Mister Billions: A Small Town Enemies-to-Lovers Fake Marriage Billionaire Romance

by Miller, Cassie-Ann L.

  But my eyes bounce from Jessa's nervous body language to the menacing expression of the man in the armchair and I know what I have to do.

  On a sigh, I shrug out of my cardigan and hang it on the back of a counter stool. “Let me take a look. I might be able to fix it,” I volunteer.

  I elbow Todd out of the way and he glances at me with wide eyes. "What are you doing, Lexi?"

  This wouldn’t be the first time someone has doubted my skills. I don't exactly look like a handy kind of gal. But I don't mind proving people wrong. Just last Thursday, I fixed Mr. Patel’s copy machine at the office supply store. And when the microphones fritzed out at the Frosty Pitcher two weeks ago, I'm the one who rewired the entire system in the middle of karaoke night. Despite my best efforts to do the whole posh, sophisticated boutique owner thing, I always find myself rolling up my sleeves and getting dirty, especially when it serves someone I care about.

  I give Todd a smile. "My father could fix this kind of machine with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back." Even while wading through one of his alcohol-induced fogs. "Turns out I learned a few valuable lessons from Daddy Dearest." Despite his earnest efforts to be a useless troll every day of the week. I stretch a hand out to the manager. "Give me the screwdriver and step away from the machine."

  Todd looks to my sister who nods in confirmation. He reluctantly settles the screwdriver in my palm.

  "Thank you, Lexi," he whispers, beads of nervous sweat glistening on his forehead. "You're saving my ass."

  My heart tightens with sympathy. "Hey..." I say in a soft voice, lowering my face to catch his eyes. "I can fix the machine. It's gonna be okay."

  He nods slightly, inhaling so hard it makes his paprika-red mustache flutter with relief.

  "Now, go find me a toolbox in case I need some pliers." I hip-check him out of the way.

  "Yes, ma'am." He does a mock-salute.

  "I'm taking my coffee free, by the way," I call out. "Those frothy fuckers are expensive."

  Grinning, he gives me a thumbs up of approval right before he and my sister disappear into the back room.

  As I'm carefully unscrewing the backplate of the coffee machine, the intriguing stranger's conversation takes over the empty room.

  "The stock price will plummet," the person on the other end of the call announces at an ear-splitting volume.

  The sexy devil bites into his bagel, totally undisturbed. "I'll eat the loss."

  "The shareholders will be up in arms! The company will be in bankruptcy protection before the end of the fiscal year!"

  "Not my problem."

  "Spite is not a responsible investment strategy."

  "Since when is revenge based on logic? I’m a self-made man, Frank. I’m not beholden to the board of directors or anybody else for that matter. I won’t live my life in a snake den. Period.”

  Day-um. Mr. Jerkface is pissed. I feel profound sympathy for the soul who wronged this man.

  Straining to listen in on the conversation, I'm not exactly paying attention to what I'm doing. The person on the other line continues trying to reason with him but the poor man's arguments are futile. Jerkface isn't having it.

  I throw a look at the scoundrel sprawled in the armchair like a throne, legs spread wide, one elbow propped on the arm. Attention skimming the newspaper as he barks commands into the phone.

  I glare openly. Who the hell does he think he is, ordering people around like that?

  The machine wheezes, snapping me back to the moment. Brown liquid splatters the front of my white camisole. Surprised, I yip. I stare down at myself not sure how much more abuse my outfit can take.

  So much for today's business world domination plans.

  The man glances my way and gives me another irritated look before averting his attention back to the phone call. “Just get it done.” He barks. He ends the call, slamming the device down hard. His jaw twitches and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

  I power up the coffee machine. When I hear the steamy drips of liquid splash into my mug, I smile and screw the backplate back on. To celebrate my success, I brew myself a big-ass cappuccino. I finish it off with a dash of cinnamon. Oh yes!

  When I take a long sip, I don’t fight the moan that leaves my lips. I’m shameless, not even quiet about it. I glance at the impatient customer and I’m positive he's shaking with annoyance.

