Holt, Her Ruthless Billionaire: 50 Loving States-Connecticut (Ruthless Tycoons Book 1)

by Theodora Taylor

  “Oh, but yes, it is. Dale acted like he was going to be a true friend to you, but you put that boy to the real test, didn’t you now? Made him show his true colors before you invited him to your home. As my good friend Prin would say, ‘now you know he ain’t shit.’”

  The unexpected curse word widens Wes’s eyes. Then he giggles. “Yeah, he ain’t shit,” he confirms, voice stronger now.

  I hit him with a stern look. “But that is the last time you will say that word out loud, right? I can’t have you out here cussing up this nice school.”

  Another giggle from Wes. “Okay, I won’t say it again,” he whispers as if we are co-conspirators in a plot.

  “Good, now tell me everything this teacher of yours has done to you.”

  “I told you. She sat me next to Dale!”

  “And when Dale showed his true colors, what did she do?”

  Wes doesn’t respond so I prompt him again, “Wes, what did Mrs. Garcia do?”

  “She was about to send him to the principal’s office but when he got up, I shoved him.”

  “Ah…” I say with a nod. “So now, Dale is at home watching Netflix while you are looking at a two-day suspension because you didn’t like the results of your true friend test.”

  “It’s not my fault!” Wes shouts in that aggrieved way of his. As if everyone and everything in the world has been placed here to set him off.

  “Wes, I am not here to talk about fault,” I answer with a sharp shake of my head. “I am here to discuss how we are going to get you out of this two day suspension, my friend.”

  “We’re not,” he replies. “You’re going to homeschool me like you did Ender.”

  It takes all I have not to roll my eyes. “First of all, Barron homeschooled himself. I only paid for the books and the testing. Second of all, that option is not on the table, my friend, because I am not anybody’s teacher. So, we are going to have to come up with another way to get Mrs. Garcia back on your side. Come, do you have any thoughts about how we can do this?”

  “I don’t know,” Wes huffs at first. But then after a moment of thought, he says, “Maybe I could say sorry.”

  “Maybe,” I agree, my voice considering. “But this could be the kind of situation that will require a very sincere apology and I don’t know if you’re up to that yet. I mean, look how smart Barron is and he has still not unlocked his sincere apology skill!”

  I let that little challenge float between us like a life preserver tossed into the conversation. Then I hold my breath and wait to see if he will take the bait.

  “Hey, mon,” Wes says, clasping Barron by the hand and pulling him in for a chest bump after we leave the school and walk to where Barron waits on the concrete steps.

  “Did Vee really never home school you?” Wes asks as we start walking back to the gated community where Holt’s estate sits.

  Wow, I think to myself. That was his biggest takeaway from my very intense afterschool special-level intervention?

  “I mean, she paid for the tests and I am thankful for that,” Barron answers with that Jamaican kid flair for answering difficult questions in a way that won’t get him in trouble. “Why? Do you want to be homeschooled now, mon?”

  Wes shrugs. “I guess not. The teacher was mad at me, but I apologized and promised to bring apples in for the whole class tomorrow, so she said I could come back to school.”

  “Nice!” Barron says. “I still have a hard time saying sorry.”

  To his credit, Wes doesn’t rub it in though technically speaking, this is the one talent he can easily lord over Barron. Instead he says, “Hey, you wanna play Viking Shifters in my game room when we get back to the house?”

  “After you do your homework and write a note of apology,” I remind Wes.

  Wes rolls his eyes. “After all that stuff?” he edits.

  “Yeah!” Barron says. And just like that, a bad day has turned around.

  However, guilt twists my heart as I realize how true my words to Wes were. Barron had seen Wes at his worst. That very first day in Ixtapa he had waited patiently for me to defuse the raging eight-year-old before asking if Wes wanted to try out his bioHelmet, as if the younger boy hadn’t just trashed an entire art room. And now here they were, months later, and still the best of friends. Barron had even waited outside the school without protest while I handled the fallout from Wes’s latest blow up.

