by Meghan March
Copyright © 2015 by Meghan March LLC
All rights reserved.
Editor: Pam Berehulke, Bulletproof Editing
www.bulletproofediting.com
Cover design: @ By Hang Le
www.byhangle.com
Photo: @ Sara Eirew
www.saraeirew.com
Formatting by Champagne Formats
www.champagneformats.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com.
Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THIS BOOK
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
ALSO BY MEGHAN MARCH
AUTHOR'S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THIS BOOK
My wife.
I love saying those words.
She’s mine, and if she thinks I’m going to let her run without tracking her down and bringing her back to where she belongs—with me—then she’s about to be introduced to a new reality.
Because I’ll fight dirty to give her the happily-ever-after she deserves.
Dirty Together is the final book in The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy and should be read following Dirty Billionaire and Dirty Pleasures.
It takes a fabulous team to coax a spark of an idea along the twisty and crazy path to becoming a finished novel, and I’m lucky to have an amazing one.
Special thanks go out to:
Angela Smith of Grey Ghost Author Services, LLC, my amazing PA and best friend. It’s been a wild ride, but this is only the beginning. I’m so proud of you and blessed to have you in my life.
Angela Marshall Smith and Pam Berehulke, editors extraordinaire, for once again helping me deliver the best story I’m capable of writing.
Chasity Jenkins-Patrick, kick-ass publicist, for talking me off more than one ledge and always pushing me in the right direction.
Natasha Gentile, for being a fabulous beta reader. Love your messages, lady!
Sara Eirew for shooting a fab cover pic, and By Hang Le for the absolutely gorgeous cover design.
The Meghan March Runaway Readers Facebook group, for being the most fabulous collection of ladies I’ve had the pleasure of (virtually) meeting. Hope to hug you all at events soon!
All the book bloggers who take the time to read and review this and any of my other books. Your time and dedication are truly appreciated.
My readers—I’m infinitely grateful that you’ve picked up this book. Without you, I wouldn’t be living my dream.
I wait my turn at the single blinking red light in Gold Haven, Kentucky, and turn left before pulling into the gas station. This is the first place I ever pumped gas in my life. It was a lot cheaper then too. My Pontiac isn’t a whole lot nicer than the 1988 Fiero I drove back then, but in this town, it doesn’t stand out, and that’s exactly what I need. I tug on a trucker hat and slip on sunglasses before opening the door and climbing out.
The old pumps I expected, the ones where the numbers click over as you fill up, have been replaced with newer models.
Even better. It lowers the chance that someone will recognize me if I can avoid all human interaction.
I swipe my card, get my gas, and twist the gas cap back on. When I get back to Nashville, I’m finally going to look into replacing this car. I rarely splurge on anything.
Even though I won a “million-dollar recording contract” on Country Dreams, the amount I saw was laughable. Albums? They’re expensive as hell to produce. And as far as the pay I get per show when I’m on tour, after all the expenses are covered? It’s also nothing to write home about. But as my share of the ticket sales goes up and I build my fan base, that will eventually change.
But for now, I’m saving every penny I can and getting by on the bare minimum because I don’t know when the bottom will fall out.
Not much has changed about that since I married billionaire Creighton Karas. Thoughts of my husband spiral through me, followed by equal jabs of guilt and regret. I can’t believe I did it again. This morning I just up and walked out.
I don’t know what I was thinking beyond . . . if I didn’t get out of that penthouse at that very moment, I felt like something inside me was going to break. I had to get out of that city. I know I’m a coward and an idiot. No one has to tell me that because I’ve already called myself every name in the book.
I tear the receipt off and tuck it into my coat pocket before slipping back into my car. I turn the key.
Click.
I try it again.
Clunk.
Shit. I sigh, releasing a huge breath, and drop my forehead against the steering wheel.
This is karma, I’m pretty sure. This is what happens to women who leave their husbands—not once, but twice—without an actual explanation.
Crap. As much as I want to indulge in a pity party, now isn’t really the time.
I gather myself, haul my purse over my shoulder, and push the car door open again. This place used to provide full-service fill-ups, but they discontinued those about the time I was learning to drive—not that I would have paid the extra two cents a gallon for the luxury.
I check my trucker hat to make certain it’s secure before crossing the small lot and turning the corner to the side of the building where the garage bays are. Both overhead doors are closed, probably due to the howling wind, so I pull open the cloudy glass door and step inside the waiting room.
Creedence Clearwater Revival is jamming so loud you’d think you were standing right next to the stage at Woodstock. The cheap wood-paneled walls I remember from before have been replaced with metal diamond plating and spiffy blue paint that matches the outside of the building. The gas station has definitely gotten a makeover since the last time I was in town.
