The Sweetest Jerk #3 (Alpha Billionaire Romance)

by Ava Claire

  “I’m gonna stop you right there,” Scott cut in with a groan, slumping his shoulders, like the weight of all of this was gonna do him in.

  “Let me finish,” I urged. “My feelings about your wife aside, I had no business disrespecting you both by being a dick and announcing to everyone that you two are expecting.” I scrubbed my jaw, the stubble that usually shadowed it officially on its way to full beard action. A shot of me in my current state would make the photographers giddy with glee. Proof that even an asshole can be brought to his knees.

  I faced the music, not shying away from Scott’s skeptical glare. “You’ve always had my back, man. I didn’t have yours. I am truly sorry.”

  I left it at that, almost swiping my glass, but stopped myself. I didn’t want to dull this. I didn’t want to walk through life half asleep anymore. No more jokes, no projecting, no-

  “Between you and me, the toast was kinda hilarious,” Scott confessed. “Like something out of a movie.” The smile that danced across his face was wiped away almost instantly, like he was expecting to be struck down, or that whatever tracking device Denise had on him picked up his statement and there would be hell to pay. “If Denise gets over it and you earn back the right to give a toast or speech in her presence, I hope you keep the dirty laundry to yourself.”

  I pressed a solemn hand to my chest. “Scout’s honor.”

  I’d missed him and was glad I wasn’t alone in this, but the reality that he had someone, that I was so close to having someone myself...it was too much.

  “My life is a fucking mess, man.”

  Scott nodded sadly. “Pretty sure that was the exact headline on the blogs, in fact.” When I didn’t crack a grin, he slid off the stool, armed with his glass. He held it out like a peace offering. “No judgment.”

  I couldn’t manage a smile, but a small chuckle fell from my lips. “Tempting, but I’m trying to sober up. Figure out whose head I want on a stick.”

  “Fuck yeah,” he replied, fist bumping as he placed his glass beside mine. “So—the blonde and the baker, what gives?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Cassidy Winters is a blast from the past.” I was no stranger to a jilted lover, but I couldn’t deny that this river ran a little deeper. So deep that my stomach dropped from the penthouse to the ground floor when I realized that short of my parents, who referred to her exclusively as ‘that poor girl’ after...

  I rolled my shoulders back, not opening that can of worms. Cassidy’s motivations for roaring back into my life would reveal themselves sooner or later. She wasn’t what kept me from getting more than an hour or two of sleep since the story broke.

  “The baker-” I shook my head, hating that I was repeating their descriptor of the most incredible woman I’d ever met. “Natalee-” I cut myself off. I felt like my throat was being rubbed raw with sandpaper. Like I was standing in the middle of the town square, tarred and feathered and exposed for everyone to see. I wanted to run from it, but I knew I’d just run in circles—and I’d come back to the irrefutable truth.

  “You’re in love.” Even Scott seemed shocked by the words coming out of his mouth, eyeballing me with a mixture of awe and trepidation. “I’m sorry, man.”

  In that moment, the two party animals who ran from commitment like the world was burning around us were transformed into something else. And that person didn’t put himself first. He was someone who was willing to walk away from the person he cared about most, if it meant sparing the woman he cared about any more pain.

  “Tell me what to do,” I groaned, shaking my head. He was crazy, I was crazy, any man who was foolish enough to fall in love was crazy. Because now that I knew it and accepted it, I was weaker. Broken. Because now that I knew what life was like with her, I knew I didn’t want to go back to a life without her.

  I swallowed my pride and navigated through the pity-tinged gaze that had turned my wingman soft. I was left with the angst that made me want to send her flowers, chocolate, hell, I’d carve my heart out and send it to her express mail if she’d just talk to me.

  Before Scott could even answer, Delia’s voice whispered in my head.

  You have to ask yourself: is this about her, or is this about you?

  The pity in Scott’s eyes was almost as bad as the realization that the answer to ‘What now?’ was here all along.

  “I have to let her go,” I conceded. “And if it’s meant to be, she’ll come back to me.”

