by Kira Blakely
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Sample of Owned by the billionaire
A billionaire romance
Description
Sign on the dotted line...
When her eyes lock with mine from across the bar, it's game over.
She knows it. I know it.
Dark eyes, soft lips, and a banging body. Her heart-shaped a*s, framed perfectly in that black dress, makes me want to rip it off and fu*k her right there in the middle of the bar.
To touch in her ways I've never touched another. To taste her soft innocents.
She needs help. Help that puts me in the perfect position to have my true desires.
One-night stands are usually all I'm up for. But she's different. I want to keep her. I want to own her. Forever.
She needs my money and I need all of her.
She's bought and paid for. But will one night be enough?
1
Renowned chef and all-around badass Kennedy Grant didn’t feel like a badass, not now. She was used to pressure. Being the executive chef at LeClaue in Chicago trained her to be an expert under pressure. But the pile of unpaid bills taunting her from the corner of her desk had her stressed the fuck out. She stretched her arms over her head, listening to the creak of her bones. She’d been locked in the back office of her diner for the past three hours, diving through countless pieces of paperwork, trying to avoid the large pile of bills. They’d been stacking up for months, becoming an endless nag in her life. She had nightmares about them, waking with sweat pouring down her forehead.
When, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, she’d first purchased the Penny Diner, her lifeblood, her reason for “getting up in the morning,” the previous owner had proclaimed it to be “ready and able” for all her design needs. What a crock of shit. Months later, she’d realized that what was hidden behind the walls was not as promised. She’d had a vision for the place; a vision of a bright and sunny interior, with tons of windows, an espresso machine, and with countless paintings, all from residents and artists in the area. However, after realizing that the man she’d bought the building from had lied to her purposefully, not telling her about the out-of-date plumbing and electrical that needed to be brought up to code. Once remodeling began and things were being unearthed, the problems started to mount. First, the plumbing and electrical, then the stove, the vent hood, the oven. She’d known some of these things needed replacements, but she couldn’t have foreseen all. The money she’d saved up had quickly withered away, despite her best-laid plans. Exhausted, staring at bill after bill, she wondered when her life was going to crumble around her.
Frustrated, she spun from her office chair and marched toward the office door, peering out the eye-level small window. Outside, in the dining room, she watched as three older women hovered together over their table, their half-eaten pie before them, and their gossip flowing evenly. Kennedy smiled half-heartedly, remembering why she’d dreamed of starting a diner to begin with. She was an amazing chef at her old job, but chef hours sucked and there was no sense of community being locked away in the back of a restaurant. This diner allowed her to build a sense of community, a world just outside of the Chicago city limits where people could commune over cups of coffee, world-class burgers, signature fries, and many award-winning slices of pie. That’s what all the bills went toward. That’s why she worked so hard.
Her busboy, Amos, lifted the empty plates from tables after the lunch rush, winking toward Kennedy, who he could see peeping out of the office window. Amos was a teenager, a local boy who played basketball at the local high school. With his wicked smile, Kennedy knew he was a heartbreaker, someone who never had to search too hard for a date to prom. She was helping him, giving him this job. He wanted to save for college.
“I have bigger plans than this little place,” Amos had told her once. “I want to be a billionaire.”
“Good luck with that,” Kennedy had said, laughing, heavy with the burden of financial difficulties “None of us become billionaires. Not really.”
“You’ll see,” Amos had said, his eyes flashing.
Remembering this, she pressed her lips together, feeling panic race through her. She wasn’t even thirty, and it already felt as if her dreams had come to a dramatic halt. As a kid, growing up in her tiny small town in Indiana, just a few hours from Chicago, she’d dreamed of moving closer to the city and opening a tiny restaurant like this. And now, as she eyed the bills before her, the image of her childhood bedroom appeared in her mind, brighter, with more resolution. If she didn’t make it at the diner, she’d be forced to close, to move back home. She’d lose the small life she’d built for herself. And that destruction would all but kill her.
