Once Upon a Billionaire: Blue Collar Billionaires, Book 1

by Jessica Lemmon

  He’s damn near perfect from head to toe with but with one glaring flaw.

  He grins. “You can’t have coffee for lunch, coach.”

  Other than being able to give a general description of my person (in case of my kidnapping, for example), he doesn’t see me. At least not in the way I see him.

  “Oh, but I can,” I argue, my own smile in place. I’ve learned how to manage my attraction to my boss-slash-best friend over the years I’ve known him (ten of them), and over the year-plus I’ve worked for him. My tactic is simple, and judging by Benji’s blah reaction to me each time we interact, it must be working. Our friendship is solid, our working relationship steady. We are nailing it.

  Even though I’d rather be nailing him. (Insert laugh track here.)

  “Anyway, I have to run an errand so I’m on my way out the door.”

  “Okay, but we’re still on for our jog at five today.” He sets his mug in the sink and slaps his flat middle. “I don’t call you coach for nothing. You keep me in my prime.”

  “That’s my job.” I hope sarcasm didn’t creep through. His eyes spark, but the glint fades fast. I’m safe for another day. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  Purse on my shoulder, I palm my travel mug and head out the door. Twenty minutes later I’m walking around Grand Marin, the open-air-shopping-center Benji’s brother recently built and opened here in Clear Ridge, Ohio. It’s an absolutely gorgeous April day with plenty of sun, no rain, and mild temps. The shopping behemoth is a live-work facility housing and employing young entrepreneurs who run businesses, restaurants, and rent the offices atop those businesses and restaurants.

  I palm the door handle leading up to the property manager’s office and then climb the stairs. The office sits at a corner overlooking Grand Marin like a castle in a kingdom. Or should I say queendom? Benji’s oldest brother’s fiancée oversees this place like the queen she is. She was a government employee when she met Nate. She definitely considers this a step up.

  Inside the posh office loaded with live and fake greenery, a receptionist greets me. He’s young, twentysomething, and knows me on sight.

  “Ms. Cristin Gilbert.” Sandy, a name he inherited from his father and refuses to be embarrassed by, stands and smooths his tie. “Vivian just finished with a conference call. Is she expecting you?”

  “She is.”

  “Business or pleasure?” He tips his head and I admire his curious expression. I feel no zings of attraction to him the way I do around my boss and best friend, but Sandy is a cute guy. From his high cheekbones to the way his eyes smile with his mouth, there’s plenty to admire. But at five years younger than me, he reminds me too much of my younger brother Manuel for me to find Sandy truly hot. Manuel is more like my kid than my kid brother given I’ve been raising him and my other two brothers since I was eighteen.

  Long story.

  “Pleasure. I have a date tonight and I’m in need of duds.” I gesture to my basic black dress and flats.

  “Say no more. Please.” Sandy makes a face to communicate how undesirable it is to discuss shopping or clothes. He then heads to Viv’s office door and raps twice. She looks up from her desk through the windows—there’s virtually no privacy in this office save for the tinted windows in the conference room—and waves us in. “Your date is here. She’s cherubic, cute, and too good for the likes of me. I trust you two will be very happy together.”

  Viv and I chuckle. Sandy rushes back to his post to pick up the ringing phone.

  “Where did you find that guy again?” I joke.

  “You found him, remember?”

  “Oh, right. I am really good at my job.” I buff my nails on my dress.

  “You really are. You ready to do this? I am so ready to do this. I’ve chosen three boutiques to check out. Two of them are here, the other right up the road.” Vivian is wearing a plum skirt, fitted, and a silk blouse which is a pale, pale purple. Her long, dark brown hair sits at her shoulders in big, enviable waves. Her eyes are chocolate brown, darker than Benji’s caramel irises, and delicate freckles dot her nose and cheeks. She’s wearing incredibly tall high-heeled shoes, which never fails to impress me. I wear heels well enough, but she wears them like she learned to walk in them as a toddler.

  “I’m as ready as I can be,” I tell her as we exit the office, making sure to wave goodbye to Sandy upon my retreat.

