by Knox, Abby
Benefactor
A Greenbridge Academy Romance
Abby Knox
Copyright © 2019 by Abby Knox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Edited by Aquila Editing
Proofread by Red Pen Princess
Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations
This book is dedicated to all the rich daddies who know how to take care of their sugar babies. I mean, I don’t know what’s that like personally, but I assume that’s a really good time.
This book is also dedicated to all the women who work their asses off to buy their own shoes. That’s also a pretty damn good feeling.
Benefactor
Book Three in a collection of stories from Greenbridge Academy
By Abby Knox
“She doesn’t belong on that stage. She belongs on Broadway. She belongs … with me.”
Need a fixer? A negotiator? Need to throw money at a problem? Rushmore is your man. But as soon as Hunter, the woman of his dreams, appears on stage, he’s got a whole set of problems that not even he knows exactly how to fix. One of them being, she’s 18. The second problem? She’s his spoiled daughter’s classmate. Confident he can make an arrangement that will satisfy both himself and the beautiful Hunter, he is all set to woo her with flowers, gifts, and anything else her heart desires. He soon discovers, however, that the young lady is not a property to be acquired.
Eighteen-year-old Hunter expects to coast through her senior year and then go to New York to conquer the world. How exactly she’s going to finance these big dreams is the only question. When the answer comes in the form of the dashing Mr. Rushmore — the father of the meanest, richest girl in school — Hunter has a big decision to make. Will having all the material things she’s ever wanted be worth risking her reputation? Maybe not, but she sure is going to have fun while it lasts.
Need a sugar daddy to pay your bills? Get ready, because Mr. Rushmore is about to make it rain! Just don’t call him that, whatever you do. He’s “investing” in your “future.” Warning: this novella contains an age-gap love story with lots of teasing and heavy petting before the virgin gets the biggest gift of all! As always, you’ll get your HEA with no cliffhangers and no cheating.
(Possible trigger: Our hero has an ex-wife, but no drama occurs with said ex wife in this story. Everybody’s moved on! Side note: sometimes my heroes and heroines have ex partners, because I like complicated people. Enjoy!)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Abby Knox
An excerpt from the next story in the Greenbridge Academy collection
1
Rushmore
The last place anyone might think to find a person with the last name of Rushmore would be sitting in a lawn chair on a crowded public park lawn. But one does what one must, even if that involves stewing in the humidity on a sweltering July night to attend a mediocre summer community theater performance of My Fair Lady.
Obviously, I’m not here for pleasure. And it’s not exactly business, either.
“Philanthropy is the only thing that could compel me to endure these little bloodsuckers,” I mutter as I slap the tenth mosquito of the night.
Miles, my theater companion for the evening, brought a small battery-operated fan. He offers it to me but I wave him off. The only thing worse than mosquitos is holding that ridiculous plastic thing and looking like a giant baby-man.
“Weston Ford is right over there,” Miles says, gesturing two rows ahead. “Why not tackle him now? Use your magic on him, hand him the paperwork, and then we can get out of here.”
“Take it easy, Miles. That’s not my style. Too eager. Have that contract ready to go at intermission, though,” I reply.
As I study the back of Weston Ford’s head, it appears he is here with his sister. The two of them are cracking each other up over something, and I don’t want to interrupt that. Their interactions remind me that I never had that kind of family dynamic growing up. I am not a fellow anyone would describe as wistful, but I might be close to it right now.
“Got it right here,” Miles says, patting his attaché case stowed under his lawn chair.
I nod as my eyes land on a family lounging on a picnic blanket near us. Each of the dads is holding one of the baby girl’s hands as she takes unsteady steps. They’re laughing and praising the one-year-old’s bouncy movements as she squeals and kicks her wobbly baby legs. The scene reminds me of when my daughter Ridley was a baby, one of those brief moments when her mother and I were not despising each other.