  He glares in my direction. His eyes then flit around the counter, and I imagine he’s looking for Jessa to serve him some of this caffeine goodness. If he weren't such a pompous jerkface, I’d happily help him out. But, again, assholes don't deserve the good coffee.

  After a momentary standoff, he drops his eyes back to his paper.

  “Waiting a few minutes for a cup of coffee must be a real hardship, huh?”

  It’s provocation to poke the bear but Jessa is my frigging sister. I do not just stand by and watch the people I love get verbally manhandled. That’s not my style.

  The patron doesn’t even bother to look up from his newspaper. “Is it unreasonable for a customer to expect efficient service from a business where they’re expending funds?” The growly tones of his voice rumble down my spine and resonate inside my panties.

  I shake off the unwelcome visceral reaction and clear my throat. “It’s unreasonable for a customer to be a jerk just because a struggling small business is having a machine malfunction.”

  “If a coffee shop can’t manage to sell me a cup of coffee without having to declare a national state of emergency, then that pretty much sums up why it’s a struggling business.”

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, but…” I take a step closer and lower my voice like I'm trying to clue him in on a conspiracy theory, “No amount of money entitles you to boss people around like that.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “True fact,” I deadpan, my tone as dry as a cheddar cracker. And just as salty.

  A scowl pinches the corners of his mouth as he casually flips a page on his stupid newspaper. He slowly scans the page and then flips again, on to the next one.

  The asshole deliberately makes me wait.

  My blood is simmering. Come on—I read that paper daily, and even I can admit it’s not exactly hard hitting.

  After a decade-long pause, he speaks again.

  “And what do you suggest I do about the subpar customer service in this establishment?”

  I twit back a sharp response. “How about exercising some patience? Some understanding? Some friggin' compassion? Just because you've probably got a million dollars in the bank doesn't mean you get to boss everyone around.”

  Finally, the arrogant jerk glances up. Those scalding caramel irises threaten to melt my kneecaps from right under me. “I've got a billion dollars, sweetheart…In fact, more than just one.”

  My chest twinges. My lips move wordlessly as shock dings through my system. I have exactly zero words to follow up that billion-dollar comment. Good lord. Billions...? Of dollars...? The guy can't be much older than thirty. Aren't billionaires old and bald and crusty?

  But then again, billionaires probably have access to the good Botox and all those unicorn milk beauty masks the rest of us never hear about.

  He rolls back the sleeves of his shirt to reveal dark ink covering his strong forearms. “Tell me, Stormy. Are you the official crusader for justice around here, or can I expect to hear from the higher-ups at some point over the next few days?”

  I try to stop myself from moving closer but I just can't. “Just a concerned citizen issuing a friendly warning...Here in Crescent Harbor, the locals don't take kindly to pompous assholes who stroll into town and act like they own the place."

  “Is that so?” With a subtle twitch of his eyebrow, the man leans back in the beaten-up leather armchair. He crosses his arms over that broad chest. His palpable beast-energy is honed solely on me.

  Mimicking his body language, I fold my arms, too. “Just last week a group of seniors at the farmer's market chased of
f a big city douchebag with their walking sticks.”

  His laugh comes from all the way down in the cobwebby basement of his dark, dark soul. But the way it lights up his face is almost mystical. It puts a row of perfect enamel on display. His eyes narrow to crinkly, dazzling slits and his thick Adam’s apple bobs. “I’m terribly broken to have missed that.”

  I find myself smiling, too.

  I have to deliberately remind myself that I’m trying to be mad at this guy.

  It should be easy.

  I should find him ridiculous. I mean, what's more pretentious than suspenders? Oh, that's right—a man bun.

  Plus, he’s got sesame seeds on his mouth. Come on!

  But there's something about the way the whole package comes together. Sesame seeds and all. It's masculine and rugged and impossible to ignore.

  Our gazes merge for another long, twinkling silence. He’s got me pinned in place by those powerful caramel eyes. Sticky and melting me from the inside.

  On the outside, I don’t flinch. I hold steady eye contact like a champ. Like a woman who can take on a king and bring him to his knees.