I ding the bell, but it can’t be heard over the ringing guitar riffs.
I don’t listen to enough CCR. But the fact that I could use a couple more upbeat songs takes second place to the fact that I need to have a vehicle that works, and there are no employees in sight here. I decide to take matters into my own hands and sneak behind the counter to the doorway that leads to the garage.
Inside, the smell of oil, exhaust, and rubber fills the air. Not unpleasant, but very real. It’s darker in here, so I pull my sunglasses off and balance them on the bill of my hat.
My attention snags on the man bent over, turning a wrench under the hood of a classic Mustang. He’s wearing coveralls tied around his waist, and a black thermal shirt stretches across his broad shoulders.
“Hey. Can I ask you a question?” My voice loses the battle against the volume of the music. “Hey!” I yell. Still no response.
I scan the room, locate the stereo, and march over to it. I slap my hand on the power button, and the music cuts off mid-lyric.
The man jerks up and turns to look toward the now silent stereo. “What the hell?” he barks, his eyes catching on me and staring intently. “Who the hell do you—”
“Sorry. You couldn’t hear me over the music.” I turn to face him fully, taking a few steps closer. I open my mouth to apologize again, but recognition sets in. “Logan Brantley?”
His narrowed eyes widen. “Holly Wickman. Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.” He pulls a rag from the back pocket of the coveralls and wipes his hands. He looks like he’s about to hold one out for me to shake, but looks down at it and frowns.
“Hold on a sec.” He turns on his heel and strides to the sink in the corner.
The scent of citrus cuts through the oil and exhaust, and I realize he’s scrubbing his hands clean before he offers me one. I’m not sure whether I’m embarrassed or flattered. After all, Logan Brantley was the premier bad boy of all bad boys, and I’ve crushed on him since I was old enough to crush on boys.
He never looked my way, though.
Older than me by a few years, he cruised around in his vintage Camaro like a badass, always with a different girl in the front seat. I was beneath his notice, and then he lit out of town as soon as they handed him a diploma. I had no idea he was back, and I can’t help but wonder how the years have treated him.
He finishes washing and comes back to me, the scent of orange clinging to him.
“Of all the gin joints . . . What the hell are you doing in my garage, Holly Wix?” He throws my stage name in this time, and the heat of embarrassment creeps up my neck.
I lick my lips, rough from the heat of my car blasting on them during the blur of a drive from Nashville. I turned my radio up nearly as loud as it would go and started belting out the lyrics to every country oldie I could find. Anything to distract me from thoughts of Creighton, and how he might have reacted when he found the note. The voice in my head that sounds like Mama says he’s just going to write me off this time.
“Holly?” Logan drags me back to the present.
“Sorry. I, um, my car won’t start. I was getting gas, and then I got back in and turned the key, and just nothing. Well, a click, but then nothing.” I snap my mouth shut when he grins, because I think he’s laughing at the fact that I’m babbling like an idiot.
“A click. Bad starter then, probably.” He cranes his head toward the overhead doors. Trying to see my car, maybe? “What kind of hot ride you got these days? I could see you in a Lexus. You always were classier than the other girls around here.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Me? Classy?”
I wore hand-me-downs from the ladies at church who had daughters a few years older than me until I was sixteen and moved up to shopping at the ultra-discount stores. Maybe he’s referring to the fact that I kept my boobs and butt covered, unlike some of the girls who scored that ride in his Firebird.
What’s he going to think when he gets a look at my Pontiac? I’m going to blow his Lexus theory right out of the water. I’m still the same Holly I was before; the fringe and glitter of Nashville haven’t changed me yet. Nor have the couple of weeks of being tied to Creighton’s billions.
Logan’s eyes fix on mine again. “Yeah, you. You’ve always been a class act. Although these days, I’m probably wrong about the Lexus. I bet you’re rollin’ in a Bentley.” His reference to Creighton’s money is impossible to miss, as is the slow, measuring look he gives me. “Yeah, I could see a Bentley suiting you just fine.”
I’m not sure why he’s so impressed. I’m wearing washed-out skinny jeans, a heather-blue thigh-length sweatshirt, a short black leather jacket, cowboy boots, and my trucker hat. Not exactly runway couture here.
“No Bentley. No Lexus.” Although Creighton has a chauffeur-driven Bentley, it’s not mine. So I might as well burst Logan’s bubble quickly.
He shrugs. “All-righty then. Let’s go see what we’re working with.”
I follow him out, almost slamming into his back when he stops short in front of the Pontiac.
“Please, woman, tell me that ain’t your ride.”
I pull my shoulders back and brazen it out. “Sorry it’s not up to your standards.”
