Mister Billions: A Small Town Enemies-to-Lovers Fake Marriage Billionaire Romance (Bad Boys in Love Book 1)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  "I don't know. " I shrug, flustered. "Something..." I mumble under my breath. "I just hope I don't end up having to install a sex toy vending machine in the middle of my bridal boutique. If I have to, I will. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.” I may have a reputation around town for being a notorious party girl but there are two things in life I take seriously; my friendships and my business.

  Because my friendships and my business are the two constants that kept me going in my lowest moments, especially after my parents proved I couldn't rely on them for anything.

  My friend snorts laughter through her nose and I silently wonder how she somehow manages to look like a pinup model even with sweat on her forehead and bags under her eyes.

  Penny is an effortless bombshell. Every group of friends has one. Red hair, green eyes, a runway-worthy strut. Everywhere she goes, she unwittingly leaves a pile of slack-jawed, blue-balls'd men in her wake. Being hot comes naturally to her and it kills me that she doesn't even realize it.

  Me? I always manage to come off a bit disheveled, no matter how hard I try.

  I used to give myself a hard time for being a mess. Now, I've made peace with it for the most part. Every fun girl knows that sometimes you've got to sacrifice looking ‘put-together’ for the greater good.

  We stumble through the fields and fields of satin and lace gowns cluttering the back room of Renewed Gowns, Crescent Harbor's only pre-owned bridal gown shop.

  Penny and I dump the toys on the large table next to my sewing machine in the stock room. A pin cushion, a pair of scissors and several old invoices flutter to the floor. I’d be embarrassed about the chaotic state of the place, but my girls have long come to terms with the fact that my organizational skills need some work.

  Because high heels have never been my friends, I eagerly kick off those suckers under the table. They're already scuffed to hell from our little early-morning trek across the parking lot. I dramatically collapse into an exhausted heap on the pile of thick bridal magazines and dog-eared personal development books in my overstuffed armchair.

  Meanwhile Penny drops onto a cushioned bench against the wall and curls up, fetal style. Her eyes flutter shut. “Promise me we're never letting Iris drink again. I love my cousin and everything but the girl cannot handle her liquor."

  “Iris’s gonna need all the emotional support she can get right now." I throw Penny a solemn look. "And where I come from, 'emotional support' means tequila."

  She tsks. "Whaaat?! I am all about emotional support. In fact, I firmly backed my cousin's no-men-for-life plan...Right up until she drunk-purchased Sixty. Seven. Dildos!"

  I chuckle at the reminder. "You're very skeptimistic this morning. It's unbecoming."

  Penny has already snatched a pile of silky fabric and balled it up beneath her head. “Sorry.” She yawns. "Honestly, I think I just need coffee."

  Energized by the mere idea of caffeine, I bounce to my feet. "Ooh! Coffee is the best idea I've heard all day." I glance at the wall clock. I’ve got half an hour before my first bridal appointment of the day. "Lattes from Jittery Joes? Walk with me!"

  Penny cracks one eye open from her spot on the bench and turns her neck to look at me. "I'm just gonna take a little cat nap. Can't you go on without me?"

  "Oh, come on!"

  "I need to save my energy. Today is deep clean day at the bar. Hard manual labor,” she whines. “Plus, I probably won't get any sleep before my shift. I promised Walker I'd go over to his house to help him with some online shopping because those lumberjack shirts of his need a break every now and then."

  I grin like the Cheshire cat at the mention of Penny’s big, surly, reclusive friend. "Walker, huh? I bet you won't be getting any sleep if you go to his house." I wink as I position myself in front of the mirror covering the wall.

  I wiggled into my cute gray pencil skirt and the white camisole under my turquoise cardigan an hour ago, but I already look like I just got violently shoved over the side of a trampoline.

  Despite my party girl tendencies, I try to look presentable for work. I am the face of my business after all. So I make the effort to keep it professional during business hours and limit my shenanigans to the weekends. Yet somehow it seems like the Universe is conspiring against my best intentions.

  Penny slaps a hand over her mouth. "That came out wrong! It's not like that. Walker and I are just—"

  "Friends?"

