Once Upon a Billionaire: Blue Collar Billionaires, Book 1

by Jessica Lemmon

  “Because it’s none of your business,” I inform him with a breezy laugh. “Access to my body doesn’t give you free run of my being, Nathaniel.”

  “I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine.”

  “No deal. I don’t find you very interesting.”

  His grin is wolfish. “You lie well, Viv.”

  I like when he calls me Viv. It’s like he knows me, and there’s a part of me lurking beneath the surface who wants to be known. Keeping up my guard is even more tiring than small talk.

  “I’ll give you one pass if I ask something too sensitive. Maximum three questions for each of us.”

  “Are you this curious?” I ask, more flattered than alarmed.

  “Yes.”

  I’m sliding through my life on half-truths. He’s so honest it’s flooring. The risk of answering his questions is at once exciting and frightening.

  “But first…” He rises and walks to a small bar cart with glass shelves matching the tables and the wall behind us. His house is a shrine to gleaming glass and expressive woods. His handsome face and broad chest are reflected in a round starburst silver mirror over the bar cart. He winks at me when he notices I’m watching.

  He has good taste. His style is masculine and clean. Add a few more throw pillows and a coffee table book about France, and this could’ve been my old apartment in Chicago.

  He turns with two shot glasses of clear liquid. “Truth serum.”

  “Vodka?”

  “Tequila.”

  I’m already shaking my head, but a smile sneaks onto my lips anyway.

  “Come on, Viv. Live a little. I’ll go easy on you.”

  “I don’t believe you.” I accept the shot glass. “But I enjoy living dangerously.”

  Nate

  Two shots later, Vivian is snuggled into the corner of my sofa giggling. She was a little wobbly on her last trip to the bathroom, which means she’s not going to need her car tonight. She will need a deluxe hangover breakfast tomorrow if she’s not careful.

  I’m not a snuggler after sex, but I like conversation. What started out as an excuse to keep her here a while longer has turned into genuine curiosity. She’s curious about me as well, which is fun. She’s been aloof and cool until tonight. Peeling back her first layer and then a second has only made me want to peel back more.

  She chucks back a third shot—a small one since I’m a gentleman—and waves the empty glass at me. “You told the truth. You’ve been taking it easy on me.”

  I have. I asked her where she lived. Drysdale Avenue in Clear Ridge. I asked her where she worked before she worked at the CRBI and gave me a blah answer of “I worked in management at a financial firm.”

  I didn’t press, somewhat satisfied I was right assuming she’s overqualified for her position at CRBI.

  “You’re in need of a meal,” I tell her. “The chef left dinner in the fridge. I never ate it. Veal parmesan and spring mix salad if memory serves.”

  She throws herself into my arms and I accept a tequila-flavored kiss. “Your mouth makes a nice snack.”

  I give in and kiss her again, making out long and slow to the music in the background. I selected a playlist earlier. The chill atmosphere leads to thoughts I don’t intend to have. Thoughts of her here on the regular, in my arms, relaxed and cozy. Me bringing her a martini after a hard day’s work—with olives. A fire in the fireplace in the winter. A lit Christmas tree in the corner.

  I’m not one for homey fantasies. They’re mildly alarming.

  “Question three,” she purrs up at me, her eyes half-open. “Who broke your nose?” She untangles one arm from my neck to tap my nose with her finger. Her first two questions were about my family. How old was I when I was adopted, and when did I make my first million. I was honest. Fifteen and twenty-two, respectively. Well, twenty-two was the age when I made the first million on my own. William Owen gave me seed money when I turned twenty-one. Which came with many, many lessons from him on how not to blow it.

  “Which time?” I kiss her palm. “You know you’re staying tonight, right? I can’t let you drive like this. You’re a mess.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I know I’m staying.” Her tone is haughty, like she’d planned to stay all along. Hell, maybe she did. Maybe she’s controlling my mind and I’m powerless to resist. I admit, there are worse ways to go. “How many times has it been broken?”

  I look to the ceiling in thought. “Three and a half.”

  “Okay, tell me the story of the last time and a half.”