  Barron doesn’t seem to care that Wes occasionally sobs like a child half his age and flies into fits of rage. And Wes doesn’t seem to care that Barron is a 40-year-old genius trapped in a child’s body. They get each other and accept each other just the way they are. Without judgment.

  There aren’t many adult relationships I could say that about.

  But thanks to me, they will soon be torn apart.

  Chapter Thirty

  “How about I make jerk chicken and plantains for dinner tonight since we have the kitchen?” I say after Wes finishes his homework.

  Since it is too cold to do homework outside, we are camped out in Wes’s massive suite. And I do mean massive. Save for a working kitchen, it has all the amenities of an upscale apartment. Not only does he have an en-suite bathroom with heated floors…he also has enough space to house a family of five. Glass half-walls partition the space into a study, a small gym, and a Cape Cod-style bedroom with not just one, but four beds embedded into the far wall for Wes to choose from every night. There’s even an entertainment room with two state-of-the-art gaming chairs parked in front of two separate flat screens—as if Wes should never have to share a screen or—gasp!—take turns with a guest as Barron must when he and Wes play single-player games at our place.

  Yet in spite of all the luxury surrounding him, Wes somehow always seems to end up at the guest cottage with us.

  Usually after homework is done, I let Barron and Wes play for an hour or so at the main house while I cook the evening meal. Then I text Barron to say it is time to eat dinner. Wes has never technically been invited to eat with us, but more often than not when Barron comes through the door, Wes is close behind.

  However, the cottage, as nice as it is, only has a basic stove top without an oven. After years of living in employee housing, I am dying to prepare something I can pop in the oven and leave to heat up. I decide today is the day for me to take advantage of the chef’s kitchen in the big house. It helps that it’s Lucynka’s day off.

  But while Barron nods enthusiastically, Wes wrinkles his nose at me. “What’s jerk chicken? And plantains?” he asks.

  “Jerk chicken is a marinade…like a sauce you put on chicken before you cook it. And no worries, I can make a non-spicy version just for you. Plantains are tasty, too. Like bananas but maybe less sweet.”

  “Me and Dad hate bananas,” Wes informs me. “He won’t even let Lucynka bring them into the house.”

  I squint a little, wondering if Wes is confused. The memory of Holt scarfing down those birthday banana fritter pancakes I made him—like all perfect memories that come before something bad—has haunted me for years.

  But before I can get more details from Wes, Barron lowers his tablet to say, “They’re really good. Like candy and way better than bananas if you ask me.”

  On Barron’s recommendation alone, the formerly defensive eight-year-old decides he cannot wait to try plantains. And when the boys come down to the kitchen to ask if they can have a snack, my answer is, “Yes, you can grab a piece of fruit while you cut up the plantains for frying.”

  “Cool, like when we helped Mika make green spaghetti last week!” Wes says. “She was a good babysitter.”

  And my heart gives another guilty pang because of the conversation I have already had with Mika about replacing me in two weeks.

  Barron soon abandons us to sit in the kitchen’s bay window and read a Go Rodriguez biography. However, Wes ends up not only helping me cut up the plantains, but also marinade the chicken and put it in the oven. But alas, having a hand in the preparations isn’t enough to change hi
s mind about bananas…or their cousins.

  He spits out his first little nibble of plantain, then scrapes all the plantains off his plate and onto Barron’s before going to town on the jerk chicken.

  “I told you I wouldn’t like it,” he informs me proudly with his mouth full of chicken. “Calsons do not like bananas.”

  “And Pinnocks do not like rude boys who talk with their mouths full,” I counter, trying to figure out why he is so certain his father hates bananas.

  “I like the jerk chicken!” Wes whines, as if that makes up for his impolite commentary on my plantains. But then proving that, like his father, he always has an agenda he asks, “Can I still have dessert?”

  “Eat the rest of your chicken and rice and peas and then we’ll talk about it,” I say, though I already know the answer to his question.

  Usually, I only do dessert on weekends. But knowing about the difficult conversation I would be having with the boys tonight, I’d purchased a pumpkin pie and some ice cream earlier today at the market. A little sweetness to go with our hard talk.

