The Firstborn Prince (The Billionaire Dynasties)

by Virginia Nelson

  That was so damn good! She’d never felt so blissfully sexy in her entire life. The way he’d ripped her shirt? So hot!

  Connor’s voice was now clearly in her apartment, and he still didn’t sound happy, so she dragged herself out of bed and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Well, the goofy grin…

  Yeah, there was no fixing that. She’d probably still be smiling over that orgasm when she was eighty. It was that damn good. But she could reknot her hair into a messy bun. Her breasts were slightly abraded from his wonderful facial scruff, and she was keeping this shirt until she died. Pulling it off, she yanked her arms into a bra and then pulled another T-shirt over her head. Grabbing the first thing in reach out of the underwear drawer, she stepped into a thong without a lot of care for what she was wearing.

  Dancing into her jeans, she stopped to smile at herself in the mirror once more before facing whatever crisis Connor thought up. No matter what it was, there was no way it could dent her current good mood.

  “You still got it, girl,” she told her reflection.

  Her reflection grinned back at her, as if to say, Dude, I know, right?

  Almost bouncing on her bare feet, she headed out to join the Boyd twins in her living room. Buffy had risen from her napping spot on the carpet and now nudged Foster’s leg. It was kind of cute, endearing even. Behind that cocky rich guy façade lay a guy who loved his dog and could give amazing orgasms. Her heart swelled, and she sighed at how lucky she was to have stumbled across Foster Boyd.

  But then the words of the twins soaked through her bliss-drunk mind. “Wait, what do you mean when you say, ‘The Natalie Scandal’?”

  Connor spun on his heel to face her, his gray eyes under that dark hair looking almost scary in their intensity. “You. You’re the problem.”

  Instantly, about a hundred possible scenarios popped into her head, the first of which involved a drone in her window, catching a picture of her sprawled like a complete hedonist on her couch while the Firstborn Prince ate her out like it was his job.

  Foster reached out, catching her fingertips. “Connor is exaggerating. It isn’t your fault at all,” he said.

  “Oh, you must not have fucked her yet, if you’re still being nice to her. He’s a jerk, by the way. I am picking up on something between the two of you, and so far, I like you, so fair warning, he’s an asshole and you’ll regret it,” Connor added.

  The last thing she expected was for Foster to haul off and punch his brother in the jaw.

  “Don’t talk to her like that,” he said in a voice gone guttural with fury.

  Connor cupped his jaw and considered his brother. “What, you don’t like her knowing the truth? Did you tell her what you did? Did she notice the paparazzi camped out in front of her building, like buzzards ready to shred her public corpse?”

  Before Foster could answer, she shook loose of his hold. “He didn’t tell me yet what he did. What happened?” Since Foster clearly wasn’t going to tell her, she faced Connor when she asked.

  Foster shoved her none too gently behind himself, as if to protect her from his brother. “Like you’re one to talk, Con? You say I’m an asshole, but name one woman you ever treated like more than a handy piece of ass? The rule was no seconds, wasn’t it? And haven’t you proved why we even came up with that rule?”

  She didn’t like being shoved, and she was getting pissed at them both, so she simply stepped around Foster and faced Connor again. With deadly calm, she repeated her question. “I’m not fucking anyone, especially if you two don’t start answering questions, pronto. What the hell happened?”

  Connor didn’t answer, whether because he didn’t want his brother to punch him again or because he didn’t even have words for whatever the hell happened. He snagged her remote, turning to a local channel and flipping the volume up about twenty notches too high.

  On the screen, in bright color and clarity, she saw her social media profile picture next to a headline that read, “Failed Image Consultant Sexting Scandal.”

  “What?” she whispered. “I haven’t sexted anyone.”

  “Yeah, well, this dates back a few months. I don’t know if you lovebirds even knew each other then, but it doesn’t matter. He lost his phone and they found evidence that makes them think you’re the one he was writing dirty messages to. They have pictures of tits, messages they screenshot, and otherwise, a bunch of evidence they’re contributing to you both. And the Welles situation is just feeding the frenzy. They’re claiming you’re so hungry for a fortune that you tried to blackmail Aiden Kelley, hence the secret baby thing coming to public. Good luck spinning this one, image consultant. And thanks for the property in the Keys, brother. I’ve always had a fondness for that house.”

