The CEO, the Puppy and Me

by Jennifer Faye

  “Hey, guys.” Gia smiled. In fact, she couldn’t stop smiling.

  Bianca smiled back. “I guess we don’t have to ask how this is going to work out.”

  “We came to our senses,” Gia said.

  “Yes, we did,” Ric chimed in with one arm holding Gin while his other arm was around Gia’s waist.

  The only one not smiling was Enzo. “I suppose this means you’ll be going back to Lapri with Ric.”

  Gia turned a questioning gaze to Ric. “We hadn’t talked about it yet, but there is this beautiful seaside villa that I’d love to finish fixing up.” And then a worrisome thought came to her. She met Ric’s gaze. “That is, unless you sold it.”

  He shook his head. “I saw the way you looked at it. I knew it right away, even if I wasn’t ready to accept the fact that it would one day be our home.”

  Gin barked in agreement.

  She turned back to Enzo. “Looks like you’ve won the estate.”

  Her brother didn’t smile.

  “Yeah,” Bianca chimed in. “You won’t have us butting into the business. You can change things to the way you want them.”

  “But if you want to keep them the same,” Gia said, “both Michael and Rosa can take over the hotel aspect.”

  “And Sylvie is marvelous at planning weddings,” Bianca added.

  “It just won’t be the same,” Enzo said.

  Who’d have thought their strong, unemotional brother would have a hard time with them both leaving? Gia felt guilty for being so excited about this new direction in her life.

  “I’m sorry,” Gia said.

  “I am too,” Bianca said. “We don’t mean to leave you all alone here. But we’ll be back to visit. Won’t we?” Bianca’s gaze moved to Gia.

  “Yes, we will. In fact, we’ll be here so much that you’ll get sick of us.”

  Enzo shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I just want you two to be happy. It’s what our parents would have wanted.”

  “We want the same thing for you.” Gia handed Ric the puppy.

  She walked up to Enzo and hugged him. Bianca joined them. At last the tension was gone and they were back to being themselves.

  When they pulled back, Gia returned to Ric’s side and took the squirming puppy from him. She turned back to her brother. “What are you going to do with the villa now that it’s all yours?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll give it some thought when I fly to Paris. I’m attending a wine competition.”

  “That sounds exciting.” Gia smiled, hoping her brother would do the same.

  He did, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  Enzo was about to head off on his own journey, and she wished him the very best. She knew change came with its own sets of bumps and unexpected turns. She was sure when it was all over, he would be happy to be the sole owner of the estate. Their father would be proud to have Enzo in charge. Somehow, she had the feeling things were going to work out just the way they were supposed to.

  She returned to Ric’s side. Oh, yes, they were definitely working out just right.

  Then Ric leaned over to her and whispered in her ear, “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  * * *

  If you missed the previous story in The Bartolini Legacy duet, check out

  The Prince and the Wedding Planner

  And look out for the next book coming soon!

  If you enjoyed this story, look out for these other great reads from Jennifer Faye

  Her Christmas Pregnancy Surprise

  Wearing the Greek Millionaire’s Ring

  Claiming the Drakos Heir

  Carrying the Greek Tycoon’s Baby

  All available now!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Billionaire’s Island Bride by Donna Alward.

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  The Billionaire’s Island Bride

  by Donna Alward

  CHAPTER ONE

  BROOKLYN GRAVES HEARD the whomp-whomp-whomp of helicopter rotors and rolled her eyes, then let out a long breath as she turned her back on the cliff and followed its progress.

  The wind off the ocean whipped her hair around her face and she shoved it back with a hand, tucking it behind her ears, where it stayed for all of about ten seconds before it was loose and blowing around again. She shaded her eyes and stared at the red-and-white chopper as it arced over her corner of the island and then headed toward the grand house and the helipad there.

  She’d known this day was coming. Ernest Chetwynd had finally sold the island, and an American had bought it. If the ostentatious aerial arrival was anything to go by, Cole Abbott was going to be a real piece of work. Money to throw around on private islands, and an ego to match.

  The sound faded, muffled by the rhythmic roar of the waves crashing on the rocks below. Ernest, who had been the one to build the landing pad, had occasionally had a helicopter chartered. He’d taken her up once, on her birthday, and given her a tour of the Nova Scotia south shore. It had been so different seeing it from the air, all the rugged rocks and islands and sandy beaches. And utterly harmless, since Ernest had been at least seventy-five at that time. He was lonely, and she and Ernest had been friends of a sort. There’d certainly been mutual respect, making her presence on the island quite secure.

  His big mansion had once housed him and his wife, and then quite often their children and grandchildren. After Marietta’s death, everything had changed. Ernest went to see his kids instead. The house—all twelve thousand square feet of it—was too much for an aging bachelor, even though he’d hired Brooklyn to care for the grounds and he had a housekeeper come over from the mainland once a week.