  “Both courtesy of my druggie father,” I answer.

  Her smile vanishes.

  “He was trying to take our rent money from me. I was thirteen. If I’d given it to him, Mom and I would have been out on the street. January’s cold in Chicago.”

  “I know,” she whispers, running her finger down the bridge of my nose tenderly, tracing the bump. Her “I know” was less a confirmation and more of an “I remember.”

  “Chicago girl,” I say. “I wondered.”

  Her eyes widen slightly. I’m right.

  “I have one more question.”

  “That was number three.” Abruptly, she sits up. Since my hand is on her back, I apply a bit of pressure. She doesn’t get far.

  “That was a statement. I didn’t ask a question. And you didn’t answer one.”

  She settles against me again, her body more rigid than before. She appears to instantly sober even though that’s impossible given the number of tequila shots she’s had.

  “Who are you, really?” I didn’t think she could stiffen more until her arms go as rigid as rebar. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked, but that question has been niggling at me since meeting her that first time. I continue my observations despite her resemblance to a startled doe. “You’re familiar with this life. Money doesn’t impress you. You own expensive lingerie, at least one designer dress and you walk in the shoes I bought you like you were made to. You don’t fit in middle class. You aren’t intimidated by being plunked in the middle of a crowd of rich folks. You’re confident. You’re poised. You’re an enigma, Vivian Vandemark.”

  Her throat works as she swallows. Her eyes go to my bare chest and she smooths her palm over my pecs while she considers what, I have no idea. Then I figure it out. She thinks I have something on her. Something over her. My mind flashes to our dinner at Villa Moneta. How she kept dodging my questions. How her guard was sky-high. Cagey, this one.

  My former life was filled with secrets and danger. Now my life is under my control. I sense I’ll never be able to truly know Vivian, and that in itself is a reason to pull away. But I want to know her more than I want to avoid the fallout from knowing her. Maybe it’s my white-knight syndrome. Or pure sexual attraction. Too soon to tell.

  “I’m a woman who used to have more than I have now,” she admits, finally meeting my eyes. “I lost my wealth.”

  “How?”

  “You’re out of questions,” she informs me.

  I stay silent and hope for more. She gives it to me.

  “A man took it from me. A man I trusted. A man I loved. He wasn’t who I thought he was and when he left I was…bereft.”

  Bereft. Another word I’m painfully familiar with. I cup her jaw tenderly, filled with the need to pound whoever made her feel bereft into the dirt. “Who is he?”

  Tears shimmer along the edges of her eyelids. Rage roars through me like fire. I want to slay dragons for her. I want to right every wrong done to her.

  “You mean so you can have break number four?” She touches my nose again.

  “It’d be worth it.”

  “He’s dead. No need to defend my honor.”

  “And now you hate rich guys,” I guess.

  “They’re not my favorite.”

  “Yet here you are.” I grasp her hand in mine.

  She laces our fingers together.

  “This was inevitable.” She kisses me on
the mouth, releases my hand and then falls back onto the couch with a yawn. “Bring me a blanket, will you?”

  “You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

  But she’s already dozing off. “Yes, I am.”

  I stand and tuck my arms beneath her, intending to lift her and carry her upstairs. She shoves my chest.

  “Blanket. I mean it,” are her final words before she conks out.

  Chapter Twelve

  Vivian

  Usually I wake up with the sunlight streaming in through the window, but the next morning that isn’t the case. I open my eyelids a crack and remember I fell asleep at Nate’s house. My head pounds like a mid-song drum solo. I didn’t mean to stay, or to indulge. It’s too easy to laugh and drink with him.

  Way to play it cool, Viv.

  I push myself up. I’m not on the couch, and neither is Nate next to me. Unless he pristinely made the other side of the bed, I slept alone last night.

  Copious light brightens the hallway. Not so in here. Black blinds are drawn over the windows, blocking the sun. I have no idea what time it is—my cell phone is nowhere to be found.

  I make a pit stop to the attached master bathroom, taking advantage of a bottle of mouthwash stashed beneath the sink. I send a longing glance at the stone tiles and shower mounted directly overhead. No time for that. I need to go home.