Amos rapped his knuckles on the door, and Kennedy perked her head up, trying to eliminate any sign of her sadness. She grinned. “Come in!” she called.
“Just doing payroll stuff,” Kennedy lied, swiping her hair behind her ears. “You should toss your apron in the laundry. I have to do a load of other uniforms as well. Why don’t you knock off the rest of the day? I don’t want you to smell like burgers for your date.”
Amos grinned at her and turned away, back toward the sunny daydream of the dining room. It was July, and the air conditioner was cranking, trying to combat the Chicago heat. Kennedy watched him whirl from the diner, leaving the clean, gleaming tables, and Monica, the single waitress who remained from lunch shift.
Monica waved at her, stocking her wallet with the cash she’d made in tips. “Hey, there,” she said. “This lunch shift was absolutely incredible.”
Kennedy smiled brightly. “Good work. I think sales will continue to take off, especially as it cools down this fall. Things are definitely looking up,” she lied, knowing that no one else had a clue how much money she really needed to fix the place the rest of the way up. Was lying going to be her way of life until she got back on her feet?
“Good,” Monica said, her shoulders slumping. “Because I can’t handle another job loss. I didn’t have a job for two years, and my husband’s nagging nearly killed me. I just couldn’t find a job I could stomach, you know. Except a grocery store cashier. But I would rather hang myself than do that again.”
Kennedy nodded, feeling disheartened. Monica had been the first person she’d hired at the diner when she’d opened. Monica was the perfect server: beautiful, if modest, and with enough spunk to tell the other servers and busboys what to do. Monica was ten years older than Kennedy, and Kennedy viewed her as the older sister she’d never had; someone who had world experience but didn’t look down on Kennedy’s opinions or thoughts, either. In fact, Monica’s belief in Kennedy’s capabilities had become a source of shame for Kennedy, given that Kennedy felt herself slipping from the edge.
Kennedy excused herself as Monica began cleaning up her section, sweeping a broom over the hardwood floorboards. She slumped down at her desk, eyeing the files before her, each of which proclaimed just how in debt she really was. She rubbed her eyes, feeling tears form. She only had one option, and she knew it.
She lifted her cell phone hesitantly and dialed the number of the bank, hoping her voice seemed chipper and bright on the other line.
“Hello. National Bank,” the man said, his voice booming. “How can I assist you today?”
“Hi,” she began, her voice quivering, much to her dismay. “This is Kennedy Grant. I was hoping I could transfer my funds from my savings to my business account. I own and operate the Penny Diner, and the bank account should be listed as such…”
Kennedy thought about Monica and Amos, two of her four staff members, who needed her and the money this job gave them in order to survive. Amos was saving for college. Monica needed to help her husband with rent and food, all while keeping up with her affinity for manicures. Kennedy didn’t want to be the reason these people went under. She’d set out to create the Penny Diner, and she wouldn’t be foiled. Not if she still h
ad a bit of money in the bank. This would keep her afloat, at least.
“All right,” the banker said. “It’s done.
She hung up the phone and leaned back, realizing that, if the money didn’t actually pick up at the diner, she’d be homeless in the next few months. The diner would ultimately clean her out, forcing her to return home. And god, she didn’t want to do that.
Monica appeared at the other side of the door, then, rapping on it and mouthing something through the window. Kennedy gestured for her to come in, grinning, and swiping tears from her eyes.
Monica looked at her suspiciously for a moment, curious. “Were you crying, Kennedy?” she asked, placing her hand on her hip.
“Oh, no,” Kennedy said, laughing falsely. “Of course not. I just need to sleep more, is all. I’ve been up long nights. Insomnia.”
“You need sleep, Kennedy,” Monica said. “It’s one of the only things that keeps you beautiful. And I don’t think hanging out in the back of the Penny Diner all day is doing much for your complexion.” She winked at her and swiped her apron from her waist. “You should go out more. See the world. Maybe meet a handsome gentleman. Goodness knows, I need someone to go on double dates with.”