  “Bullshit on that.”

  I snapped my chin upright and saw my right hand man, my #2, ready to slay paparazzi and whatever else came our way.

  “The past, and the things you’ve done...you can’t take them back. But this story, this guy who could propose to some other woman the night before you take another to the one place you never take your conquests—that’s not you. If you love Natalee, you can’t let her go.” He paused and gave me a battle hardened glare, filled with determination. “You have to fight for her.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: NATALEE

  I knew my worst fears were realized before the two knocks even sounded at my front door. Fate was a fickle bitch, and apparently my ticket was up and it was my turn to get kicked while I was down.

  Case in point: I’d received a notice from the property management company, alerting me to something that was painfully obvious—the presence of the paparazzi was a deterrent to customers.

  The spike in sales Madison Creations had enjoyed before this whole mess had flatlined. But the company that dragged its feet on our plumbing problem and a myriad of other maintenance issues that our neighboring shops had complained about was suddenly very invested in making sure things went back to normal.

  It was a reality that made my stomach twist into a heart shaped knot. I knew the struggle of being a small business owner. How much money had they lost in revenue because of me?

  On top of all of that, my hopes that all of this (being reduced to some baker who used her food and vagina to steal Jason Cox from a woman who, according to my extensive Googling, even looked like a Glamazon fresh from the gym, perspiring glitter and perfection) would blow over once some pop star or actress or celeb did something newsworthy, hadn’t come to fruition. The customers stayed away, but the paparazzi beat me to the shop, balancing cameras and coffee at 6AM.

  If it wasn’t for the self appointed doorman, Mr. Jenkins, an elderly man who lived downstairs and poked his head out anytime the main door creaked, I wouldn’t get any relief at home either. It was a small blessing that Mr. Jenkins, a vet with a glare that could make you pee your pants, still buff and formidable at 70, ran anyone off that wasn’t on my approved guest list. Which was an actual thing. After the first cameraman tried to sneak into the building and I’d heard a thud that ripped right through my chest since the point of impact was my front door, I’d raced over to find out what was happening. A man with a camera and genuine fear etched on his pudgy face was slowly easing down the stairs, his voice low and wary as he tried to explain to Mr. Jenkins that he just wanted to talk to me.

  The list, unfortunately, did not include my mother.

  When I heard her signature pound echo at my door, I knew I should have made a note at the bottom for Mr. Jenkins.

  ‘If a tall, newly blonde woman with green eyes and a disarming smile shows up claiming that she’s my mother, chain the entrance’.

  “Natalee Jane, I can hear you breathing!”

  I lingered at the front door for a second, trying to look on the bright side. Hoping I'd hear the gruff edge of Dad’s voice, warily reminding my mother that her volume was carrying. Per usual, she'd smack her tongue, or his shoulder, then raise the level of her screech a notch or two, just to be contrary.

  The only sound that followed her announcement was the whine of the old wood beneath my feet.

  “I heard that! Are you really gonna make the woman who spent nearly 48 hours trying to bring you into this world stand out here like she’s trying to sell you a vacuum?!”

  I reached as deep as
humanely possible and found the scraps of patience that I had left. My mother liked to embellish a bit. I knew that the truth was that she'd spent around 24 hours in labor, but that didn't sound nearly as epic and guilt inducing as 48. Before she mentioned freshman year when I accidentally forgot to call her at midnight to tell her happy birthday, or when I was living off ramen and dreams and had the audacity to just get her a card on Mother's Day, I unhooked the latch on my door and stretched the sides of my mouth until they touched the ceiling.

  "Mom! What a-" I choked on my greeting when I realized that my mother's head had been replaced by a magazine. The picture on the front was a familiar one, because I'd experienced it first hand.

  It was me and Jason on the balcony of Delilah, having dinner. The picture was too grainy to make out faces, but they took the guess work out of it, the headline reading, ‘Meet Natalee Madison, Jason Cox's Side Piece!’ And beneath it, in italics like someone leaned over to whisper something for your ears only, Don't tell Jason's fiancé!

