WILD OPEN HEARTS: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy

by Nolan, Kathryn

  “It’s meant to be shared with friends”

  “We’re friends?” He looked skeptical.

  “Of course. We’ve had two fights, you’ve seen me publicly shamed and now we’re helping rehabilitate a dog together. Doesn’t that make us friends?”

  Beck gave me a quizzical look as I poured the carbonated drink into a cup and handed it to him. “What’s in it?” he asked.

  “A symbiotic colony of bacteria and yeast.”

  He pressed it back into my hand. “Nope.”

  “Your loss.” But he wouldn’t stop eyeing it.

  Penelope stirred in the corner, then pulled herself low about a foot across the ground.

  I grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and whispered, “Did you see that?”

  He smiled. “I did.”

  We sat in silence for a minute, both of us watching for signs of progress from the dog in the corner. He cleared his throat, shifted next to me. “So, uh… when did you start drinking bacteria?”

  That startled a laugh from me. Even Beck looked a little amused. “My parents raised me in Coconut Grove. It’s a neighborhood here in Miami that still believes it’s the Summer of Love. Hippies abound. Bongos everywhere. And kombucha basically ran from our taps.”

  Beck nodded like he suddenly understood something. “That’s why you’re the way you are.”

  “Just about,” I agreed. “Even before becoming vegan or starting Wild Heart, my parents had always really emphasized the connections that exist between humans, animals and our planet. That we all have a role to play in making the world a better place.”

  It was why I felt such a strong connection to the natural beauty of Miami. The ocean was part of my soul, the beach a form of poetry that I craved. I always felt so sure that my true path in life was to do my best to be part of protecting that beauty.

  Until recently, that is.

  “I like that,” he said simply.

  I turned more fully toward him. “Did you always want to start your own nonprofit?”

  He blew out a breath. “Elián and I opened Lucky Dog four years ago. Before that, I did all kinds of jobs at animal hospitals, shelters, other rescues. I learned the field, getting my certification in behavioral training.”

  “And why did you want to focus on dogs?”

  Penelope was inching closer to the food.

  “I, uh… well, I was in and out of juvenile detention when I was a teenager.” He stopped talking, almost as if he was startled. I didn’t push—merely folded my legs under me and waited.

  “Anyway,” he finally said, “my last time there, I did this program. It paired offenders about to be released with dogs about to be euthanized for behavioral problems. We spent six months with our dogs. They lived with us and we trained them day and night. If all went well, the day of our graduation was the day they got adopted.” He coughed a little, cleared his throat. “My dog was named Willow.”

  He was a calm mountain right now—utterly still—but I sensed a riot of emotions brewing beneath the surface. Sensed and let him be. For now. But I thought about his family, what they’d done.

  “What was graduation day like?” I asked.

  “Willow was adopted by a family with a giant backyard and four active kids. I wrote them letters, tried to see how she was doing. They never wrote back but, uh…” Another cough. “I think she had the life she deserved.”

  “You gave that to her,” I said.

  But Beck merely shrugged.

  “Were your… parents… there?” I asked, each word dropped carefully, so as not to disturb.

  Beck turned to me. “No. But that’s okay. I go to all the graduations now, if I can make it, and that’s how I met Jem and Wes.”

  I let my head drop back against the grate—tried to imagine Beck and his dog. Beck watching the dog leave. Beck looking out into an audience with no friendly faces looking back.

  “Well,” I finally said, when I’d reined in my emotions, “if I was there, I would have cheered for you.”

  He didn’t respond. But I caught a tentative smile.

  I beamed back at him—holding up the cup of kombucha. “Come on. One sip for me.”

  He sipped it. “It’s disgusting.”

  “Well, at least you tried it.”

  Jem’s lime-green mohawk caught my attention. She was struggling to haul a bag of gravel into a kennel. Part of me wanted to keep chatting with this enigmatic giant. But I had a job to do—a responsibility—and I didn’t want to start my time here by slacking off.

  “Hey, I’m here to work, right?” I said.