  I've heard the Walker-and-I-are-just-friends routine one time too many. I'm over it. Those two need to bone. Pronto!

  "Okay, back to the coffee..." Penny says, changing the conversation through a raging blush. "Vanilla oat milk latte. Pretty please? With two cane sugars and a dash of nutmeg." She wiggles a wad of dollar bills at me.

  That bougie bitch.

  I cut my eyes at my friend, trying to be annoyed with her but who am I kidding? I don't know how to hold a grudge.

  I yawn and a tuft of messy brown hair falls over my eye as I snatch her money. "Only because I love you." I grab my purse and head for the door.

  Still I find myself grinning when she calls out after me. "Love you, too, Lex!"

  As I hustle down Promenade Street, I straighten my skirt that somehow is nearly backward and I re-tuck my shirt. There’s mud on my knee and the back of my camisole is damp.

  Well, shit.

  Let's just hope I can make it to the coffee shop without running into anyone I need to impress this morning. But with the way this day has been unfolding, I'm not holding my breath.

  2

  Cannon

  My lawyer’s sleep-laden voice dribbles sluggishly across the phone line. “You want me to do what?”

  I lift the bagel from the plate on the low coffee table in front of me and take a bite. Poppy seeds and oatmeal flakes and bacon bits—and whatever the hell else is going on with this bagel—rain down on the newspaper sitting on my lap. “Order the bank to freeze DataCo’s accounts. Tell them you suspect fraudulent activities. That will temporarily prevent Carl from accessing the company’s money while I figure out how to permanently screw that jackass over."

  Across the phone line, Frank's chair squeaks under his shifting weight. “A-are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

  My temples throb with annoyance. “Did I fucking stutter, Frank?”

  My lawyer chooses his words carefully. “Now, Cannon. I know that you suffered the ultimate shock last night. Two people you trusted betrayed you. I empathize. But let’s not be reckless. Let’s not be hasty. Let’s think this through before we make any decisions we can’t undo in the long run.”

  “This isn’t a debate, Frank. There’s nothing to think through. I’ve made my decision.”

  I leaf distractedly through the local newspaper. It’s filled with ridiculous, inane headlines.

  Sheep wander off Baylac Farm. Cause traffic pile-up on Park Road Bridge.

  Hush money scandal threatens annual Onion Ring Festival

  Local manure thief finally faces his day in court

  Not exactly Pulitzer Prize material.

  My eyes move across the empty dining room to where the shop’s clueless counter staff crowd around the espresso machine, arguing and nudging each other back and forth. A tall, clumsy hipster bro fumbles about with the screwdriver in hand. A young, jittery brunette holds up a phone in his face. Her ponytail sways around her as she bounces on her toes.

  I kid you not—a YouTube video on coffee machine repair is playing.

  I pull my broken wristwatch from my pocket and check the time. This nonsense has been going on for the past fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here, getting more and more annoyed by the second.

  Where the hell is my coffee?

  When the barista’s eyes meet mine, a fierce blush colors her cheeks. “Your coffee will be ready in a minute, sir,” she promises. Again.

  The only reason I haven't left is because this coffee shop is the only place in town that's open at this hour. And Heaven knows I need caffeine before I face my
parents. Once my mother gets wind of what's going on, there won't be enough Kleenex in the state of Illinois to control the waterworks. I may be an asshole but one thing I can't stand is seeing my Mom upset.

  I bite into my bagel—quite possibly the driest hunk of carbs I’ve ever consumed—and trail mix falls into the neck of my shirt. Really fucking itchy.

  I zone in and out of my lawyer's monologue. To Frank, I’m just being my usual reckless self. But DataCo is far from being the only asset in my sizeable financial portfolio, and we both know it. I’ve diversified into real estate, pharmaceuticals, and even pet clothing and accessories. I make very handsome returns on my investments, and I’m not going to go broke over this.

  Carl, on the other hand, is shit out of luck. With his shaky poker face, his fondness for escorts and his inability to count the loose change in his pocket without using a freaking calculator, I predict he’ll be playing Mariah Carey’s greatest hits on a bagpipe outside of Union Square for pocket change before the board of directors issues the next quarterly dividend.