  With my face washed and my hair in a ponytail, I walk downstairs in Nate’s T-shirt and come across him in the living room. He’s wearing cotton drawstring pants and nothing else. With mussed bedhead and a sleepy smile, he couldn’t look better.

  “Morning,” he greets, cup of coffee in hand.

  “That smells good.”

  “Want one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Cream.”

  “Odessa, coffee with cream for my guest,” he calls over his shoulder. A woman’s voice responds.

  Instinctively I tug his shirt lower over my thighs. He bends to kiss my forehead.

  “Where are my clothes?” I whisper.

  “Hanging in the laundry room. I slept on the couch in case you were wondering.”

  “What happened to ‘women don’t go to my bed without me’?”

  “I don’t sound like that.” He chuckles, a warm sound, as he hugs me against him. “Passed out women do go to bed without me.”

  “I didn’t pass out,” I say, my voice small.

  “Okay.” Another kiss lands on my forehead as a petite blond woman, probably in her early fifties, breezes into the room with a mug of coffee in hand. She hands it to me, her smile nonjudgmental. As if she’s accustomed to finding half-naked women in Nate’s house in the morning.

  “Can I fetch you anything else, Mr. Owen?” she asks.

  “No, we’re good.”

  “Very well. Your breakfast is on the table, Ms. Vandemark. Have a good day.” With that, Odessa leaves via the front door.

  “What time is it?” I sip my coffee. Heavenly.

  “Eleven.”

  “Eleven! Ow.” I put my hand on my throbbing head. Maybe I did pass out last night. “I have to go.”

  “It’s Slow Sunday, Viv.”

  “Is that a holiday or something?” I ask, massaging my temple.

  “In my house it is. Stay and eat. I’ll have you back to your car by this afternoon.”

  I shake my head, irked at myself for sleeping in. He picks up on my hesitation, takes my hand and walks me to the kitchen.

  “You have to be somewhere?” He pulls a chair out from under a modern white kitchen table. The plate of scrambled eggs, roasted tomatoes and kale, and crisp potatoes looks and smells delicious.

  “Apparently not.” I set my coffee mug down and take my seat.

  He plows his fork into his breakfast while I sip my coffee. It’s so much better than the bargain brand I buy.

  “Odessa seems accustomed to female guests,” I say. Not out of jealousy, but observation.

  “She’s very professional.”

  At that non-answer, I grouse. His response was unsatisfying. Okay, I’m a tad jealous.

  He takes a bite out of a slice of toast and watches me. Shirtless. Over breakfast. No wonder I slept with him. His potency is grotesque. I’m sort of mad at him about it.

  “What’s next week look like for you?” he asks.

  “Oh, you know. The usual forty hours at CRBI.” I take a bite of scrambled eggs. They’re delicious, and topped with sliced fresh chives.

  “Have lunch with me on Friday. I’ll show you the progress at Grand Marin.”

  “Why?”

  His eyebrows crawl up his forehead.

  “Why?” He laughs, amused. “Why not?”

  “I already slept with you. I don’t require further dates.” I stab a few potatoes with my fork. They are equally delicious.

  “Afraid I’ll penetrate the protective wall you built around yourself if we continue hanging out?”

  Well. Doesn’t that hint he already has? I sift through my memories of last night. I didn’t reveal my real last name or my parentage. I remember that much. But he is very, very curious. And protective. When I mentioned the man who left me in the poorhouse, Nate was ready to rumble.

  “That’s my past. Now’s what matters.”

  The slide of his fork against his teeth sends a shiver down my spine. “Fair enough.”

  After I eat half my breakfast and am sipping a second cup of coffee, there’s a knock at the door. Slow Sunday, my ass. This place is humming with activity and it’s not even noon.

  A young brunette woman enters through the foyer, dragging a rack of clothing with her. Women’s clothing.

  And here I am in my panties and Nate’s T-shirt, peeking around the kitchen doorway.