  As long as Ernest had owned the island, Brooklyn had been safe. She owned the southeast corner, a wonderful acreage passed down by her great-grandparents, and which provided her with solitude and peace and an amazing atmosphere to make a living. Her little boat ensured that she could get back and forth to the mainland whenever she wanted. And she did, often. For supplies and visits with friends. But always, Bellwether Island had been there for her to retreat to. Her safe haven.

  Which was now spoiled by the new owner, who was ostentatiously arriving by chopper, now that crews had ferried his things from the mainland to the island and delivered them to the grand house on the bluff. She’d started calling him Mr. Fancy Man in her head.

  In short, she was not happy about this new development, even though she’d known it was bound to happen. Ernest couldn’t hold on forever, and she’d hoped one of his kids would take it over. But none of them wanted it—not the isolation of being the only occupants of the island, nor the upkeep. Just some American billionaire who wanted to add it to his list of...well, whatever. Accomplishments? Possessions? It didn’t matter.

  She let out another breath and started the walk back to the house. The sound of the waves faded, though the wind still tossed her hair around. She stopped at the vegetable garden behind the century-old house. The garden was nearly done now, in mid-September. It had been a good summer, a little dry, perhaps, but with enough rain to fill Brooklyn’s water tanks for when Mother Nature needed a little help. She’d spent every summer here as a kid, running over the island, swimming on the beach and helping her grandmother with gardening and canning while her grandfather fished. There’d been a hammock between two spruce trees, and she’d spent hours there curled up with a book. Almost every good memory she had of her childhood was tied to this island. It was why, when everything in her life fell horrifically apart, she’d come back. To the place where she’d last felt safe and happy. And here she’d stayed
.

  Now that peaceful existence was threatened. Because exactly one week ago, on the day that Cole Abbott took possession of Bellwether Island, she’d received an offer from his attorney, attempting to buy her out.

  One she’d rejected immediately. The truth was, despite the gorgeous mansion and spectacular setting, living here wasn’t always easy. Popping to the store for a last-minute item couldn’t happen. Going out to dinner took planning, taking the weather and tides into account. And in the winter, it was downright isolating. She’d bet a hundred bucks that Abbott would be gone once he’d sat through his first January northeaster. And then she wouldn’t have to worry about him, except for maybe a few months of the year. The shine would certainly wear off his new toy.

  She just had to do what she always did: persevere.

  * * *

  Cole hopped out of the helicopter and reached back for his duffel bag. With a wave to the pilot, he ran from the helipad toward the house. He was nearly to the back garden when the chopper lifted off again and started back toward mainland Nova Scotia.

  He was finally here.

  In a few days, work crews would ferry over and begin the renovations he had planned, and in early October, his first corporate retreat was booked, from one of his own companies. The executives were scheduled to stay four days, for rest, rejuvenation and an informal sharing of ideas while they unplugged.

  During this event, there would be no Wi-Fi provided. His team would enjoy top-notch dining, an on-site gym, the hot tub, and the sound of the ocean. An antidote to the high-pressure lives they led and a way to keep them from burning out and to remind them of why they loved their careers.

  He wished he’d had such a thing not so long ago.

  The keys to his house were in his pocket, but he put his bag by the door and then ventured down to the beach. It wasn’t large—maybe two hundred feet of sandy shoreline that gave way to rocks, but it was enough. The September day was warm, and he took off his shoes and socks and rolled up the cuffs of his jeans, letting his toes squidge in the sand. Wind blew the short strands of his hair off his face, and he drew the salt air into his lungs. Ten extra steps led him to the water, where the cold Atlantic fizzed over his toes. The breakers washed over his ankles, splashing a little and dampening his jeans. But he didn’t care.

  Having his Realtor best friend, Jeremy, find this place was the answer to a prayer.

  Cole let out a breath and pulled in another. And another. A year ago he’d found himself on a dangerous path. One that mimicked his father’s, including a cardiac episode that had scared him to death. He didn’t want to end like his dad, dead at fifty-one—or thirty-five—from a heart attack because he’d been a workaholic.

  Work hard, play hard. That was what Jeremy and Bran had always said about him. He never did anything halfway. Maybe not. He did tend to commit fully to something when he took it on. But in this case, it wasn’t about achieving. It was about living.

  He dawdled in the water for nearly an hour, before heading back to the house and finally going inside.

  It was a cavernous edifice for one person: twelve thousand square feet of understated luxury. There was a not-too-big garage, but it was enough to house a golf cart for getting around the island, and maintenance machinery, like the small tractor for mowing the grass and various garden implements. And a snow blower. He shivered, thinking about how bleak it would be here in the middle of a winter storm. And yet...there was something comforting about being snug inside while the outside was wild and untamed. He certainly couldn’t live here year round. He still had responsibilities. At thirty-five, retirement wasn’t an option. He still ran his father’s empire of manufacturing companies, and he needed that challenge. But he was less hands-on than he used to be, delegating far more responsibility. His hope was to spend maybe a third of the year here, overseeing the corporate retreat business, and two thirds back in Manhattan, home of the headquarters of Abbott Industries.