  “Wes, I have something I must talk with you about,” I say as I put a dessert plate down in front of each of them.

  “What?” Wes asks, already looking defensive. And though I never asked for this job, I hate that I must let him down by leaving it. With his mother only two years dead and his less-than-stellar school record, I can imagine what goes through his mind whenever an adult says, “we need to talk.”

  Still, I hang on to my lightest tone as I answer, “You know, I’m so glad you like Mika…because I have spoken to her about her graduate school schedule, and she will be taking over your care when I leave in two weeks.”

  Wes pauses with the spoon of ice cream halfway to his mouth. “What? You’re not leaving.”

  “Yes, I am,” I say in a gentle but firm voice. “I have been given the opportunity to work at CIT. This means I will be able to go there for free starting next semester. It is a very exciting opportunity for me.”

  I push as much enthusiasm as I can into my voice as I say this, but Wes’s face instantly hardens as he says, “No. You are not quitting. I won’t let you.”

  Barron and I exchange looks at his response, then I say, “Wes…” crooking my head sympathetically.

  He just shakes his head and says, “No, you have to be my nanny. Dad will pay for CIT if you want to go, but you have to stay and be my nanny.”

  “I do not want your father to pay my way,” I answer. “I want to do this on my own, and though I have loved being your nanny, I am more suited to working with groups of children. This is why I need to—”

  “No!” Wes shouts, cutting me off again. “You can’t do it! Dad won’t let you. If you try to quit, he’ll find a way to make you be my nanny, just like he did in Mexico. It doesn’t matter if you want to do it or not. You shut up and stop talking to me about this!”

  Wow…and there it is, the monstrous streak Wes inherited from his entitled father and his diabolical grandfather.

  I clench my teeth, counting slowly to ten so I can open my mouth again without completely losing my mind on the little boy.

  But before I reach five, Barron tilts his head and says, “What do you mean ‘just like he did in Mexico,’ mon?”

  Wes jerks back his head at Barron’s question, only just realizing in his anger that his best friend—the one who has no idea his mother was manipulated into serving as his nanny—is still there at the table.

  “Oh, Ender. I wasn’t…” For once, Wes stops and thinks, his eight-year-old brain racing to catch up to his mouth before he lamely says, “I just mean I don’t want her to go.”

  Barron jerks back his head mirroring Wes in so many ways as he says, “You can not want her to go, but you cannot make her stay. That is not your place, mon,” he informs Wes. “You might be rich, but you do not get to tell my mama what she can and cannot do. She is leaving this job in two weeks, and I caution you…you will not like what happens if you try to stop her from doing it. Again.”

  Wes is not so officious now. He seems to broil under Barron’s extremely Jamaican look of disapproval. And I’m impressed with my son. Seriously, I think his “you are not going to rule me” face could beat my mother’s any day in a contest. But I keep my expression neutral as I say, “Barron is right. I will be leaving this job in two weeks. That is non-negotiable. But I don’t want us to part with bad feelings between us.”

  Wes opens his mouth to answer, his entire face red with embarrassment. But before he can, a voice behind us says, “What the hell do you mean you’re leaving?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  HOLT

  I had been planning to give her a raise. While reviewing Allie’s daily briefing notes, I stopped at the one about Wes. Looks like he got in trouble at school. Again.

  This is a fairly common occurrence—or at least it used to be. But I hadn’t seen a “Wes incident” in the report in over two months. Not since Sylvie took over as his nanny. I clicked on my IM screen and sent Allie a quick text: “What happened with Wes? Is he suspended?

  “No!” came Allie’s immediate answer. “When I called to check in, Sylvie said he apologized and worked it out with the teacher.”

  Wes… a Calson… apologized. Moreover, Wes took the steps to handle the situation rather than let it be handled by someone else.

  I could hardly believe it. As unreligious as I am, I could not help but think this was a goddamn miracle. A goddamn miracle only Sylvie could have brought about.

  I drove home with a new plan in my head.