  Conner went silent before slamming his way out of her apartment. Natalie continued to blink at the full color image on the screen as the media painted her a fortune-hunting slut. “I didn’t even do anything,” she whispered.

  “Dammit, I forgot I bet him the Keys property,” Foster said, running a hand through his too-long blond hair, still messy from them fooling around on her couch.

  She turned slowly to face him. Could a piece of property really be his biggest worry right then? Her entire career…no, her life. That was a major network blasting her publicly. Her entire life was going to be permanently destroyed because of some stupid thing he’d done a month before they even met, and his biggest worry was some stupid house in Florida?

  “Get out,” she whispered.

  He blinked at her, looking surprised. “What?”

  “I said get out, Foster.” With that, she walked away from him, reentered her bedroom, and locked the door. Glancing at her reflection again, she noticed the goofy grin was gone.

  Orgasms, it seemed, weren’t the cure for everything.

  Chapter Nine

  From Natalie’s rules for Foster Boyd, v1

  Rule #4: Never underestimate the power of a well-thought-out gesture. Does it sound silly to you to send a basket of muffins to someone you annoyed? Then you’re adulting all wrong. At heart, we’re all a little childish, and nothing makes that inner child happier than an unexpected present. Did you make one of your paramours mad? Send flowers. Is someone threatening to blackmail you for something that you know you did wrong? Send a well-worded apology and one of those fruit arrangement things. A little consideration can go a long way, and for things that a monthly subscription box won’t fix, there’s always the legal department. But that consideration thing? It will work, like, 90% of the time.

  She hadn’t showered, and she hadn’t left her apartment all day. Still in her comfy pajamas, she stared down at the camera crew outside. The press obviously was not going anywhere, still camped out on the sidewalk in front of the building. She’d slept fitfully through the night, torn between fantasies of Foster at his sexiest and waking with her hands shaking, hoping all of it was some weird dream.

  It wasn’t a dream, as evidenced by the press below. It was all horrifyingly real. She didn’t want to answer the door when she heard the knock, but she could only hide in her room for so long. When she opened the front door, the doorman stared at her, looking as nonplussed as usual. She tried to decide what the large box in his arms might be.

  “This is for you, ma’am,” he said when she still didn’t reach out to take it.

  “What is it?” she asked him.

  “I wouldn’t know. It was delivered for you from Boyd Cosmetics.”

  Accepting the box, she felt her lips drop into a frown. Thinking back, she tried to remember which twin she told to send gifts when they made someone mad. Probably it was Foster. If he thought a box of muffins would fix what he’d done…

  The box was indeed, muffins. A lot of muffins. Probably a solid twenty-five pounds of assorted muffins. “What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked the apartment at large. It didn’t answer. Her computer jangled with a notification, so she swirled her mouse to see an incoming video chat from Harper. She accepted the call,
still sorting through the layers of muffins and arranging them on the table in a teetering tower.

  “Hey, Harp,” she said.

  Harper didn’t say anything at first, looking at her architectural wonder of muffins. “What on earth is that?” she finally asked.

  “Muffins,” Natalie answered, moving onward to another tier. “A whole shit ton of muffins.”

  “Were you hungry?”

  “Not particularly,” she confessed. “I’m guessing you saw the news.”

  “Yes, I did. But I know you didn’t do it. If you’d been sexting a guy like Foster Boyd, something tells me I would have heard about it. Possibly in detail. For sure with pictures of his thingy. Have you seen his thingy yet?”

  Natalie frowned, not sure which annoyed her more—the scandal ruining her life or the fact that she’d been hit with it as coitus interruptus. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Damn,” Harper said, shoving her dark hair behind her ear. “You’re literally paying for a crime you haven’t even had the pleasure to commit.”