  His things were already in the room he’d chosen for himself, a large suite facing southeast, with windows overlooking the beach and down the island, where the roof of the farmhouse was just visible among the trees. He put down his duffel and went to the window. Brooklyn Graves. That was the name of the woman who lived there, the one who refused to sell her parcel of land. It complicated things, in his mind. They shared access to the dock, which wasn’t really sufficient to his needs, and she owned the boathouse at the tip of the island. He’d hired a husband and wife to be caretakers here, and right now they had to be housed in the apartment above the garage. It would be far better if they could live in the farmhouse and have their own real home.

  If only stubborn Ms. Graves would sell. What on earth was a single woman doing living on an island twelve months of the year, anyway?

  He knew little about her, except that she ran some sort of cottage industry—had Jeremy mentioned knitting or something?—from her home and that her family had lived on the island for generations. He would have to put on the charm and visit, make her come around. She sounded like the type to offer him tea and scones. Knitting? She was probably someone’s reclusive aunt, too stubborn to move. It might take all his powers of persuasion.

  He didn’t really want to, but he figured he should introduce himself as soon as possible. The longer he put it off, the more awkward it was bound to become. Chances were his reception would be chilly, anyway.

  With a last look out the window, he turned away and went back downstairs, and out the front door this time. He’d just walk down to meet her and break the ice. He wouldn’t even mention selling. Not yet.

  The front gardens were beautiful. The grass was neatly trimmed, and there were still flowers, yellow and red and rusty-colored ones, brightening the beds. Further along, past the manicured lawns, the landscape was wilder. One either side of the lane was waving grass and thick bunches of goldenrod and light purple wild asters. Most of the trees were evergreens, with very little hardwood, but here and there he saw birches and maples. The leaves on the birches were starting to yellow, but the maples were still green and vibrant. The walk took maybe only ten, fifteen minutes, tops, but it was a beautiful one.

  The farmhouse came into view and he stopped for a moment, struck by the sight of it. It was old and rambling, but well kept, with freshly painted spindles on the veranda and potted flowers on the stained steps. There was nothing special about it really; the outside was white, with no fancy trim or shutters, but it was charming and cozy and like something he expected to see on an old-time greeting card. All that was missing was—

  A bark sounded and a retriever bounded from around the corner of the house, straight toward him. Apparently a dog wasn’t missing from the picture, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the homey scene. Eyes bright and tongue lolling happily, the dog ran up to him and immediately rubbed against his legs, looking for pats.

  Cole couldn’t help obliging. He loved dogs. Not that he’d ever had one growing up.

  “Who’s a good boy?” He rubbed the dog’s head and then laughed when the dog dropped to the grass and rolled over, showing his belly. Cole willingly knelt down and gave him a belly rub, chuckling at the obvious enjoyment of the pooch as he rolled his back this way and that, legs in the air. Dogs were just so pure in everything they did. No agendas. Unlike himself...

  “Marvin, come.”

  The female voice jolted him from his thoughts and he stood, leaving Marvin on his back with his paws up. A clap from the owner of the voice had the dog jumping up and shaking all over, then trotting back to his human’s side.

  Cole’s brain momentarily emptied. All the opening lines he’d imagined flew straight out of his head and away on the ocean breeze. He’d expected someone middle-aged or older. A...spinster. Not a thirtyish woman with hair the color of peanut butter, wearing skinny jeans, boots, and a sweater that nipped in at her waist and hugged her hips.

  This was Brooklyn Grav
es?

  “You’re Mr. Abbott.”

  He realized he’d been standing there for long seconds and saying absolutely nothing. He nodded, then moved forward and held out his hand. “Yes, Cole Abbott. It’s good to finally meet.”

  More than good. Wow.

  She didn’t smile as she shook his hand. As he got closer he noticed that a few freckles dotted her nose, and her eyes were a clear, clear blue. Her hand was warm and strong, and he felt a few rough spots at the base of her fingers. Calluses? Interesting.

  She dropped his hand and stepped back. “What can I do for you, Mr. Abbott?”

  “Please, call me Cole.” He tried a warm smile, but it didn’t appear to be getting him anywhere. “We’re neighbors, after all.”

  She gave a shrug with one shoulder. “Well, I know you’d like to change that, so I’ll be as clear as I can. I’m not interested in selling my house or acreage.”

  Cole took a few moments to gather himself before responding. In the end, he tried a small smile. “I got your reply, Ms. Graves. I truly did just come down to say hello. The island will be pretty small if we aren’t on speaking terms.”

  “Tell me you don’t want to buy me out and we can be the best of friends.” She put her hands on her hips, and Marvin the dog sat at her feet, the soul of loyalty and obedience.

  He couldn’t lie to her. For one, he got the sneaky suspicion she’d see right through it. For another, lying always came back to bite him in the butt.

  Instead he put away his “let’s be friends” face, choosing instead a more businesslike manner. “I’ll be honest. I would like to buy your property.” He figured it wouldn’t hurt to sweeten the pot. “What I’m prepared to offer can set you up somewhere very nicely.”

  His initial offer had been for three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The house would likely need renovations and the dock definitely needed work. It had been...reasonable.