  His phone bleats on the table beside him. From where I stand, I can see the gorgeous face and a head of bleach-blonde hair that lights up his screen.

  His expression shifts. A tidal wave of hurt crashes across his handsome features.

  The man drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. My curiosity spikes and I assess him, more closely this time. That's when I notice it—beneath the layer of brash confidence and self-importance—I see the fatigue. The weariness in his rounded shoulders, a tiny chink of weakness in his powerful façade.

  Suddenly, I find myself wondering if there’s more to this asshole. There has to be more to this asshole.

  But when he lifts his face to mine, all traces of vulnerability are gone. His voice goes flat. "Well, thanks for the civics lesson, Stormy." He glides a hand into his pocket and glances quickly at a ratty, old wristwatch with a broken strap. "I'll keep all that in mind."

  He rises abruptly from his seat just as Jessa emerges from the back room. Relief washes my sister's features when she sees that the espresso machine is in working order. She hurries to fill an extra-small to-go cup for the petulant customer.

  Mr. Billions snaps his fingers at the barista like she’s nothing more than a poorly-trained dog. I bite back the insult at the tip of my tongue as Jessa rushes across the room, looking equal parts terrified and hypnotized.

  “Sir, I am so, so sorry about the wait," she says as she places the paper cup in his hand. “M-my manager says it's on the house. We couldn't possibly expect you to pay after all that inconvenience.”

  His towering height amplifies his intimidating aura a thousand times over. He levels my poor sister with a chilly glare that could give a penguin frostbite. A growly noise escapes his throat. “Damn right, I'm not paying for the coffee.”

  My forehead tightens painfully on a sharp frown. The nerve of that man. He brags about being a gazillionaire, and then he jumps at the first opportunity to worm his way out of paying for his coffee? That's why the rich get richer and all that shit.

  He digs into his back pocket again. And this time, he produces a fat wad of cash pinched together by a solid gold money clip. Broke as I am, my throat goes dry watching him yank out a hundred dollar bill and fling it onto the table like it’s nothing more than a used paper napkin.

  He addresses Jessa. "For the bagel." Then, he throws me a challenging look. “And for the… attitude? My apologies.” One corner of his mouth curls up into a barely-there smirk, silently daring me to say something.

  For once, I keep my mouth zipped. My throat is too parched for words anyway.

  Must be nice, being able to fling hundred dollar bills at lowly peasants to buy your way off the shit list.

  Jessa stutters, obviously stunned to have earned such a hefty tip. “Th-thank you, s-sir.”

  Her face is an unflattering shade of red, but the gorgeous rascal probably doesn’t notice because his defiant stare is still on me. His caramel eyes glint victoriously at my speechlessness. He leans close to my ear and his gravel-velour voice teases the hollow of my belly. “Don’t let that smart mouth get you in trouble today, Stormy.”

  He steps back, slowly swiping his tongue across his lips, sweeping those sesame seeds away.

  I can't help but imagine him using that tongue somewhere...else. “Will you quit calling me ‘Stormy’? My name is—”

  “Didn’t ask,” he cuts me off mercilessly.

  My jaw drops loose like a trapdoor. This man’s curtness stuns me silent. His severe stare pauses on my mouth for a half-second. Heat whips through me, head to toe, as he coolly turns and saunters out the exit. All the air gets sucked out with him.

  Jessa slaps a hand over her chest and sighs audibly. “You two are gonna have the hottest, sweatiest animal sex. Mark my words.”

  I can barely hear my breathless whisper above the roaring of my heart. “Shut up, Jessa.”

  4

  Cannon

  The headquarters of Kingston' Realty Holdings is a half-block down from that sad excuse for a coffee shop. I push through the finger-smudged glass door.

  The messy, little creature with the big, sassy attitude is still on my mind.

  She's loud, opinionated, annoying as hell. Sauntering around town at eight in the morning looking like she just got flung off a mechanical bull. And she expects people to take her seriously?

  But why the hell am I still thinking about her? And more importantly, what's with this stupid grin on my face?

