A box.
Large, cream-colored, and tied with a black ribbon.
I smile. The hope balloon I thought was inflated to capacity inflates a tiny bit more. My mind warns that hope is dangerous and I should protect myself. I tell it to fuck off as I untie the satin ribbon.
Inside the box beneath the tissue paper is a pair of sneakers, shorts and a T-shirt. Name brand. High end. The card resting on top of the shirt matches the box, cream-colored stock with black piping. The note reads: Nate asked me to pick out some casual clothes for you. I hope you enjoy this short set. More to come! Brandy.
That man. I shake my head. I am guessing any arguments to pay him back or refuse will be met with resistance. I stroke the soft cotton of the T-shirt and smile, deciding to accept the gift at face value.
I take a quick shower and brush my hair into a ponytail. Then I dress in my new duds and practically skip downstairs. I pause when I hear voices. Male voices. Nate’s and one—no, two—others.
I slow my descent as I catch a glimpse of the men in the living room. One of them is suited with dark brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His scowl seems permanent. The other man is wearing a checked shirt and trousers and shiny shoes that cost about fifteen hundred bucks a pair. He notices me first and grins. He has a full, gracious smile. The other man doesn’t smile. I wonder if he’s capable.
“There she is.” Nate’s smile is easy. Not as bright as the other man’s, but ten times more welcoming.
“I slept in.” I step into the living room. “Your bedroom’s a cave.”
“And he’s the bear,” the smiling man says.
“Vivian Vandemark,” Nate says, “Meet my brothers. Archer.” He gestures to the scowling man. “And this happy son of a bitch is Benji.”
I remember him mentioning Archer, the biological Owen, which might explain his air of superiority. Benji looks as grateful as a rescue dog with a home and I warm to him instantly.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
Nate tugs me against his wall of a body and I rest my hand on his chest. Archer watches this with an unreadable expression. Benji is still grinning. Both of them are stunningly attractive, albeit in incredibly different ways.
“We should head out,” Archer says. And then, belying his standoffish expression, offers a polite, “Will you be joining us, Vivian?”
I look up at Nate who’s looking down at me, eyebrows raised.
“Up to you,” he tells me. “Brunch at LaVera’s.”
“That sounds fancy. And I look—”
“Stunning,” Benji tells me. “Come with us.”
On LaVera’s back patio, at a white-clothed table covered in white plates and several glasses per place setting, I’m introduced to Nate’s adoptive parents.
Will and Lainey have dark hair and olive-toned skin. Italian, I’d bet. Benji’s darker golden coloring and black hair hints at Middle Eastern heritage. Archer, with his father’s green eyes and his mother’s cheekbones, definitely skews Owen.
“So lovely to meet you, Vivian,” Lainey says. William stands while I take my seat and I amend that the width of his shoulders resembles Nate’s. If you weren’t looking closely, you might assume the boys were Owens, born and bred. Even Benji, whose build is slighter than Will’s, resembles Lainey in a way.
I look like my mom. Walt looks more like Dad. We were a real family and as flawed as they come. To see a patchwork family like the Owens and feel none of the tension present at my own family’s breakfast table is…strange.
Maybe Nate was right, and the Owens are good people.
“Nate tells us you’re an inspector,” Will says conversationally as he spreads his napkin in his lap.
“Not yet,” I answer.
“But she tried to shut you down,” Archer interjects.
Enter: turmoil. I bristle in expectation.
“She did,” Nate replies easily. The shouting I anticipated doesn’t come. “The day I took down the drywall with a sledgehammer.”
“Well, no wonder you fell for him,” Lainey says as light as you please.
I jerk my head at Nate, who takes his gaze from the menu to offer me a wink. “She didn’t flinch. Which is why I asked her to dinner.”
A waiter silently delivers a round of mimosas before leaving.
“He was looking for a friend at the bureau. Little did he know he was wooing the one with the least amount of power,” I say, joining the banter.
“I was wooing you?” Nate turns his head and my cheeks grow warm.