“Ha. I don’t think romance is in the cards for me,” Kennedy said, rolling her eyes. “I’m married to my diner. And I have you and Amos as my family. What more could I need?”
“Listen to yourself,” Monica said, half-joking. “You sound pathetic. Like the mousy girl at the beginning of a dumb romantic comedy. Kennedy, you’re hot. Don’t waste it.” She winked at her and flung her apron into the laundry pile before turning swiftly back toward the door and exiting, heading outside for a cigarette break and smoking like a seasoned waitress, with smoke spinning around her head.
Kennedy lifted herself from her desk once more and bounded toward the coffee maker, brewing another pot for the long afternoon. She sliced a small piece of pumpkin pie for herself, impressed with this round of pies, which she’d baked herself. Then she sat at the counter, her legs swinging beneath her, confident that she’d made the right choice in transferring the funds. God, it had to have been.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She put her fork back onto her plate and lifted her phone, noting that it was her mother. Back in Lafayette, her mother managed a bookstore, cooked and cleaned for her father and sister, and lived a small, insignificant life. And ever since Kennedy had moved to Chicago, her mother, Jenna Grant, had made the argument that Kennedy should return to Lafayette, move back into her bedroom, and shouldn’t “push herself so hard.”
How’re the funds? her mother had typed via text message, without a necessary “hello.”
Kennedy didn’t respond immediately. She snuck another bite of pumpkin pie into her mouth, loving the creamy texture against her tongue.
You know, you don’t have to think of yourself as a failure, her mother continued, without a response. You tried your dream. That’s as much as any of us can really do. And home is waiting for you.
Kennedy rolled her eyes and lifted her phone, anger and stubbornness fizzling through her. I’m going to be fine, Mom, she typed back, tapping her phone back on the counter. She finished the last of her pie, daring her mother to text back once more. But minutes crept by in the empty diner, and the phone didn’t buzz again. Her mother had backed off, at least for the moment. But if her mother had any inkling Kennedy had just transferred what was left of her savings to her business account, she’d be panicked. She knew the workings of a business, having been manager at the bookstore for nearly twenty years. And she didn’t believe in Kennedy’s ability to do it.
As Kennedy sipped the last of her coffee, she felt eyes on her back, almost as if someone were sitting directly behind her, staring at her. She spun backwards, her eyes wide. But the dining room was empty and sparkling clean. And the street was empty as well, with just a smoking Monica still on the corner, probably gabbing to her husband on her cell phone.
Kennedy shook off the feeling. She lifted her pie plate and scrubbed it clean in the kitchen sink, reminding herself that every second spent at the Penny Diner solidified her dream of having her own place. And she was going to make it work, for good.
2
The dinner shift at the Penny Diner that night was dismal, leaving Kennedy even more stressed and panicked about her bank account. She watched as Monica scrubbed table after table throughout the night, just waiting for someone to come in. In the end, they received only five tables, two of which only came for pie and coffee. At nine, as they closed the doors together, having already sent Amos home for the night, Monica reminded her that all restaurants have slow nights. “It’s just a part of the game.”
But Kennedy felt inconsolable, given what she’d just done with her bank account. She gave Monica a false smile, asked her to lock up after she finished sweeping, and rushed out toward her car, grateful to breathe the oxygen outside of the diner. She entered her car and shuddered, realizing that her anxiety was rising with each passing moment. She needed a drink. And she needed it yesterday.
She cranked her engine and drove swiftly toward Wicker Park, where her good friend, Everett bartended. She’d met Everett when she’d first moved to the city’s outskirts, after quitting her chef job. He’d peeked his head from between the door and the doorframe, giving her a sneaky smile. He was around her age, with shaggy hair, rugged cheeks, and a hipster beard. He’d watched her stagger forward with her bags, and he’d chuckled.
