Second Chances: A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance (Second Chance Romance Series Book 1)

by Ellie Danes

  At the corner, I tried to shake it off. I still had errands to run, and who was I kidding? I wasn’t a music phenomenon like my father. Why would I think anyone but myself would like the music I heard in my head?

  I stopped in at the post office and tried to return to normal life. “Hi, Larry. How’s the wife?” I asked the postmaster.

  “Potty training our youngest,” Larry replied ruefully.

  I laughed. “So, nice day to be at work?”

  Larry tapped his nose to show I was right on point. Then he slipped into the back room and returned with my package. It was small and wrapped in nondescript brown paper, just a box of my favorite guitar strings, but Larry marveled over it for fun.

  “Let me guess, rose petals from the Riviera?” Larry had handled many of my father’s unique orders in the past.

  “Not for me,” I reminded him.

  Larry smiled, having known me from childhood. “Working on a new song?”

  “What?” I blinked hard, realizing that I had been humming the new riff out loud.

  “I like it,” Larry said.

  “Uh, thanks.” I grabbed my package and hightailed it out of the post office.

  Still, the song followed me back down Main Street. I caught myself humming it again as I swung into the hardware store. Luckily, the owners there were relatively new and had no idea who I was. Plus, they were too busy arguing over stock orders.

  “No one’s buying anything, so why restock?” the husband argued.

  “I don’t care what you stock or restock,” his wife said. “We’re not giving in to that land developer. This is still our store.”

  I wondered about the developer, but the forming song pushed everything out of my head again. Back on Main Street, I realized why the riff was so insistent.

  It was her.

  As soon as I admitted the blonde photographer had inspired me, the song took off. I hurried to my beat-up truck with the lyrics already forming on my tongue. I had to scribble them on the back of a receipt before I could concentrate on driving home.

  The last road off Main Street leading to the right headed straight for the lavish mansion my father had built. Instead of driving right home, I detoured down an alley and turned on to the service road. If people saw my old truck regularly driving up the mansion’s wide, tree-lined entrance, they would start wondering who I really was. The locals, like Larry and Rick, had kept my secret without an explanation for years. To them, I had finally become just a regular guy and I prized that more than all the wealth and fame my father had collected.

  I bumped over the unmaintained back road and pulled into the stone-walled service entrance of the mansion. There, behind the high walls, no one could see me pull the rusty old truck into the underground garage, where I parked it next to a lemon-yellow Lamborghini Countach. I jumped out and strode past the long collection of high-end sports cars that culminated in a Rolls Royce Phantom my father had loved like a second child.

  I pushed open the basement door and jogged up the polished mahogany steps. I kicked off my shoes on the back landing and entered the sun-filled cathedral of a kitchen. After almost a full decade of living on tour with my father, my formative years spent at a boarding school overseas, and countless other expensive residences, this mansion was still the only place that felt like home.

  My best memories were in that kitchen, huddled over the massive marble island, mixing up outrageous ice cream flavors with my father late at night. It was the only place he ever seemed to come back down to earth and realize he had a son.

  I tossed my keys into the black bowl formed from a warped album and put the brown-paper package on the kitchen island. In the huge double-doored refrigerator, I found a steak sandwich and a beer waiting. I pulled them out and started eating lunch as I unwrapped the guitar strings and let the new riff play over and over in my head.

  “There you are! Good, you found lunch.” Tyson, my manager, burst into the kitchen and paced up and down the gleaming floors.

  I frowned. “What now, Tyson?”

  Tyson could have retired years ago, rich off the royalties from my one-hit wonder, but he had chosen to stay on as my manager, even though I wasn’t making music anymore. Not only did he stay on, but he moved into the mansion and had taken over running the large estate. In truth, Tyson was more family to me than my actual blood relatives. He had apprenticed under my father’s manager as a young man, and we had practically grown up together in the midst of Ian Morris’ inspired chaos.

  “Now, before you say anything else—”

  “No. Whatever it is, Tyson, it’s not happening,” I said.

  “Fine.” Tyson folded his thick forearms over his barrel-chest. “Then let’s talk about the estate instead, shall we?”

  I took a long drink of my beer before answering. “You know as well as I do that it’s time to move on. Selling the estate is the only way either of us are going to manage to get on with our lives.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Tyson said. “I like my life. I like being a music manager. I like being your manager.”

  I snorted. “You sure about that?”

  Tyson tipped his bald head and beseeched the kitchen’s beautiful arched ceiling. “Why are you so stubborn, Storm?”

  “Wanting my life back is not stubborn, it’s normal,” I said.

  “And that’s the problem. When are you going to accept the fact that nothing about you or your life is ever going to be ‘normal?’“ Tyson asked.

  I finished my steak sandwich instead of answering. Tyson was vehemently opposed to moving and, at first, I had thought it was because he hated change. Now I wasn’t so sure. Something else had put a determined light in his eyes. He wasn’t telling me yet, so I changed the subject.

  “So, I saw these big white trucks driving through town. You know anything about those?” I asked.

  Tyson sighed. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

  I groaned. “Please tell me you’re not throwing a party!”