  Besides the truth is, this goes beyond money.

  Yes, I lead a privileged life with expensive toys, homes in multiple cities, and more money than I know what to do with. But if I can’t trust the people around me, what’s the point of it all?

  If the past twenty-four hours have taught me anything, it’s that the two people closest to my life are some skanky hoes. And I need to teach them both a lesson before moving on.

  Carl has called a few dozen times since I left New York. Margot has already filled up my voicemail with her whiny, pleading messages. Eventually, they'll both accept that I’m not going to call back. Ever.

  In the meantime, I've granted my housekeeper free rein to go on a personal shopping spree in Margot's walk-in closet. In fact, I told the old woman she might as well move in to the vacant condo. Because I have no immediate plans to return to Manhattan and my disloyal ex has no reason to ever set foot in my apartment again.

  I know Margot. The best way to stick it to her would be to leave her high-maintenance ass to fend for herself on the 'cruel streets' of the Upper East Side all while knowing that my housekeeper—who Margot always treated like a second-class citizen—is living her best life in my high-rise condo.

  Now, it's time to deal with my slimy business partner.

  "I need you to conduct a thorough search for any concealed assets Carl might have."

  "Concealed assets?"

  "Yes, any property you won't find declared on his tax returns or financial statements." I press the heel of my hand into my burning eye socket. I’m tired. I’m starving for food I can actually swallow. And I’m really starting to wonder how much longer I can wait on this coffee before I go apeshit in this place.

  When I stare over at the counter, my gaze bumps into the barista’s again. “Just one more minute,” she promises, pressing her palms together in prayer.

  I hear a tinkling chime and the grating hinges of the opening front door. I glance up…

  And I instantly resent the rush of heat that dives straight into my cock.

  Dark hair. Thick and wild as a forest. That’s the first thing that catches my eye.

  I can’t see her face but I definitely see that hair and the ripe curve of her high, round, peach-shaped ass. Her turquoise cardigan cuts off an inch above her tight waist and her tiny gray skirt broadcasts an endless ream of long, long legs.

  My cock throbs, eager and peppy, trying to convince me that, after the way the past sixteen hours have unravelled, I deserve to get my rocks off. With a hot piece of ass like the one currently leaned over the counter, moaning at the pastries sitting in the glass display case.

  But there’s ‘something’ about her. Besides her physical appeal. The way she lifts her chin and arches her spine, the way her kittenish laughter rises all the way to the rafters, filling the room with twinkling sparks of mischief.

  This girl is a hurricane. I just know it. A storm of fierceness and energy and sass.

  As she spins around to scan the dining area of the coffee shop, I catch a glimpse of her wide, baby doll eyes and her heart-shaped cherry-ripe lips. I drop my gaze back to my newspaper, narrowly avoiding eye contact.

  Never mind, I tell my cock. I can already tell she’d be more trouble than I’m willing to put up with for a casual fuck. I have more important things to do. Specifically, making Carl's life a living hell.

  I bring my attention back to Frank. "Find every last possession he owns and steal it or repossess it or burn it to the ground. Understood?"

  The lawyer clears his throat uncomfortably. "Cannon..." The old man goes on another one of his rants, wasting precious time, trying to reason with me. I zone out.

  My eyes go back to the girl at the counter. The urge to tangle my fingers in that long, messy hair surges something fierce. When my dick twitches, I glare down at him. Not today, asshole. I’m on a mission and I won’t let my cock guide me off course.

  Carl, I'm coming for you. Better warm up that bagpipe, motherfucker.

  3

  Lexi

  When I step into the coffeeshop, my younger sister, Jessa, and her manager, Todd, are huddled around the fancy coffee machine with matching troubled expressions. Todd barely looks up at the sound of the door chime. But my sister glances up and her insta-grin goes as wide as the glass display case spread out beneath the cash register. "Happy Monday, Lexi!" Her sparkling energy fills the empty room.

  Our friends like to joke that Jessa is an over-caffeinated Disney-Princess. The doe-eyed, brown-haired beauty is bright, sunny, optimistic. Obnoxiously enthusiastic about life. She's looking for work as a kindergarten teacher but she works this barista job to fill in the gaps between her current substitute teaching stints.