  I would offer to pay for her classes at CIT. And though I am a Calson, I would humble myself enough to tell her Wes truly needed her, and she was wrong about not having enough skills to help my son thrive. He was thriving—all because of her. I even came home a little earlier than usual to talk with her.

  But then the smell hit me. Both sweet and savory. Like nothing that had been cooked in this house before. And it threw me back ten years to another time and place.

  “You don’t have to put all this effort into my friends, you know,” I say coming up behind Sylvie to wrap my arms around her after I find her preparing what looks like a small feast in the penthouse kitchen. I rub my face against her coarse crown braids. Liking the smell of her hair, if not the smell of the plantains she is slicing.

  “See, this is the difference between Americans and Jamaicans. If a Jamaican boyfriend invites his best friends to his house and his girlfriend makes nothing, there will be big problems, let me tell you now.”

  “But my friends aren’t Jamaican,” I point out. And despite the many cultural differences between myself and my former suitemates, I know one thing for sure. “None of them expect you to cook.”

  “But I want to cook,” she confesses. “It helps me feel not so nervous. About announcing what we plan to do today…you know?”

  No, I do not know. I’m Holt Calson. People don’t make me nervous. Only Sylvie. Which is why I need Luca to get here fast—not just to accompany us to the courthouse, but to provide me with something—anything—to calm my shaking hands.

  I had intended to stay sober today, even though I had to go outside. But my hands started to shake this morning, so bad I couldn’t shave like I told Sylvie I would before the ceremony.

  I needed something. “Anything,” I texted Luca earlier. But he hadn’t arrived yet, and I am on my third beer, trying to stave off the withdrawal symptoms. If I am being honest, I am more nervous than Sylvie, but my reasons aren’t nearly as innocent as hers. And that nervousness makes me text Luca a second time, “Where the hell are you, man?” before I grab another beer.

  Wes raises his voice and my memory shatters. I quicken my pace toward the kitchen and the reason for Wes’s shouting soon becomes evident.

  And now it’s not nervousness I feel seated on one side of my desk while Sylvie takes a seat on the other. We have moved the conversation to a more formal setting after sending the boys to Wes’s room. But it’s not forma
l enough. As angry as I am at her, I can’t stop remembering what happened the last time we were here in my office together. How I accepted her proposal with a physical contract signed, sealed, and delivered on this very desk.

  Maybe Sylvie is thinking about it, too. Because she is perched uncomfortably on her chair as if her jeans and t-shirt aren’t giving her enough coverage. She’s right about that. After a whole week of not having her in my bed, seeing her in simple clothes has turned my dick to hot stone in my pants.

  But I focus on my anger instead. “Not only did you not bother to show up at my room for a week straight, you are planning to quit, too?”

  “I am not planning to quit,” she answers calmly. “This conversation right here serves as my official two weeks notice.”

  I shake my head at her. “Don’t you ever get tired of running, little rabbit?”

  “I am not running,” she insists.

  “Yes, you are,” I insist right back. “You’ve been running from the start of our relationship. It is as if running is your answer to everything. Is there a problem? Time to scurry!”

  I can tell I hit a mark because for a few seconds, Sylvie’s normally placid face twists with anger. Like it did in the restaurant bathroom last week. But then she catches herself.

  “Holt, I am not here to argue with you,” her voice is tight with the effort it must take her to stay calm. “I am giving you my two weeks notice, and that is the end of it.”

  I stare at her for a cold, blank second before saying, “I assume you have found a new job. Behind my back.”

  She clamps her lips closed before admitting, “Yes, and I am sorry this is how you have to find out about it. I planned to write you a letter—”

  “Who is it with?”

  She pauses, then says, “It is a very exciting opportunity for me to learn and grow while I pursue my Masters at CIT.”

  “Who’s it with?” I repeat, wanting a name so I can tank this “opportunity” of hers.

  “And of course I’ll be training Mika, who I believe you already met,” she continues as if I’ve said nothing. “She is recently widowed and has a young son. He is six, but I think Wes will enjoy having someone who looks up to him the way he looks up to Barron. For these reasons and more, I truly believe Wes will be in excellent hands.”