  It’s been a while since anyone’s stood up to me. When I get into asshole mode—like I admittedly was at the coffee shop—people usually cower away. But she refused to back down. She challenged me. She called me on my foul-ass attitude. That takes fallopian fortitude.

  And tits on a teddy bear—I think I like it.

  A part of me is impressed. And fascinated. And curious to know more about her.

  Another part of me says don’t even think about it.

  Taming that wild woman would be a project and quite frankly, I have enough shit on my plate. She's nothing but a distraction, which is exactly what I don't need.

  I move across the lobby of Kingston Realty Holdings and something feels...off.

  Although my family’s business has evolved into a veritable empire over the nearly five decades that it's been in operation, this building itself has always been modest. My grandfather has always been a simple man. Low-key. Committed to his small town roots. But currently, the building is more than just 'understated'. It's rundown.

  There's a thick layer of dust covering the abandoned security desk and the shrivelling potted plants are begging for hydration. I nearly face-plant when I trip on a mop-bucket forgotten in the middle of the elevator.

  I shake off any lingering thoughts of my confrontation with that saucy woman from the coffee shop and I let myself into the office suite on the top floor. I flip on light switches as I travel down the hallway. The place smells musty. And sad. Thank god Gramps stopped coming into the office years ago. He'd be appalled.

  I fall into a chair at the conference table and the sound of my ass hitting the cracked leather seat practically echos throughout the entire suite. That's how quiet the place is.

  I pull out my beat up watch with the broken leather strap and double-check the time. The gears of the business world begin grinding at eight. Hell, that's when the grunt work starts. But if you're the boss, your ass better be in your swiveling chair before seven. Yet, my father is nowhere in sight.

  By the time eight-thirty rolls around, I’ve only encountered three other humans here at Kingston Realty Holdings. My father's grouchy secretary, Sally, an ancient realtor who's just killing time until he qualifies to collect his retirement package and some guy who was taking a nap next to an empty box of corn chips at the staff room table.

  My family owns the largest real estate company in the tri-county area, having sn
atched up almost ninety percent of the commercial realty in town. I spent most of my childhood here, watching Gramps teach my father the ropes so that he could one day carry on the Kingston family legacy. The place was always bustling with activity. Lease renewals. Tenant applications. New property acquisitions. Dull moments were few and far between.

  But today? Today, I haven’t heard a single phone ring. Through the conference room glass, I’ve got a clear view of the entire floor, and the whole mood is just fucking depressing.

  I tap at a few buttons on my phone and swivel my chair back and forth as it rings. My youngest brother, Jude, answers with a grunt and I hear the clinks and clanks of exercise equipment in the background.

  “Is there a holiday I don’t know about?” I ask as I slide on my reading glasses.

  Jude chuckles into the receiver. “I'm a professional athlete. What do I care what day it is? It's all the same to me.”

  My brother has a way of turning everything into a joke. He plays football for the Iowa Paragons and he thinks that gives him license to joke around all the time. And maybe it does. But after the type of morning I've had, I'm really not in the mood for Jude's flippant attitude right now.

  At the grumble that pours from my chest, He goes half-serious for long enough to ask. “What is it, Cannon? What do you want? I’m with my trainer right now and—”

  “Do you know what’s going on with Dad? And Kingston Realties? I’m at the office today, and things just feel...off.” I’m scrolling through the legal documents Frank emailed to me a few minutes ago. Efficient as always, my lawyer has already started compiling a detailed dossier on Carl’s assets. Mostly a list of rapidly depreciating consumer items. No real valuables. Nothing that will last in the long run. I plan to ruin it all anyway.

  I hear the confusion in my brother's voice when he asks, “You're in Crescent Harbor? What are you doing back? Is everything all right with you?”

  “Story for a different day," I mutter impatiently.

  "Wait, this isn't about Margot, is it?" He sounds suspicious. "The girl's been blowing up Twitter all morning with cryptic tweets about heartbreak and true love and billionaires with small dicks." His chortle rips across the staticky phone connection. "Smells like a breakup to me. Please, make me the happiest man alive and tell me that you finally dumped that lunatic."