“An eight-course chef’s menu,” I mutter under my breath, but his mother hears me.
“We taught you well, son.”
“Yes,” Nate says, giving her a look of unfiltered gratitude. “You did.”
“I’m looking at Miami next,” Archer interrupts, evidently tired of the drippy sentimentalism. From there the conversation shifts to business, despite Lainey’s request of “no business talk during meals.” Will and Benji rationalize they’re in public, not at home, and LaVera’s is a neutral space.
Contrarily, every meal at the Steele household revolved around business. We might as well have eaten at a boardroom table. The private plans of Walter Steele never came up, but everything else was fair game. My mother usually stared at her plate forlornly, shut off from the family and halfway into a bottle of wine. I wasn’t sympathetic of her plight then. I regret that now. When I was very young, eight or nine, she was present. A year or so later, she developed a habit of foisting her children off on the house staff. By the time I reached my twenties, I decided she was the most selfish person alive. That was before we found out about Dad.
In the quiet darkness of my heart I wonder if she was incapable of reaching out. If the grief that ultimately consumed her left no room for my brother or me. In that case, her having us cared for was admirable. She couldn’t be there for us so she found people who could.
Even with my grievances, I had an easier childhood than Nate.
He’s talking animatedly with his hands about Grand Marin. He’s proud. One glance around the table and I can tell the Owens are proud of him. He’s so alive in this moment. I envy him, and the passion he has for his work. I used to be passionate about my father’s company too. Look what I ended up being a part of.
I’m halfway through my eggs Benedict when Benji turns to me. “Are you coming to the grand opening of Club Nine, Vivian?”
“Um…”
“I haven’t invited her yet, Benji, but thanks,” Nate grumbles.
“I can tell by her hesitation and your deer-in-the-headlights reaction. No pressure,” Benji tells me, and he seems sincere.
“Every time we finish a project there’s a party,” Nate informs me.
“We celebrate often,” Will says. “More work is always around the corner. It’s tempting to move on to the next project without first paying homage to the one you finished.”
“It’s a bad habit,” Lainey says. “You have to be grateful for what you’ve accomplished. Don’t you agree, Vivian?”
I don’t like lying. I rarely do, save fudging my identity for the sake of not becoming the town pariah. I don’t agree. I’m not grateful for the role I played in my former life. How can I be when it led to so many others losing their livelihoods, their savings, their homes? It led to me losing my boyfriend and half my family. The house staff that helped raise me turned on me as easily as they did my father.
Karma, as they say, is a bitch.
“I don’t like to look back.” Hopefully my response is vague enough to be acceptable. Lainey waits for me to expound. I don’t. She doesn’t call me on it, which I appreciate.
“Now that my brother has stolen my thunder,” Nate says, turning in his chair to face me, “you’re invited.”
“Grand opening for VIPs and family only,” Archer supplies.
“Sounds fancy. I have just the shoes for it.” I don’t have to turn my head to feel Nate’s approving smile.
An hour later, we’re in his Tesla when h
e turns from the restaurant’s parking lot. “You did well in there.”
“No thanks to you. You not only surprised me with your brothers, but you sprang parents on me too.”
“The Owens are—”
“Good guys. I know, I know.” I consider the easy conversation and the way Will listened when his sons spoke. “They’re supportive of you. All of you.”
“They are.”
“They don’t seem to favor Archer, even though he’s their biological son. It must bother him.” It’d have to, wouldn’t it? I was overlooked by my parents for years, for reasons other than adopted siblings, but it’d have to feel similar.
“I’m not going to say Arch didn’t have his share of teenage angst, and God knows I came to that house resisting stability. But, we adjusted. We’ve had a lot of years to learn who we are—all of us. It’s not wrinkle-free, no matter how well-adjusted we seem, but Ben and Arch, and the Owens, have my back.”
“And you have theirs.”
“Yes.”
“I smell white knight syndrome,” I tease.