  I turned on my heels slowly. I felt simultaneously nauseous, wanting to go back to the whole hiding from the outside world thing I'd been doing, and so angry that I wanted to punch a hole through the wall. Angry at the prick who'd snapped that moment. A moment that I thought was a turning point.

  I thought Jason and I were becoming something more than two people who couldn't escape the physical magnetism that pulled us together, despite all the reasons we were a bad idea. Those reasons went quiet when I thought we were sharing something real. Something special. The pieces of ourselves that we hid away. Scars from the disappointments of our youth.

  And now, I had another emotion that I was juggling. I was disappointed that I hadn't just let my mother rant and rave from the hall and put ear buds in because it was clear she was just warming up.

  "No hug? No greeting?" she huffed, her heels clicking as she scurried behind me. "I find out that my daughter has been busy shagging another woman's man and you have nothing to say for yourself?"

  I stopped a few feet shy of the couch, my cheeks burning like I set them on fire. I didn't do anything wrong, but I still felt like I should be apologizing anyway.

  I balled my fists, pushing that bullshit away. I didn't owe anyone anything. Not the reporters who'd made me the subject of their stalking, not some woman that I didn't even know existed until a few days ago...and not my mother.

  "I'm barely keeping it together, Mom but I really appreciate you coming here to call me a home wrecker to my face."

  I knew what would come next. More of the same. More guilt trips. I decided to continue my trek back to lala land. The one place on Earth where I could block out the world, my mother included.

  Unfortunately, invasion was imminent and I'd already shot myself in the foot by letting her in the door.

  "Natalee, I just don't understand. After what happened with Scott-"

  "After what happened with Scott, I can't believe you would come to my home with that trash and accuse me of trying to take another woman's man."

  I felt her eyes on me, hot and demanding. Reminding me of a million different standoffs we'd had. There was a part of me that was pulled back to my younger days, my room having to be impeccable or she'd go off the rails. Her skin was probably crawling since my living room was a graveyard of takeout containers, tissue, and the clothes I'd worn since that night. My new routine consisted of coming home, stripping, pulling on an oversized shirt and sweats, and burrowing under the blankets on the couch. Since the orders at Madison Creations had slowed and leaving the house meant that my every move was documented by photographers, I'd decided I would just live in this bubble until my roommate got home.

  A bubble that my mother had no problem popping.

  I knew there was one way to get under her skin, and even though I wanted to glare right back at her, ignoring her and her ludicrous accusations would be more effective. That and, I couldn't bear to look at the woman who'd spent hours bringing me into this world, who should know me better than that, but would take the word of strangers. Where was the benefit of the doubt and one better... "Where's Dad?"

  "I made him stay at the hotel,” she answered curtly. “Clearly you need your mother, now more than ever."

  I bursted into laughter at that, glancing over at her despite my attempts at giving her the cold shoulder. My laughs trickled into nervous chuckles when I realized that my mother, who never stepped out of her bedroom without her makeup meticulously applied, her hair lush and camera ready, and her outfit showing off cleavage and the gym body she worked hard at, had been replaced by a woman that looked like, well, me.

  Her platinum blonde, dyed locks were pulled into a messy ponytail with bonafide flyaways reminding me that I came by my own honest. Her contouring, pencils, and skill probably made her feel like she was shaving off the years, but her face was clear of makeup and she'd never looked younger. Or more tired. Or more vulnerable. Her t-shirt didn't boast her cleavage and her black yoga pants looked like the ones she wore at home while she was waiting for her real clothes to be laundered. And I must have imagined the heels because her feet were wrapped in a pair of flats. Flats. I didn't even know she earned anything other than heels and sneakers for the gym.

  Her olive eyes glossed over my face. When she met my gaze, she went into Mom Mode. "You should crack a window, it smells like death and Chinese food in here." She didn't maneuver around the mess, she started scooping things up, blazing a trail to the window. I could have told her the trick to opening the window, but I watched her fuss with it for a minute or two before she wrenched it open and let fresh air in.