  “Right?” Natalie practically shrieked. There was another knock at her door. “Hang on a sec, Harp. If that is him, and he thinks muffins fixes this, I’m going to have to kill him.”

  “Lemme know, so I can minimize the screen. If I didn’t see it, I won’t be lying when I claim ignorance of his murder. Try to keep the screams to a dull roar, though, as my honey is sleeping in the living room. He has to work tonight.”

  Opening the front door, Natalie considered the giant armfuls of flowers that hid the doorman. “For me?” she asked.

  “Yes,” she thought she heard him reply. Grabbing the flowers, she still couldn’t see him. Or the door. Stepping back a couple of feet, she said, “Can you close that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the doorman kindly. The poor guy. She owed him more than a nice basket at Christmas. Maybe a new car with a gift basket in it? Ha. Like she’d be able to afford the apartment in December. At this rate, she would be lucky to be able to afford bologna.

  Putting the giant bouquets next to the muffin tower, she gestured at all the roses and then stared Harper down on the laptop screen. “Flowers. How damn typical is that?”

  “Is there a card?” Harper asked.

  “Um,” Natalie answered, rummaging through the jungle of luckily thorn-free buds. “Yes, there is.”

  “Well, read it.” Harper waved a hand, a smile blooming on her face.

  “This isn’t funny,” Natalie told her.

  “Yeah, right. Read the damn card. I’m dying of suspense over here.”

  Before she could read the card, there was another knock at her door. “What the hell?” Natalie practically shrieked.

  “He’s a gagillionaire,” Harper said. “When he messes up, he can afford to be extravagant.”

  “It doesn’t solve anything,” Natalie said.

  “Yeah, but it is funny as hell for me to watch. Answer your door.”

  Natalie did, with a sinking feeling in her stomach. The man was more concerned with a house in the Keys that he lost in a bet than the fact that his actions had long-term ramifications on her life. He was no better than Margo Welles. They squashed little people in their wake and didn’t even care about how much they’d ruined, so long as their perfect little lives weren’t changed in the slightest.

  This time, it was another box. Just as big as the muffin box, but even heavier. “Will this be continuing, ma’am?” asked the doorman. He was a bit red in the face and had broken a sweat, the moisture beading on his balding head.

  “I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

  “Whoever he is,” the doorman suggested. “Just forgive him. I’m too old for this.”

  Natalie grunted and closed the door in his face with her hip. There went his hypothetical car.

  Harper was practically bouncing as she clapped her hands. “Card first, then box,” she demanded. “You have to open things in the order that he sent them, just in case there is a method to his madness.”

  “Madness is right,” Natalie agreed. But she ripped the card open and scanned the words. “Oh, brother.”

  “What did he say? What did he say? What did he say?” Harper singsonged.

  Flipping the card around so Harper could read it, Natalie said the words aloud. “I’m a jerk. I didn’t mean to be a jerk. Come in to the offices. We’ll figure out how to fix this, but we need to do it together.”

  “He sent that with roses? Not altogether that romantic,” Harper pointed out.

  “Why would he be romantic?” Natalie asked blushing. “He’s my client.”

  She didn’t mention the fact that only yesterday, he’d had her spread like a Christmas turkey, waiting to be stuffed with his impressive bulge when his brother interrupted with the news of the chaos he’d caused, albeit without any action on his part other than losing his phone.

  “Oh, honey… Your clients do not send you giant piles of muffins and roses. If you think for a minute I’m buying that all you have going with him is a consultation, you forgot who I am.”

  Natalie shrugged. “Maybe I consulted him on the proper way to get me off, and maybe he was pretty good at that, but—”

  “You said you never saw his thingy!” Harper shrieked. From behind her, Natalie heard a moan and Harper stage-whispered, “Sorry, sweetie!”

  “I didn’t ever see it,” Natalie admitted. “But he saw mine.”

  “Apparently, you’ve been out of the game for far too long. The game is, I show you mine, you show me yours.”