  “It’s not going to hurt to go on a date. A few dates,” she amends as she slips sunglasses on her nose. “If anything, maybe Benji will have an opinion about who his life assistant coach is dating. And wouldn’t that be fun to experience?”

  She means because he’d have to notice me to comment. Which would be new, but I don’t know if it’d be fun.

  She spares me a grin as sunlight hits her hair. She is gorgeous. You’d never know a few short months ago she was cagey and nervous about being outed as Walter Steele’s daughter. Yes, that Walter Steele. She’s not a criminal like her deceased father but I could understand why she’d be worried about what others think. Who among us isn’t?

  “Benji wouldn’t notice what I was doing if I was doing it on his desk while he was typing up an email.” I snort. The truth is always funny.

  “We’ll see about that,” she promises. “Let’s not talk about boys today. We’ll find you the perfect date ensemble and then grab lunch and maybe a few martinis and have you back to your office by, oh, say six o’clock?”

  “No can do.” I turn her down with regret in my heart. “I promised Benji we’d jog at five. I am his coach, after all. I have to keep him fit for his myriad girlfriends.”

  She hums, no longer looking pleased. “Who is she this time? Blonde? Redhead? Brunette?” She lifts a handful of her own hair to illustrate.

  “Honestly, I don’t know.” I frown as that fact hits me square in the solar plexus. Since I’ve worked for him Benji has had a revolving door of dates on call. Last year he was in a semi-serious relationship with a tall, leggy blonde named Trish. She was smart and nice which sucked because I really wanted to hate her. Vivian met her and agreed we couldn’t hate Trish. She also agreed not being able to hate her was a bummer.

  “Well, who cares.” Viv waves a hand. “Time to move on. Or at least sideways. Take it from me, Cris, life has a way of working out for you. Especially when you least expect it.”

  Easy for her to say, I think without animosity. Vivian and Nathaniel are in love and it’s adorable and beautiful and enviable. As a closet romantic (though I have come out to Vivian), I watch them together and internally swoon. I want that someday. Not with Nate, obviously, but with someone.

  Time to go out into the big, bad world and find him.

  Chapter Two

  Benji

  Each pounding footfall thumps in my ears, my heart keeping time like an orchestra conductor. I hear my own steady, rhythmic breathing over the sound of my steps and heart.

  Thump, beat, puff. Thump, beat, puff.

  The day is mild, warmish, but a cooler breeze keeps me from sweating too much. The park is moderately occupied, but it’s also large, so there’s plenty of room on the path for us to run. Cris is ahead of me wearing a pair of hot pink shorts and a white T-shirt with the words “my favorite brother gave me this shirt.” It made me smile not because of its outwardly snarky message but because there is zero chance she could pick a favorite brother out of the three her mom saddled her with.

  Saddled is a harsh word. I didn’t mean it that way. Let me explain.

  Cris’s mom Selina bailed on Cris and Co., aka, her three bros, when Cris was eighteen years old. Selina, who I’m told goes by Lina, moved to Vegas to marry a guy she’s since divorced three husbands ago. I think she’s on marriage number seven, but it’s been four or five months since Cris mentioned that so who knows if Lina is onto number eight by now.

  Anyway, Lina went to Vegas and Cris was stuck with her brothers who at the time ranged from ages seven to twelve. This was while she was grinding out a college education and wo
rking part-time. Cris told me her mom used to send money regularly, now only occasionally. Money, while damn nice to have, is no substitute for a parent.

  When Cris was twenty she started working as an intern for William Owen, better known as “Dad”, but he’s not my birth father. Sadly, my birth father (and my birth mother) are no longer alive. It’s not a circumstance I like to think about.

  Anyway. Back to Cris.

  I remember the first time I saw her. Spunky, adorable, blonde. I thought she’d come and go, as most interns did at Owen Construction, but she stayed on fulltime, working for my dad, before I hired her for myself. I had taken to working at my home office more often than not. Traveling to headquarters was a drive to the tune of ninety minutes on a light traffic day, which allowed me to get almost nothing done, so I limited my visits there. Plus, I like my home office. And my home gym. The in-ground pool in my backyard—heated. Everything I need is at my fingertips. Including my life assistant coach.