  She scooped out mail and spam from a laundry basket and dumped my clothes in, balancing it on her hip as she gave me a once over. "When was the last time you showered?" She didn't wait for me to answer her, leaning in to sniff the crown of my head. "Natalee Jane!"

  I swatted her away, the heat returning to my cheeks with a vengeance. "Kinda hard to squeeze showers in with all the man stealing and such."

  She recoiled, her lips curdling as she gripped the basket like she was the one holding onto her sanity. Like she was the one whose life had been turned upside down. Like she had people trying to capture every riveting moment of her life from grabbing milk at the grocery store to pumping gas.

  Everyone wanted a piece of me, including him. They invaded my life with their cameras and their lurid questions about my conscience, or lack thereof, if you believed the headlines. And Jason—he invaded my life in the worst possible ways. He crept in like smoke, like a whisper, filling me with doubt. If I believed his texts and emails, then this was all theater. A fabrication. He claimed the glimpse I got on Delilah was the real him.

  And as easy as it was to shuttle those emails to the trash bin and delete the texts, ignoring the thing that beat in my chest was the hardest thing I'd ever done.

  My mother was still clutching the basket and her appalled expression, so I backpedaled. Second hardest thing I've ever done. Pretty sure the hardest thing I've ever done is not snapping when my own mother basically called me a floozy.

  "You can drop the incredulity, Mom. There are no cameras here,” I sighed.

  That earned me a sneer. "Are you suggesting that this is all an act?" She didn't wait for me to confirm it, dumping the basket and its contents on the couch beside me. Effectively washing her hands of me and throwing a Oscar worthy tantrum. When I didn't move a single inch or give her the reaction she was hunting for, she tried a different tactic. She squeezed her frame directly in front of me, sweeping a hand from torso to shoulder, like she was presenting herself to me for inspection.

  "Did you take a good look at me, Nat?" She pointed to the floor. "Flats. I'm wearing flats!"

  When I didn't even blink, she continued her tirade, gripping a fistful of black spandex and releasing it. The tight material made a snapping sound as it adhered itself back to her skin. "Yoga pants! And I'm not coming from or headed to the gym!” She paused and went off on a tangent, like a stage actress brea
king the fourth wall. "And if I was headed to the gym, I would have picked a much sexier combo than a grungy t-shirt and a pair of yoga pants."

  The defiant, have-to-get-the-last-word part of me (that I definitely got from my mother) almost rebutted the 'grungy' descriptor of her t-shirt. I had an array of grungy shirts, ticking off several points of the spectrum from 'wash me' to 'this may be hard to believe, but this shirt used to be white'.

  I lost my train of thought when I realized she was wearing a Greene Hills Central High t-shirt. And not one of her own throwbacks so she could remind everyone that she was still rocking the same body she had in high school. It was one that proclaimed that she was a proud parent of a GHCH honor student. And from the cracked, acrylic letters that chopped the H and C in half and blurred the once glossy 'student', it was a shirt that had been washed many times.

  Which meant it had been worn many times.

  I nibbled on my bottom lip, my righteous anger dimming. My mother, who took pride in brands and looking like a celebrity even when she was running to the grocery store, had tugged on that shirt. If it were anyone else, it wouldn't have been noteworthy. It was just a shirt. But Juliet Madison planned her outfits like I planned my baking projects. Meticulously. With care.

  "You look great, Mom."

  From the slack jawed expression on her face, she was expecting a different follow up.

  Get out now, Mom!

  You are not welcome!

  Can you just go?!

  She recovered quickly, per usual, letting out a snort before she cleared off a space on the couch and gingerly eased herself onto the cushion. It was like a crop circle, but instead of rows of vegetation, she was surrounded by my stuff.

  "Now you're just making fun." Before I could roll my eyes, she did the honors for me, collecting an armful of socks and empty Bartles and Jaymes bottles. Making space for me on the couch. It was her form of an olive branch.