He jerks his head to the side to get a look at me. “It ain’t up to your standards—that’s the problem.”
I shrug. “The high life isn’t always as glamorous as you’d think.”
He mutters something under his breath, and I don’t catch all of it. What I do catch sounds like sorry excuse for a husband.
“Keys?” He holds out a hand, and I drop them into it.
He has to adjust the seat way back before he can squeeze into the car. When he slides the key in the ignition and turns it, there’s nothing. Not even a click or a clunk.
“Um, there was a clunk too. After the click.”
“Yep. Starter or the solenoid’s shot. I can order one, but I won’t be able to get the part until Monday at the earliest. Maybe Tuesday.”
Considering it was going on five o’clock on Saturday, I wasn’t surprised by this.
“Okay. I really appreciate it.”
He climbs back out of the car. “Happy to help out the hometown girl who made good. I’ll get Johnny from the gas station to help me push it into the garage.”
“Thank you. Seriously. That’s one less thing to worry about then.” Except for how the hell I’m going to get to Gran’s, I add mentally.
I’m exhausted from the long day, but I pop the trunk anyway and haul out my bag. I round the car to the passenger side door and collect my purse. Hooking the strap over my shoulder, I shut the door and start around the hood.
Logan throws a hand out in a “stop” gesture. “What the hell are you doing?”
My eyes cut to his. “Going to Gran’s house.”
“On foot?”
“It’s not that far.”
“It’s cold as shit, and it’s at least three miles if it’s a step. You ain’t walking.”
I bristle at his pronouncement. Lord above, save me from alpha males.
“I’m not sure when you decided it was cool to make decisions for me, but I’m just going to do whatever the hell I want, thanks.”
“Holly, don’t be ridiculous.”
My temper flares hot and fierce. All thoughts of previous embarrassment are shoved right out the window.
“Do you not recognize the signs of a woman about to break? Because I’m hanging on by a thread here, and the last goddamn thing I need is another man telling me what I can or can’t do.” My voice has climbed an octave and a half by the time I finish snapping the words out.
“Whoa. Honey. Calm—”
“Don’t even . . .”
He holds up two hands in front of him, as if warding off the she-beast taking shape before him. “I’ll give you a ride. If you want.” He hastily tacks on that last bit, and I can feel my anger draining away as I agree.
“Okay. Thank you.”
Logan tugs my bag from my hand, and I don’t fight him. I’m whipped. Dog tired. Worn out. I just want to get to Gran’s so I can face-plant on what I hope to God are clean sheets, and hibernate for a few days.
We pull out of the service station in Logan’s big black jacked-up Chevy truck. The seats are dark gray leather, and it smells new. I scan the interior, looking for a dangling pine tree air freshener labeled New-Car Smell, but I don’t se
e one. The electronics are so fancy that I think it must be new. Apparently Logan Brantley is the one living large these days.
He flips on the radio—to a country station, of course—and heads out of “downtown” toward my gran’s. I do the mental quote-y fingers around “downtown” because it’s one blinking red light and four corners. Given that the people of Gold Haven, Kentucky, aren’t all that creative, they just refer to downtown as the Four Corners. There’s the beauty shop corner, the pharmacy/post office corner, the pub corner, and the service station corner. That’s the sum total of the Four Corners.
The radio DJ’s voice catches my attention when he says my name. My latest single comes on. I should be giddy over the fact that I’m getting airplay, but all I can manage right now is a slight smile. I didn’t come home to be Holly Wix.
Logan looks at me as if he’s expecting me to say something, so I mumble the first thing that comes to me. “Guess you know you’ve made it when you hear yourself on your hometown radio station.”
Logan shakes his head. “That’s satellite. Local station plays you all the damn time. Don’t play much else.”
“Oh.” The word comes out shaky.
He’s looking out the windshield when he says, “I always knew you’d make something of yourself. Glad you took your shot when you had the chance.” He glances sidelong at me before adding, “Even if it did put you out of my reach.”
I’m so blown away by the surreal situation I find myself in—back in Gold Haven, riding in Logan Brantley’s truck—that I can’t even fumble for a response.
Apparently Logan doesn’t mind, because he continues. “So, what the hell are you doing here, looking like you been rode hard and put up wet?”
I choke out a laugh and raise an eyebrow. “And here I thought you said I looked good.”
He smiles, glancing toward me again and then back at the road. “Oh, you do, but you look tired, strung out—and you’re short a husband.”
I ball up my left hand and cover the rock with my right palm. Here in Kentucky, it seems even more obscenely large.
“I just needed a break,” I say. “I needed to step away for a little while and sort some stuff out. By myself.”