  “Yeah, why?”

  I pointed to Jem. “How about I go help her? I love being with Penelope but if you guys need work done…”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, slowly standing up. “I lost track of time a bit. She’d love the help and I probably have, you know, emails or something.”

  “Right,” I said, tilting my head. “I’ve gotten like five hundred emails while sitting here. I’m sure it’s the same for you.”

  “Probably.”

  I slipped out of the kennel. Waved to Beck. “Come find me later. And thank you for the tour.”

  And then I all but skipped over to Jem, who smiled shyly when I reached her. And when I turned back to Penelope, Beck was still in her cage. Sitting absolutely still.

  Patiently earning her trust.

  16

  Luna

  “Hey, girl,” I said, waving my fingers at Jem as I approached. “You need a little help?”

  She pointed at her chest. “Me, you mean?”

  “Yeah, you, the goddess with the mohawk.”

  Jem bit her lip like she was unsure. “Kinda, to be honest. I’m cleaning out Jack Sparrow’s kennel and it’s definitely a two-woman job.”

  I gave her a salute. “On it.” I grabbed a bucket and a mop and started attacking the tiled area in the far-left corner. I was just getting into a good rhythm. And then my phone vibrated with a text from Cameron. It was a screen-shot of a headline in an entertainment magazine: Instagram Model Luna da Rosa Caught in Makeup Fraud.

  “Uggghhhh,” I said, trying not to throw my phone at the wall.

  “What is it? Did you get dog shit in your hair?” Jem asked.

  “Not exactly. This is a very special kind of shit.”

  I showed her the screen. Her forehead creased. “You’re not a model.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I said, bumping my shoulder against hers.

  There was no shame in the Instagram model game. But Cameron, Daisy, Emily and I were constantly battling the media’s need to highlight our sexuality, our outfits, who we were dating more than whatever innovative work we were doing. Emily was literally changing lives through a scientific discovery she spearheaded, but her recent haircut was still the main focus of the media.

  Another text from Cameron: Just a reminder that we know you’re a talented businesswoman and the baddest bitch around.

  I snorted.

  “Is that from your friend?” Jem asked.

  “My best friend Cameron.”

  Jem ran a hand over her mohawk. “You have good friends.”

  “That I do.”

  “I’m kind of obsessed with you,” she said quickly. “Okay, sorry, that was a weirdo thing to say.”

  “It’s not weird,” I promised. “I’m obsessed with your mohawk and your bad-ass vibe. So we’re even.”

  Yanking up all of the old dog bedding, I rolled it in a ball and tossed it into the laundry container in the corner. I started to tackle the overgrown weeds that surrounded the raised dog bed. How expensive would turf be to put in? Would it be helpful? I made a note on my phone to ask Beck later—could definitely be something to ask for donations for.

  “I’m vegetarian but really want to go vegan. And I basically own a lifetime supply of Wild Heart’s black eyeliner,” Jem continued.

  “Expertly applied, by the way,” I said, giving her an exaggerated wink to show it off. “Hey, do you want some of my kombu
cha? Grumpy McGrumpy Pants in there wouldn’t take it.”

  Jem propped a shovel in the dirt. “Yeah, actually. That’d be rad.”

  I poured her a glass of kombucha and we did a little cheers.

  “Thanks for being nice to me today, Jem,” I said, leaning against the grate. “You’re probably pretty pissed at me for the Ferris Mark stuff, huh?”

  She studied me for a second. “I was pissed a little when I found out, for sure. I mean, I buy your products for a reason.”

  My stomach hollowed out—it was harder seeing the disappointment of a fan like Jem, who truly wanted her makeup to reflect her values.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said. “I fucked up. Big time. Really big time.”

  “People make mistakes though, even CEOs or whatever.” She shrugged. “Plus, I tossed all of my Wild Heart products already. It’ll be okay in the end.”

  “Will you text me what products?” I said. “I’ll get you new ones once everything’s fixed.”