“You need some help with that?” he’d asked.
He’d become a fast friend, teasing her when she was down about the restaurant and helping her refine several of her pie recipes. He’d become a regular, coming into the Penny Diner nearly every day before his shift at the Wicker Park bar and eating slices of pie. “You know, you’re going to make me fat,” he told her nearly every single day.
Everett was clearly attracted to Kennedy. But Kennedy was far too busy with the Penny Diner to give him much more than her friendship. And Everett was fine with that, becoming a kind of brother-figure and ultimately helping her with much of the work on the Penny Diner. One evening, a few months ago, he’d told her, “I think you should sue the guy who sold you this place. It’s putting you under faster than you can swim. And I know how smart you are. You calculated everything, before purchasing. But he wasn’t straight with you.”
Kennedy had, of course, considered this. But the thought of finding a lawyer, paying that lawyer, and then going through the legal process nearly destroyed her. And so, she chugged on, hoping business would pick up enough to save up for those new electrical units. And she continued hanging onto Everett as a friend, hopeful that their laughter could pull her through the terror of this business ownership.
She parked on the street, knowing that the price of parking in a garage was far, far outside of her range. But she slipped her feet into the black heels she kept in the backseat, changed quickly into a tight black dress, and tapped toward the city sidewalk, raising her head high, grateful for the sudden confidence she felt. In this moment, she could believe she was a different kind of person, a successful one, the one she was meant to be, given her smarts and skills. And she could believe in the power of her thin frame, her large, bouncing breasts, and her thick lips. As she marched toward the nightclub, she felt eyes upon her from every direction; eyes that didn’t know her current monetary situation; eyes that seemed to deem her worthy. One man down the street whistled. And her cheeks turned bright red with the rushing of her blood.
She entered the nightclub moments later, proud of her long, sweeping legs, featured prominently in her black dress. The doorman gestured for her to pass through the line quicker than most, noting her beauty, and also recognizing her as Everett’s friend. She gave him a half-smile, and a quick, “Hey, Ron,” before meandering toward the bar, allowing the heart-pounding music to escalate her to another mentality. This world outside of the diner didn’t know about her bank account. It knew nothing of her dreams or her earnest d
esires. It knew only that she looked damn hot in a black dress and heels, and that she deserved to dance the night away.
Everett was creating a cocktail as she approached the bar, lifting his elbow high as he poured two shots of tequila. He winked at her, pretending he didn’t know her name, nor that he’d fallen asleep at her place the previous week, watching cartoons and eating pop tarts.
Kennedy pressed her lips together. She realized she’d been smiling falsely all day, and she’d forgotten how to look normal. Her cheek muscles were exhausted. “A gin and tonic,” she said, her voice slight. “Please.”
“Not even a friendly hello from a beautiful girl?” Everett asked, teasing her. He passed the other drink to another guest and assessed her, noting she looked down. “Rough day at the diner?”
“I just don’t see how it’s going to work,” she whispered, rubbing her eyes and smudging her makeup. “You said that pipe needs to be fixed immediately. But we only got five tables tonight, which hardly pays my staff.”
Everett began to mix her gin and tonic, giving her a soft smile. “You’re always stressing yourself out, Kennedy. You need to give yourself a night off. Flirt with someone. Dance a little bit. Get drunk.”
“Ha,” she said, rolling her eyes. “As if I could lose my sense of responsibility for that long. You know me better than that.”
“I think you’re making it worse for yourself,” Everett said, passing the drink toward her. “If you wait here, I’m off in a few hours. I can take you somewhere else, and we can talk. You look like you need it.”
“Thanks, Ev,” Kennedy whispered, sipping her drink. Everett turned back toward other guests, leaving her to mull over her own panicked thoughts. As she stood, she cocked her knee out, trying to imitate the other, beautiful women in the room, each with a man on her arm.