  Natalie rolled her eyes, nudging the box with a sock-clad toe. “Yeah, I never got around to the second part. We got interrupted.”

  “Was he any good? Like, so far?” Harper chewed the end of her fingertip. “Like on a scale of one to ten?”

  “Sixty-five,” Natalie admitted.

  “Hell, I would have forgiven him at the muffins, if he was a sixty-five. Open the box!”

  Shrugging, Natalie obeyed, ripping through the tape with a butter knife. The box was emblazoned with the Boyd Cosmetics logo and inside…

  “Oh,” she whispered, tearing up. “Okay, I get it.”

  “What the hell is it?” Harper demanded. At her yell, another groan followed by the words, “Come on!” sounded from behind her. She yelled back into the house, “Oh, hush! I’ll make it up to you later! This stuff is important!”

  By the time she turned back around to face Natalie again via the video call, Natalie was holding up a letter at the screen. “I can’t read it!” Harper yelped. “It is too pixelated. Read it to me,” she demanded.

  Sniffling, Natalie rubbed her nose on her sleeve. “It says, and I quote, ‘Do not put glue on your face.’”

  “What?” Harper looked confused, her pretty face scrunching as she tried to work it out. “Wait, what is in the damn box?”

  Holding up a single tube, which she knew from experience was worth probably somewhere in the range of three or four hundred dollars, she sniffled again. “He sent me face masks. And creams. And makeup. Look, I have that new color palette, the one that comes out next month. He sent me a box of things. So that I don’t put glue on my face.”

  “Oh,” Harper breathed. “Now you gotta forgive him.”

  “I do,” Natalie agreed. “This was actually really sweet.”

  “How did that whole glue mask thing work out?” Harper asked curiously.

  Natalie rolled her eyes. “Depends on how you look at it, I guess.” Which kind of summed up the whole situation, in her point of view.

  …

  Although she’d agreed with Harper about having to forgive Foster, it wasn’t like she could go anywhere. The press didn’t look like they were leaving her sidewalk, and she wished for a brutal rainstorm. Followed by, maybe, hail. Big chunks of golf-ball-sized hail. And maybe a rain of burning turtles, plunking with their hard shells like little lava bombs.

  But, sadly, the weather was fine and the press were persistent. Must be a slow news week, she couldn’t help thinking,
while staring down at them from her balcony. She’d already seen one station air video of her standing on the patio, looking down at them, but they blurred out her hand when she gave them the finger.

  Probably not the best move on her part, but they were really annoying her. She knew better than to give a statement—nothing she could say would deter the press when they thought they had a great and salacious story. Not even the fact that, when she looked up the supposed sexting conversation online, the woman who was having intimate conversations a few months ago with Foster clearly had way bigger boobs. When considering her own chest in comparison, it was a little unnerving. For one, she could see, honestly, why Foster had been talking to whomever he was texting. Hell, just seeing the tatas on the internet was enough to give Natalie a girl crush. They were amazing.

  For two, it made her feel a little insecure about her own assets. If Foster had a woman like that sending him messages like those, why on earth would he bother with Natalie?

  Then again, she thought morosely, he didn’t go back for seconds. From the looks of the texts online, he’d even admitted as much to the woman and it hadn’t deterred her.

  It hadn’t deterred Natalie, either. After spending so much time with him, she was willing to have one and done. Just to have him once, based on their one experience, would be enough for a lifetime.

  Or so she tried to convince herself as she gazed down at the press. She wanted to flick pennies at them, but they’d just sue her for damages. Might be worth it.

  She’d sent both Boyd brothers a text message. The one to Connor was pretty simple. Although you won the bet, the board still wants to see improvement and you’ve come so far already. Keep up the good work! She’d included a smiley face emoji with the message.

  Connor responded simply, On it. She took that to mean he was sticking with his ten rules, which would have to be enough since she couldn’t exactly distract him from her imprisonment at her house.

  To Foster, she’d texted, Fine. You have a point. It wasn’t your fault. I’ll be back at work when I can get out of my house. THEY’RE still here.