  “Oh… please, you don’t have to do that.” Her pale cheeks were turning pink.

  “Let me,” I said. “Consider it payment for rescuing Penelope and all the work you do here every day. I’ll stock you with eyeliner for life.”

  Her entire face lit up. “If you insist…”

  “I do,” I said. “And I’m working on fixing those mistakes. Because it was a mistake driven by…” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “A mistake driven by impulses I’m not proud of.”

  Jem shook her head, looking out across the field. I caught a glimpse of Beck scowling at me from his window and I gave him my best Miss America wave.

  “Wes, Beck and I all met through the same rehabilitation program. We’re familiar with mistakes,” she said so quietly I almost didn’t catch it. I helped her tear open the bag of gravel and deposit it evenly over the ground. I was sweating, dirty, heart racing—my job hadn’t been this physical in, well, ever.

  “The one with the dogs?” I asked.

  “That’s the one,” she said. “I was really lucky to get a nice judge. She didn’t think my future was gonna be that pretty without an intervention, you know? That was six years ago.”

  I sat back on my heels, brushing a strand of sweaty hair from my forehead. “Did your dog get adopted?”

  “Walter,” she said. “That was his name. And yeah.” She scrolled through her phone and showed me a picture of a family with two little kids and a terrier that looked practically chaotic with happiness.

  “Oh, Jem,” I said, tears springing to the corners of my eyes.

  “Oh my god, don’t cry,” she said. “It’s not sad. It’s happy.”

  “I cry when I’m happy,” I said, laughing a little through the tears. “You’re such a fucking bad-ass.” I clapped a hand over my mouth. “Sorry, are we allowed to curse here?”

  “Fuck yeah,” she said. “If you don’t think the f-word comes out of Beck’s mouth a hundred times a day, you’ve got another thing coming.”

  “I knew there was a reason why I liked Beck,” I said, shaking out a sheet and placing it across the new bed. I folded it with care, tucking it into each corner, fluffing the pillows.

  “Not to lean too hard into the canine metaphors, but his bark is way worse than his bite,” she said.

  I bet I’d like his bite.

  I dropped the shovel I was holding and it clanked against the concrete.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, yeah, just super hot,” I said, fanning my face. Where the hell had that thought come from? I looked back toward the trailer and Beck was now outside, drinking a cup of coffee that looked doll-sized in his hands. Without his vest on, his chest appeared even more expansive. His chest hair pushed through the v in the shirt.

  Maybe… maybe I hadn’t wanted to admit to myself that Beck Mason gave off a very real filthy sex vibe. He looked like the kind of man who’d leave you marked and breathless and blissed out for weeks.

  “He’s a good boss though?” I asked, attempting a distraction. He and I were working together, nothing more.

  “Beck makes this place what it is,” Jem said. “Which is why it’s frustrating that he won’t let himself be, you know… like the you of this place.”

  “He doesn’t like attention,” I said.

  Jem shook her head back and forth. “Nope nope nope.”

  I wiped down everything with bleach and water, humming softly as we worked together. I wasn’t sure which dog was going into this kennel but it was my goal for it to be the best. I brushed every last scrap of dust from the bed and folded the sheets. Arranged the toys with military precision—and noticed how worn and old they were. I placed a Milk-Bone right in the center of the pillow, like a hotel mint.

  I snapped a photo. “I only get four designated photos a day per Beck’s privacy measures,” I said, “but I think this one is worth it. What do you think?”

  Jem appeared over my shoulder. “It’s beautiful. You really think this will help?”

  “I do,” I said—the first thing I’d felt certain about in days.

  She gave me such a precious, toothy smile I pulled her in for a picture.

  “For your page?” she looked horrified.

  “Of course,” I said, but then thought about Beck’s reticence. “Unless you don’t want to. Absolutely no pressure if you’re not comfortable.”

  “I look okay?”

  “A literal goddess,” I promised. “Now get in here.”

  We looked happy in the picture—flushed, tired, real. I hadn’t seen a picture of myself like that in a while, actually.