  “Consider it one last hurrah,” Tyson said.

  I pinched the arch of my nose, knowing full well an elaborate party was just another one of Tyson’s ploys to get me to stay. And I knew from experience that once my manager had put an idea in motion, there was no stopping it.

  We were having a party whether I wanted one or not.

  After lunch, I slowly inched my way to the back door. I knew if I set even one foot toward the studio, my mother would try to rope me back into her latest project. Even as we finished with a bright dessert of fruit and cream, she was already getting that faraway look in her eyes.

  “I think backbends should be next,” my mother said to no one in particular. “The effect of the hand placement on the canvas will be really interesting, don’t you think?”

  Susie Q agreed, even as she pressed me for more details about my life in New York City. “Come on, Cora, you must have some sort of nightlife.”

  I shook my head, tight-lipped. It wasn’t because I was hiding any sort of steamy relationship. I had been single for over a year now, but my mother knew that, so obviously her best friend did as well. What I really wanted to avoid was any sort of subject that could circle back around to my job or my finances. Susie Q loved a lavish lifestyle, and I didn’t want her or my mother sensing the downfall of my savings.

  My mother wasn’t interested in my big city life and brought the subject, as always, back around to art. “How about those photographs, huh, Suz? My daughter has real talent. Not that she’d ever admit it.”

  I put my hand on the back door handle. The only thing I wanted to talk about less was how much I had enjoyed taking those pictures. My phone’s camera was loaded with little shots I couldn’t help but take every day. It was the only little artistic indulgence I allowed myself, and my mother somehow sensed it. If I let myself, I would admit to loving photography but that was way too close to being like my mother, and I vowed never to let that happen.

  “Thanks for lunch. Just need to stretch my l
egs.” I slipped out the door and shut it behind me.

  My mother’s laughter rang out, but I ignored it and hightailed it through the narrow alley and onto the street. I had to do something practical, something solid, or I thought my head would burst. So, I headed over a few blocks from Main Street to where the old diner was still in business.

  I took a spot at the standing counter in the window and checked my email before ordering. No responses to my dozens of resumes. No views of my multiple online job search profiles. Nothing. There weren’t even any new job postings that made me want to see more than the title.

  I was sinking low when there was a sharp knock on the diner window. Outside, my old classmate and friend waved. She waved me outside and motioned for us to get real drinks. I abandoned my job search in a second and joined her.

  “Cora! I’m so glad to see you!” Victoria hugged me and then pulled me toward the local dive bar. “Come on, I need a drink.”

  “Tough assignment tonight?” I asked. Victoria was a journalist and blogger.

  She rolled her eyes behind trendy tortoise-shell glasses. “You’re never going to believe me. Drinks first.”

  I laughed and let my childhood friend drag me into the locals’ favorite bar. She navigated the surprisingly packed crowd and found us a small booth in the corner. Under the low hanging bar lights, Victoria’s platinum-dyed blond hair was glossy and perfect. She waved to the bartender, ordering us shots.

  “All right. Spill.” I slipped into the booth.

  “I’m going to a party at the Morris Mansion!” Victoria announced.

  We both laughed, remembering all our childhood days of playing dress-up and pretending we were invited. The shots arrived, and we toasted Storm Morris before knocking them back. Then Victoria ordered another round.

  “So, you aren’t excited? It’s the perfect reason to wear a tiara, remember?” I asked her.

  Victoria snorted. “Or a feather boa. God, do you remember that awful purple thing? It shed all over the house.”

  “I can’t believe Storm Morris is having a party. I heard he was getting ready to sell the mansion,” I said.

  “Maybe that’s part of it or maybe that was all just a ploy to get people interested. Either way, there’s supposed to be a crazy party up there tonight, and my blog is making me go.” Victoria waved away the idea like an irritating fly. “But I’d much rather drink with you. What’s going on with you?”

  “You know if he sells the house, Murtaugh is going to become a ghost town, right?” I neatly avoided the topic of me.

  Victoria screwed up her pert little nose. “Yeah, I can imagine. Lots of shop fronts closing. Why doesn’t he just make the gardens a concert venue or something?”

  “Or make that huge medieval dining hall of his a fancy restaurant?” I added. We shared wilder and wilder suggestions until the second shots arrived.

  “Someone should bring the town’s concerns to his attention,” Victoria said.

  “Someone like a reporter?” I asked pointedly, though the tequila was making me feel anything but sharp.

  My friend shook her perfectly styled head. “No way. That’s not the angle I’ve been told to take. I can’t lose this job. It’s brutal out there.”

  “I’ll tell him,” I said. “I’ll crash that party and give the host a piece of my mind for all of Murtaugh!”

  Victoria leaned back and sighed. “Oh, my god, and I could actually take a bath. Thank god Maria and Dan still run a heavenly B & B.”

  “Been working too hard, huh?”

  She nodded. “And this is really just a little fluff piece. All I need is a few pictures and a general idea of what the night was like.”

  “I’ll report back,” I joked.

  Victoria leaned forward with a gleam in her eyes. “You should. Take my press pass and go party. That way, you can tell Storm Morris just what he’s doing to the people around him.”