“I like to think of it as a savior complex. But if you find a dragon you want me to slay, baby, say the word.” His murmured “baby” coils around my heart and squeezes. He takes my hand, resting our linked hands on my leg. Our interwoven fingers are an attractive sight, his thick digits and my narrow, slender ones. His blunt, wide nails and my painted pink ones.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” he asks.
“Go home. Check on Walt. House chores. The usual weekend things.”
He’s already shaking his head. “That’s no good.”
“Why not?” I ask through a laugh.
“I want you to come home with me. Which is fucked-up, Vivian.” He slants me a look hinting he’s only half kidding. “I like living alone. I like to work. I usually go to a job site on weekends and stay up too late agonizing over details to ensure we’re done on time or early. Then came you.”
He’s too much. I’m flattered. I can’t help it. I’m only human. “And I’m ruining your work ethic?”
“You’re ruining me.”
It’s a touch too honest for the interior of the car. There’s nowhere to escape. The air conditioning blows on my face, chilling the sweat on my brow.
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.
He stops at a red light and leans toward me. “Look at me.”
With little choice in the confines of the small car, I turn my head.
“It wasn’t a complaint. Kiss me.”
I hesitate. The light turns green. The car behind us honks. He doesn’t move. “Vivian.”
I set my lips to his for a brief kiss, but he cups my jaw and holds me there. The other car swerves around us, the driver yelling as he drives by. Nate lingers another second before taking the wheel.
“Thank you.”
“Welcome,” I say, touching my fingers to my lips to hide my smile. He wears his shamelessly. He really is too much.
Chapter Seventeen
Vivian
It’s been just over two weeks since Walt came to town and I’m feeling the tininess of my apartment big time. I attended two AA meetings with him until he begged me to stop shadowing him. His exact words were, “V. I’ve got this.”
He does seem to have it under control. I used to worry about him incessantly. Since he’s lived in Atlanta, I’ve toned it down some, but now I’m regressing.
In other developments, he’s been job hunting but hasn’t had any luck. I asked Daniel if he could use anyone at the bureau. He wasn’t keen. Walt’s work record is sketchy and rehab doesn’t look good on a resumé.
“I was checking into this nonprofit yesterday,” I call to my brother who’s sacked out on the couch watching TV. I’m watching my toaster oven slowly brown three slices of bread. “They help recovering addicts find work. It might be worth looking into.”
When he doesn’t answer, I peek around the corner. He’s in shorts and a T-shirt, looking tired and worse, bored. Boredom isn’t good for an addict.
“Walt?”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
I sigh. I’ve been splitting my time between Nate’s house and here, but this weekend Nate is traveling to Miami with Archer to check out that potential job site. I know it’s juvenile to say I miss him, but…I miss him.
Sigh.
“Breakfast,” I call. “Do you want butter and jam or peanut butter?”
“Butter and jam.”
“Well come and get it.” I force a smile that isn’t completely genuine. I love him, but he’s wearing on me. I never wanted a grown man who behaves like a sulky teenager underfoot. He needs to remember he’s an adult. I’m not his mother—or his maid. The next step in his sobriety should be him taking care of himself.
He slouches into the kitchen and sullenly paints his bread. I slather mine with peanut butter.
“How are things?” I ask. “Are you feeling the temptation to fill your many hours with something other than television?”
He scrapes too much butter onto the second slice of toast. “Do you mean do I feel like using?”
“Of course that’s what I mean.” I slant him a tender glance. I want so badly for him to be okay. For good.
“I think of using sometimes, but then I remember Robbie and think better of it.” Before I can ask, he explains. “She was one of my roommates in Atlanta. She OD’d and Brewster found her the next morning. It was scary and sad. And gross.”
My stomach turns.
“I’m sorry. How are they, your roommates?” He lived with three other people in a cramped apartment. They were each in and out of rehab.
“Brewster texted me yesterday to check in, so he’s good. I haven’t heard from Dee in a while. I’ll call her later. It’s scary to call. You don’t know who’s going to pick up.”