  My smart watch beeped. I was about to be late for a production call with the West Coast.

  “I have to go,” I said. “Thanks for hanging out with me today. I’ll send you some recipes later okay?”

  Jem was still flushed. “Hey, Luna?”

  I turned.

  “My mentor in that program used to say that we all deserve second chances, you know? They’re only extra scary because when we get them, we’re worried we’ll ruin them.”

  “That makes a lot of sense,” I said sadly. “I guess… I guess I can relate to that.”

  “You won’t ruin it though.” She said this quickly, like she needed courage to do so. And then she bounded off across the training field.

  My chest felt tight, a cinched emotion that threatened to cut off air.

  I closed my eyes, inhaled. Exhaled. Did it again until the sensation ebbed. Her words were an unexpected kindness, poking at the tender edges of my soul.

  Until I turned around and walked into the wall of muscle known as Beck.

  17

  Beck

  “Sorry,” I said, looking away. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Never,” Luna said. Strands of hair hung loose from her high bun. “I was heading out, actually.”

  I peered around her shoulder to look inside the kennel. She’d folded all the blankets to make a thick pillow. Placed a stuffed toy nearby. And a Milk-Bone in the middle.

  That damn Milk-Bone got me. “You did this?”

  She lifted one shoulder, the strap sliding down her skin. “It’s silly. I thought if I was scared and alone I’d want to feel safe and welcome and get treats.”

  I looked over at her. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She exhaled, wiped those strands of hair back into her bun. “The Ferris Mark thing is messing with my production schedules. I’ve got to go soothe a few hurt feelings on the West Coast.”

  “You cleaned dog shit for two hours and now you’re going to…?” I wasn’t sure where I was going with this or my expectations of the rainbow billionaire.

  “Be a CEO?” she teased. “Yeah, that’s my day. Started at 4:00 am”—she yawned—“but this was the highlight.”

  Luna peered up at me in the bright Miami sunshine. Her skin looked like it was glowing.

  Or maybe that was her in general.

  “Thank you for sitting with Penelope,” I said.


  “It was my absolute pleasure,” Luna replied.

  A sleek black car pulled into our parking lot next to my busted-looking motorcycle. Luna grabbed her expensive purse, went to leave—and then turned back.

  “You know, technically, I’ve got one officially sanctioned photo left to take. I’ve only taken three.”

  “You didn’t hit your Instagram quota of fifty posts an hour?”

  “What am I, an amateur?” she asked. “I do sixty, easy.”

  A smile tugged at my lips.

  “I could take one of you.”

  “Nope,” I said.

  “A lot of my fans would be into that shaggy beard.”

  “This face is terrifying, remember?” I said, pointing at it.

  “Well”—she pursed her lips—“you’re definitely a type.”

  “What type is that?”

  “You know.” Her cheeks flushed. “Hot, bearded mountain man.”

  Her compliment—intended or not—sent a frisson of heat up my spine. When was the last time anyone had said anything about my face that was nice?

  “I’m still going for grumpy biker,” I said.

  “Nah.” Luna poked her tongue out. “Word on the street is you’re a big softie, Mr. Mason.”

  “Beck,” I said automatically.

  “I know.” Her smile was bewitching. Luna da Rosa was teasing me.

  “So hot, bearded men are your type?” I asked. Two could play at this game.

  “A type. Certainly not mine.”

  “I’m going to guess your type would be…” I tapped my chin. “A hippie spin instructor whose name is Carrot?”

  “How’d you know about Carrot?” she deadpanned.

  I let out a laugh—a little surprised.

  “I think you’d be surprised at the wave of perverted messages I’d receive about you.” Luna placed her phone in my palm, fingertips glancing off my skin. “Since you won’t take a picture, take one of me, please.”

  I stood frozen as Luna undid her hair, running her fingers through it—the breeze tossed the brown and blond waves. She posed and I took it. In the picture, she looked like she was comfortable in her skin, comfortable here, happy with her life. But I knew things were not going great for her right now.