaise wove his way around the linen-covered tables toward the bar.
Halfway there, Henry Davenport stepped in front of him. He was dressed in a burgundy tuxedo jacket, and his mouth twisted. “Nice show out there.”
Henry reeked of old money, which he’d inherited after the deaths of his parents, but he didn’t intimidate Blaise. “It worked out.”
“For the kid. But Mason was aiming for you.”
“Not my fault he did that,” Blaise said with zero emotion in his voice. Henry was well-connected and close friends with Brett Matthews, who ran Matthews Global Investments and was someone Blaise respected. He needed to be nice and polite—what the board accused him of not being. “Mason should have aimed for Wes or Dash.”
Henry raised his left brow. “Wes is trying to
get his life back on track, and Dash is hopeless with relationships. That means you’re the next in line to get married.”
Uh-oh. Henry enjoyed playing matchmaker. His first successful match had occurred when he set up Brett and his wife, Laurel. Not that Blaise was a part of Henry’s group. Portland might be the largest city in Oregon, but it wasn’t that big of a town for those with money.
Blaise crossed his arms as if to ward off a vampire. Henry would happily suck the singleness out of him. “Mason knows I’m not interested in getting married.”
“The garter toss is a tradition.”
“Many brides and grooms opt to have an anniversary dance instead,” Blaise countered.
“This couple chose otherwise yet you ruined the moment. Their moment.”
“Hey.” He didn’t appreciate the accusation in Henry’s voice. “I made that kid’s day. He got the garter and a hundred-dollar bill. I call that a win.”
Henry’s lips parted. “This is about the bet.”
“Yes.” Blaise had no reason to lie.
Henry blew out a breath. “Catching the garter doesn’t mean you’re—”
“Not taking any chances.” Blaise straightened. “I will win.”
“You’ve said that before.”
Confidence flowed through him. “It’s true.”
“There’s more to life than winning.”
Easy to say for a guy who’d been born into money and never had to work a day in his life. A man with parents who loved him and a mansion full of staff who made sure he was clean and fed and safe. Henry didn’t know what going hungry was like. Or being left alone when Blaise’s parents went off on a binge. Or sleeping under a box in the pouring rain because he was too afraid to be at home when his parents invited their druggie friends over.
“Like what?” he asked.
Henry scratched his cheek. He started to speak and then stopped himself.
Knew it. Blaise laughed. “Winning is everything.”
“Godchildren.”
“Excuse me?”
“Godchildren are better than winning,” Henry explained. “Little Noelle is the most precious human to grace this earth. She will grow up to be president or win a Nobel Prize or do both.”
The Wife Finder Page 1