  It’s a title I made up. I needed an assistant, but I also needed a life coach. Her position is bespoke. I was thrilled she was willing to mash together those two separate job descriptions and provide what I needed. The friendship grew out of our spending both work and personal time together. I didn’t expect her to turn into my best friend, but she did. Now I don’t think I can do anything without her. At least, not well.

  But Cris is only figuratively at my fingertips. She’s not the kind of assistant you hire and then seduce. She’s practically family, though family takes on a broader meaning in the Owen family.

  William and Lainey Owen had one child of their own who predated me. Archer Owen is three years older than me, but not the eldest of the Owen sons. He’s the middle by a technicality. After they adopted me, they went and adopted Nate. Nate is one year Archer’s senior, putting him at four years older than me. Ours is a patchwork family. I’ve heard Archer refer to Cris as our honorary sister, but I can’t agree with him there. If I had a sister, I might consider her brilliant or strong, but never adorable, which is how I consider Cris.

  Not that I consider her.

  She’s hard not to admire while she’s running ahead of me, dappled sunlight streaming through the leaves on the trees lighting her curly blond hair. Her fair skin is what most would consider “tan” but given my brown hue, I don’t see anything but “fair.” She’s a blond-haired, gray-eyed, petite, strong, smart woman…who works for me. As her boss, I overlook her questionable professionalism (she’s worn Chuck Taylors and ripped jeans to my office on more than one occasion). As her best friend, I overlook her obvious beauty. In passing, like whenever we stretch side by side after running, I have admired her bare legs, pale against my golden-hued ones, and had a brief vision of what more of her might look like wrapped around me.

  I blame that on being a guy. Every guy views every woman through this lens at least once and if they deny it, they’re lying. Which is a good thing. Trust me, you don’t want to know what goes on in a man’s mind most of the time.

  “Burst?” Cris asks as she spins around and runs backwards, her curly hair bouncing with her every step.

  She’s asking if I want to end our jogging session by running as fast as I can to the car, to which I reply, “Race you.”

  Then I take off.

  I reach the parking lot before she does. I spend the moments waiting for her bent in half, sucking air through my ajar mouth and balancing my palms on my knees. Damn. That was hard.

  She slows to a walk and pants her way over to me, cheeks pink and eyes dancing. “When will you learn”—pause, more breathing—“that I’m baiting you”—pause, another breath—“when I ask you that?”

  “Never.” I straighten, grinning. She grins back.

  “Good thing I have your back,” she gloats. “You got your steps in for the day, I bet.”

  I check my watch, which tracks a million things, steps included. She’s right. I just rolled over my goal. “Nice.”

  “You’re welcome.” She winks.

  I am welcome. She takes care of me. I have a tendency to lose myself in the numbers the way some might get lost in the woods after dark. I go into a deep, trancelike state rendering me unable to tend to my most basic needs. This is where she comes in. She refills my water, makes me the occasional smoothie if I forget to eat, grabs a takeout chicken and spring mix salad and places the container in front of my keyboard, lid off, fork stuck in it like a flag.

  She brought me vitamin C the other day because she heard me coughing and worried I might be getting a cold. She does all of this while also managing my calendars (personal and business). She prepares reports on occasion, interviews candidates, spellchecks my work, and travels with me to a variety of affairs. She’s even made reservations for dinner with the woman I happen to be seeing (whichever woman it is at the time) or sets up lunch dates so that I can put an end to the “seeing” part, which always happens no matter how great the woman I’m dating is.

  It so happens that alongside the nine-to-five gig, Cris fits into my personal life too. She doesn’t mind doing extra tasks to better my life, and I don’t mind paying her well to do it. Her attentiveness has escalated noticeably since last fall. That was when her youngest brother Timothy went to college. She has empty nest syndrome, and at only thirty years of age. Damn her mother. And damn Cris’s father, and each of her brothers’ fathers for that matter. They all stuck Cris with their adult responsibilities. My parents would have never left me by choice. Not ever.