  “I hope this is sufficient.” The brunette is younger than Odessa. She might be younger than me. She’s pretty and rail-thin, dressed in black with a flexible tape measure draped around her neck.

  “Viv,” Nate calls. “Come see what Brandy has for you.”

  “Um. I’m not dressed,” I call back, peeved.

  “That’s Brandy’s job.” He takes my hand and pulls me into the living room. To Brandy, he says, “Did you bring shoes as well?”

  “Yes! Almost forgot. I’ll grab them.” She disappears and I take in the rack of designer jeans and summery dresses and shorts.

  “What is going on?”

  “You’re not returning to your car in last night’s clothes,” he says.

  “Ashamed of me?”

  “No, but you might be ashamed of me.” He smiles, almost sheepishly. I find it sort of irresistible. What is he doing to me?

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I know.” He kisses me as Brandy comes back inside with two large bags that, I assume, contain shoes.

  It takes less than an hour for us to settle on my walk-of-shame outfit. She brought three sizes, including mine. No tape measure needed.

  Nate palms her cash and helps her to her car by carrying the large shoe bags for her. She picked out shorts and a tee, high wedge sandals and jewelry. Nate insisted on sunglasses. He returns with a dress.

  “This is for lunch on Friday,” he informs me. “Brandy said it was perfect for you.”

  The safari-green wrap dress is perfect for me. It has pockets and pairs well with the wedge sandals.

  “Nate, I can’t accept—”

  “You’re welcome, Vivian. Come on. Let’s shower.”

  I allow him to lead the way upstairs to his incredible bathroom I admired a few hours ago. Then he’s stripping himself and me and throwing us both under the spray. Any insisting he doesn’t have to buy me clothes, or attempts to pay him back, is met with kisses meant to shut me up.

  And since his kisses are very good, we stay in the shower longer than necessary to wash ourselves…and each other.

  “Whoa, that is a gorgeous dress.” Amber is out of her seat in an instant as I pass by her cubicle Friday morning. Today is the day of the lunch date. Desp
ite the strong urge to be contrary and wear something from my closet, I wear the dress he bought me.

  After years of not being treated, being treated feels nice, but it’s about more than being spoiled. Nate and I were close last Saturday and I liked the closeness. Wearing a gift from him feels like he’s close now. Is that completely corny?

  “Thanks,” I tell my coworker.

  “It’s very you.”

  She’s spot-on. It is very me. I wonder if she also recognizes I don’t fit in at CRBI. I wonder if Daniel noticed how comfortable I was at the event last weekend.

  “What’s the occasion?” Amber folds her arms over her chest.

  “I’m having lunch with Nathaniel Owen.”

  “For professional reasons?” Her smile says she suspects not.

  “Not exactly.”

  “You’re seeing Owen today?” Daniel barks, interrupting our conversation. “In that case, I have something for you to give him. Come to my office.”

  I roll my eyes at Amber who makes an unsavory face. Then I follow Daniel and pick up an envelope of what he calls “boring forms” for Nate. As my hand grips the envelope, Daniel tugs it toward him. “Be careful. Men like Owen want one thing, Vivian.”

  “Sex?” I guess.

  “Power,” he answers, his face turning red. “Don’t get caught up with him like some people do.”

  “Like you did?” He can’t look me in the eye. The truth hurts. I get it. “I can take care of myself. You don’t have to worry about me, Dad.”

  I turn and walk away. It’s been a long time since I called anyone “Dad” and though I was being facetious, the word embeds itself into my skin like a stubborn splinter.

  Halfway back to my cubicle, my cell phone rings on my desk. Walt’s name lights the screen. It’s a video call. I debate going outside, decide that’s the best plan, and duck out the front door as I answer.

  I’m on the sidewalk between the pizza place and a coffee shop when my brother’s gaunt face fills the screen. It’s not a new look for him. Walt’s never held a lot of weight. Since rehab his color’s better, but his slimness remains.

  “Hey, sis.”

  “Everything okay?” It’s my first question whenever he calls. He’s usually in trouble. I don’t see cop car lights or a police station in the background though, so maybe we’re okay.