  Jessa bounces toward me like she just finished drinking all the coffee in the tri-state area. I need some of that energy. Stat.

  I collapse theatrically against the display case, spreading my arms to span the width of the glass. I groan loudly. "Oh my gosh, Jessa! I won’t be held accountable for my actions if I don’t have an I.V. dumping coffee into my veins in the next sixty seconds. Caffeinate me!” I burst into a high-pitched giggle.

  Her smile freezes on her face and her eyes widen just a touch. She leans across the counter and speaks in a quiet voice. "We've got company this morning, Lex." She lifts a brow and tilts her chin in the direction of the line of low tables and chairs positioned in the coffee shop's far corner.

  That’s when I see him.

  The man sitting in the beat-up leather armchair has wide shoulders and huge paws for hands. His messy hair is in a man-bun, dark blond flyaways fanning out around his chiselled face. He's wearing suspenders and three days of stubble and the hottest, meanest frown I’ve ever seen.

  No tie with his wrinkled button-down shirt. No socks with his scuffed leather shoes.

  He exudes an easy, laidback kind of power. A zero-fucks-to-give vibe that makes me pulse between the legs. He leafs absently through a newspaper as he barks into his phone, frown lines digging angry trenches between his eyebrows.

  Jessa’s bright eyes blink amorously at the surly man. Her whisper floats across the counter. "He's gorgeous, isn't he? Too bad he's a bit of a jerk..."

  I snort bitterly. "The gorgeous ones usually are." My cheeks prickle. I try to backpedal. "Not that he's particularly gorgeous."

  She looks at me like I'm crazy. "Did you put your contact lenses on upside down this morning? That man is effing hot.”

  He must feel the weight of us staring because his head snaps up suddenly.

  My eyes meet his and—boom!—it's like running head-on into a brick wall. A hooded, deep-set, almond-shaped brick wall. Backlit by the fucking sun.

  He scowls. Like my very existence is somehow offensive to him. But this is Crescent Harbor. Polite is the name of the game. So, against my better judgment, I give the man a polite chin tip and a good mannered "'Morning."

  In one frigid, disinterested sweep, his eyes cover me fr
om top to bottom, moving from my sweaty face and traveling over my tiny breasts and my disheveled cardigan before slicking down my wrinkled skirt to my bruised pumps.

  Ouch!

  His growly attention abruptly clips over to Jessa. He pulls the phone away from his face and pins my sister with an unnerving frown. "Am I gonna get that coffee any time soon?" He drums his fingers on the table next to his sunglasses.

  Jessa's cheeks turn splotchy and red. “Of course. Y-yes. It’ll only take a few more minutes, s-sir. I’m sorry for the wait.” Her hands brace the counter like she's scared she might lose her balance.

  The customer gives one more ugly sneer before going back to his phone call.

  Jessa whispers apologetically. "Gimme a sec, Lexi." She spins back toward her anxiety-riddled manager who is now crouched down in front of the machine.

  That's when I notice the angry red light hopping around on the front panel of the espresso maker. “What’s wrong?” I ask, inching behind the counter to inspect the machine.

  Todd flashes me a helpless look, on the verge of a very obvious panic attack. “I don’t know what the deal is," he wheezes. "It’s never given this warning message before, and it was fine ten minutes ago. It just randomly stopped working.”

  I check the clock on the wall. I'm officially running late. My first customer appointment is at 8:00 and I was hoping I'd have a few minutes to change my outfit and do something with my crazy hair before she shows up. Also, poor Penny may be in a catatonic state on the floor from caffeine deficiency by now. But I feel a tug of compassion at the flustered expression on Todd's face.

  Mind your business, Lexi, the little voice in my head says. Don't get involved. You have places to be, shit to do. Shit that does not involve continuing to play Captain-Save-a-Sister first thing on a Monday morning.

  There's a gas station just off the highway. The brew in their self-serve coffee dispenser usually sits out overnight and tastes like lukewarm diesel exhaust. I should point the jerkface in that direction and be on my way. Because jerkfaces don't deserve good coffee.