  Without picking up her feet, Cris shuffles to the car and grabs our water bottles, thermal so the water stays still ice-cold. (She thinks of everything.) As we rehydrate, I make my way to a bench and sit, watching people in the park run along the path and admiring the sway of the trees against a blue sky.

  Spring in Ohio. It’s my favorite season. There’s a whiff of newness in the air, and I love the scent. It reminds me of a Monday, which is truly the best day of the week. Well, if you love what you do. I adore my lot in life. After all, I structured it.

  She settles in next to me, her knee bumping mine. Against my own good sense I admire our side-by-side legs. Hers are not long legs, but they are toned and almost sexy if I was allowed to consider Cris “sexy.”

  “What are you looking at?” she asks, examining her leg. I think fast and poke a purplish splotch on the outside of her thigh. “Ouch! Is that a bruise?”

  “Appears to be. How’d you do that? Violent sleeper?”

  “It’s my new WWE boyfriend.” She quirks an eyebrow and pegs me with those gray eyes. Wide, big, expressive. Innocent. There is a sweet, generous nature under the naiveté, but the naiveté is there all the same.

  “If you have a boyfriend, WWE or otherwise, I hope this isn’t how I find out.” I suck down more water as a pleat forms between her pale eyebrows. It’s followed by a lip-bite and her eyes skitter away before landing on my face again.

  “What?” I can’t help asking.

  “Nothing.” She brightens but her suddenly elevated mood a tad disingenuous. I learn why when she confesses, “It’s just that”—she seesaws her head back and forth twice before continuing—“I have a date tomorrow night. I didn’t tell you because…well.”

  “Because ‘…well’ what?” Now I’m frowning. I don’t like that she didn’t tell me. Or maybe I don’t like that she has a date. Hell, maybe both.

  “Because I worried you’d lecture me. I don’t want a lecture. I want to go on a date without anyone offering their opinion. Except for Vivian. Who helped me pick out a dress for tomorrow.”

  That’s where she was today?

  “You took her opinion,” I say, stung.

  She shrugs before resting one heel on the bench and retying the shoelace. I’m still wrapping my head around her not mentioning—even in passing—that she has a date tomorrow night.

  “You go on lots of dates. I reserve comment all the time.” She holds up both hands, communicating her innocence.

  “You don’t have to comment since I
can read your expressions. I know when you don’t like who I’m seeing.”

  A brief look of what might be panic crosses her pretty face.

  “Trish,” I say in way of explanation.

  “I liked Trish!”

  “Your voice went high and squeaky, which means you’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You laughed during the word ‘lying’ which further indicates that you’re lying.” I stand and offer a hand. She slaps her palm into mine and again, I admire the way our hands look together. Her small, pale, pink hued skin against my large, long-fingered golden brown.

  “Tell me about him—your date.” I drop her hand and walk with her to the car, irked and not entirely sure why.

  “I don’t know. I’ve only texted him a few times on the app.”

  “You used an app?” I drop my neck back and regard the sky. “A little help?”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  I look back down at her. “The Universe. Have you recently consulted your spirit guides?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I do almost nothing but work and hang out with you.”

  Yowch. I make a face.

  “You know what I mean. Timothy’s gone and I—“ Her voice cracks the slightest bit, revealing the emotion she tries to hide from me.

  “You’re lonely.” I sigh. That’s fair. I wrap my hand around the back of her neck. It’s damp with sweat, but not in a gross way.

  She licks her lips and nods. “A little.”

  And like that I can’t fault her for going on a date. I know what it’s like to be lonely. I’ve felt that way since I was ten years old and heard the news that my parents were in a car accident and wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas.

  Ever.

  I was even lonely surrounded by my giving, loving, adoring adoptive family during that very next Christmas and every one since. Loneliness, I understand. And dating, I really understand.

  Which is probably why I tell my best friend, “Let me know if you need any pointers.”