“I know what you mean.” I’ve called Walt’s phone plenty of times wondering if the number had been changed or if a police officer or worse, a coroner, might answer. “I hope she’s okay.”
“Me too. She means a lot to me. She started drinking a few months ago and moved out. Then I came here. I don’t know. Sometimes I worry I left her to the wolves, but broken people can’t help other broken people.”
“You’re not broken.” I console him with a hand to his shoulder before screwing the lid onto the peanut butter jar and stashing it in the cabinet. “You should call her. She might surprise you. You surprised me.”
The more connections Walt has, the more meaning his life has, the less likely he is to harm himself. Being alone is hard when you’re not an addict.
Before I take my first bite, my cell phone rings. My brother and I exchange glances. The timing is a little creepy after our discussion. I peek at the screen, one eye closed.
“Nate,” I say.
Walt rolls his eyes. I stick out my tongue at him. Some things never change.
“Hey,” I answer, carrying my toast and cell phone to my bedroom for some privacy.
“Hi, beautiful. Wanted to hear your voice. Are you lost without me?”
“Mm-hm.” I chew a bite which takes me longer than anticipated because: peanut butter. Once I swallow, I say, “I haven’t had anyone to feed me ridiculously expensive meals or drag me off to boring rich-person affairs in days.”
“That’s more your wheelhouse.”
“My wheelhouse consists of being roomie to my younger brother these days.”
He allows me this bit of petulance. “How about escaping for the weekend?”
“Tempting.” Everything about Nate is tempting. I struggle daily to keep from becoming used to his lifestyle and his attention. Some days I win the fight and other days I lose.
“I’m taking a trip to Chicago next Friday. I’d like you to join me. We’ll fly out that afternoon, be back by Sunday night. If Daniel can give you a few hours off on Friday, we’re set.”
Jettisoning off to anywhere—even Chicago—sounds decadent, and like a bad idea. Walt woul
d be left to his own devices. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to run away, but I also feel obligated to watch over him and make sure he doesn’t find trouble. Walt often finds trouble.
“I don’t know.” I eat another bite of toast.
“Vivian.” The low rumble of Nate’s voice wanders at a leisurely pace down my body. My eyes slide shut as I enjoy the sensation. “He’s been good without you so far.”
“I’ll think about it.” Maybe Walt can find gainful employment by then and I can rest knowing someone is expecting him to show up somewhere. He has his AA meetings. A job would gobble up more of his excess free time. I want to trust him, but I worry.
“Okay. I’ll call you later.” Nate says goodbye and I press the End button on my phone’s screen, staring at it for a while. It’s comforting and disturbing to have him in my life regularly.
Explain that.
In the living room, my brother has resumed his position on the sofa, his eyes glazing over as an action movie blows up the screen.
“Let’s check out that nonprofit.” I kick his foot.
“I have to shower.”
“Then you’d better start moving.” I smile sweetly.
He frowns but acquiesces, shutting off the TV and heading toward the bathroom. Success.
Once he’s employed he can find a place of his own and I can breathe easy. But as I consider the plethora of issues that come with Walt taking care of himself, I wonder if I’ll ever breathe easy again.
Friday arrives. I was able to take a few hours off. Daniel wasn’t pleased with my request until I told him I would be with Nathaniel Owen on a job site.
“Think of how much valuable intel I’ll bring back.”
He didn’t exactly jump for joy, but he did offer a surly, “You can stay late on Monday to make up for your time off.”
Works for me.
I gather my packed bags and set them by the door. Nate’s picking me up. He’s never been to my apartment, and I’m weirdly nervous. I’m also nervous about going back to Chicago for obvious reasons.
“Are you sure about this, Viv?” Walt asks. He’s standing, hands in his basketball shorts pockets, his too-long wavy hair a mess. His color’s better than when he first arrived, I hope because he’s eating and sleeping better.
Once Upon a Billionaire: Blue Collar Billionaires, Book 1 Page 12