  “And you can get a night off.”

  “Exactly. Plus, parties like this are no fun for me anymore.” Victoria flashed a heavy engagement ring.

  I squealed with excitement that turned into an insulted gasp. “You mean, you can tell I’m still single? I mean, congratulations!”

  My old friend smiled, understanding my response perfectly. “He’s the best guy ever. I’ll tell you all about him over brunch tomorrow.”

  “Wait, you’re serious about me crashing the party?” I sat back as the bar seemed to spin.

  “It won’t be crashing with my press pass, and we look enough alike that no one will think anything of it,” Victoria said. “And you can let loose, my little accountant. Ooo, better yet, meet someone wild and have a little fling! Do it for me now that I’m off the market.”

  I shook my head. “No way. I’d have to sneak back into the studio to get my bag. I have nothing to wear.”

  Victoria slapped some cash on the table and dragged me to my feet. “Just like old times.”

  My mother, covered in deep swirls of purple paint, caught us halfway up the ladder to the sleeping loft where she’d tossed my bag. “Nice to see you ladies having a little fun. Hi, Vicky.”

  “Hi, Caroline.” My friend dropped back down to the floor and air-kissed my mother’s cheeks. “Wow. You look great.”

  “Thanks, sweetie. So, what’s going on?” my mother asked.

  “Cora’s going to the Morris Mansion party,” Victoria blurted out before I could scramble back down the ladder and shut her up.

  My mother shocked us both by slapping a hand over Victoria’s mouth. “Shhh, don’t let Susie Q hear, for god’s sake. She only five months sober.”

  “Caroline, hun, your studio is open-concept.” Susie Q appeared in the doorway and grinned at us all. “Plus, my night’s booked. I’ve got a meeting in a church basement in an hour.”

  My mother patted her best friend’s cheek, leaving a streak of purple paint. “That gives us an hour to get Cora ready for her first rock ‘n’ roll party.”

  Victoria squealed with delight, and Susie Q jumped up and down. Within minutes, they had already decided on my makeup, hairstyle, and were arguing over the best colors to bring out my blue eyes.

  “No!” I had to shout. “I’m not going there to party! I’m going there to tell Storm Morris he’s got to think about the town and all the local businesses that depend on him, his father’s legacy, and the mansion to bring in tourists.”

  “No reason you can’t do all of that while wearing these.” Susie Q produced a blinding pair of diamond earrings from her purse. “Too much?”

  “She’s undercover as a reporter, not a princess,” Victoria joked.

  “Then these.” Susie Q held up an enormous pair of freshwater pearl earrings.

  “What do you have in there, a jewelry store?” Victoria asked. “How about a tiara?”

  “No. Absolutely not,” I said.

  After another round of arguments, two escape attempts by me, and a pause while my mother showered in order to prevent purpling anything else, I was finally dressed. The result made everyone grin except me.

  My jaw dropped when I faced the mirror.

  Susie Q had insisted I wear a designer skirt she had brought with her. The sapphire-blue satin skirt hugged my hips as I was curvier than her, but it fit perfectly. It ended too far above my knees for my own comfort, but I was amazed how long and sexy my legs looked in a pair of sheer black pantyhose.

  I had refused the matching jewel-blue halter top and opted for a tight black cashmere sweater instead. It was the one item I had brought that the ladies deemed sexy enough; the neck did swoop down into a low V. My mother had contributed a stunning lapis lazuli necklace a wealthy patron had once gifted her. It hung on a gleaming silver chain that matched the hand-hammered silver earrings I had once given Caroline for Mother’s Day.

  The earrings flashed under my now-fashionable tussled hair, but it was my eyes that had me staring. With a well-practiced hand, Susie Q had drawn subtle but effective cat-eyes that made my baby blues more
dramatic than usual. Thick lashes gave me a sleepy, sultry expression.

  “Oh, Cora Bora, you are going to knock ‘em dead,” Susie Q said.

  “Storm Morris will definitely notice you. He might not listen to you, but I’m sure you can figure out how to make him hear you,” my mother said.

  I pulled a face unworthy of my perfect make-up. “The only thing he’s going to notice is this press pass. And why do we think our reclusive one-hit wonder wants to talk to a journalist?”

  “My best advice is to pretend you don’t have a story or an angle. Play drunk, and he’ll open up about all sorts of things,” Victoria said.

  I made one more break for the sleeping loft ladder, but my mother caught me. “Who cares if you don’t even run into Storm Morris, love? Just go and have a little fun. Corporate accountants are allowed to do that now and then.”

  My stomach clenched. No one knew about my dire career and financial situation. And, if I played my cards right at the mansion, they wouldn’t have to. I had heard of people selling candid shots of the rich and famous for very lucrative amounts. Maybe the whole night wouldn’t be a loss after all.

  I thanked my mother and Susie Q, but they piled into Victoria’s car and rode up to the mansion gates with us anyway. I felt ridiculous stumbling out of the full car in front of the security guards, but they didn’t even look twice at my press pass.

  I was in.

  “Give ‘em hell, party girl!” my mother called from the car as they sped off and left me to face the Morris Mansion alone.

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