And where is my ex-wife tonight? Probably with her new beau being properly romanced for the first time in her life. My daughter? My gut clenches to think about it. Most likely shit-talking me while using my credit cards to finance an elaborate night out with her friends and hangers-on. The shit-talking and the spending are the least of my worries with her. She’s had everything handed to her and I’m worried we’ve created an unkind, selfish monster.
“Earth to Rushmore…”
“What?” I answer Miles testily without breaking my stare.
Miles chuckles. “I’m offering you bug spray, man.”
I finally look over at him and he’s handing me a green bottle with childlike illustrations of bees and plants on it. “This is for babies,” I say.
He shrugs. “Yeah well, it works. Martha and the baby have turned me into a regular suburban dad—anything you need, I got with me at all times. Tylenol? Check. Tissues? Band-Aids? Sunscreen? Got you covered.”
I wince as I realize I’m surrounded by happy families.
This realization makes me wish I could start over. Can I do that at the age of 39? I wonder if I have time to turn around my relationship with Ridley. Or have another baby with someone. Or maybe I should just adopt, seeing as I hardly have the time or inclination to be a decent husband. Perhaps I’m not even capable of maintaining a steady relationship.
I take the bug spray and spritz myself. “Now I smell like an organic toddler,” I grunt, handing him his bug spray back.
This is why I stick to boardrooms, where I’m less likely to be reminded of what I’m missing in life. Mixing with the common folk is turning me into a complete sap, I think.
“Don’t look so sour. It was your idea to come here,” Miles remarks. “You couldn’t schedule a lunch meeting at Enzo’s?”
I answer him, but my eye
s remain on the playbill, making sure all the advertising for Rushmore Hospitality I signed off on has been put in place on the glossy pages. “I didn’t get where I am by expecting new clients to come to me. When I want something, I get off my ass and get it.” The inside of the cover features a four-color ad showing off the Ridley Hotel, named after my daughter in honor of her sixteenth birthday. The back page shows a black and white ad for the Bianca Inn. I grit my teeth every time I read or hear that name, but unfortunately I’m not legally allowed to change it, per the divorce decree.
“I hope this first act doesn’t take too long. I can dash over to have an impromptu meeting with Ford, get him to sign his name on the dotted line, and then I can get out of this crowd of people before anybody else notices me and asks for yet more favors,” I say. And Miles can go home and share the news about Ford with his wife, who is headmistress of the local private school, and their brand new baby, and I can go home to my peacefully quiet lake house for a scotch on the rocks on the bug-free, screened-in deck.
The stage lights go on. The semi-rowdy crowd quiets down, and the amateur orchestra begins the overture. The music is hokey and overly romantic, reminding me of why I never see musicals when I occasionally office in New York.
When the action begins, everything proceeds about how I would expect until something strange happens only a few minutes into the first act.
Eliza Doolittle happens. Or rather, the actress portraying Eliza Doolittle happens. My breath hitches. Something heavy drops onto my chest like a boulder falling from a cliff into the sea. It’s a certain kind of ache that isn’t totally unpleasant. And, why the hell are my palms sweating?
Is this … is this what sentimental people mean when it’s love at first sight? I don’t know, but like those people, whose stories I always suspected were phony, I have this strange, overwhelming urge to nudge Miles and say, “I’m going to marry that girl.”
2
Rushmore
I don’t like this.
Not because she’s bad, but because she’s that good—professional-level good. She’s so much better at acting and singing than anyone else in the company that she’s simply in another stratosphere.
When she sings, I feel as though she’s singing only to me. When rational thought takes hold again, I feel oddly jealous knowing that, in fact, she’s singing for everyone’s benefit.
I can’t believe I’m feeling things for a performance taking place in front of people mostly enjoying wine from aluminum cans. It’s ridiculous. I am utterly mesmerized.
And not just by her looks. Her cockney accent is perfection. Her comic timing is murdering the crowd, and this script isn’t all that funny. The crowd loves her. The spotlight loves her. She makes the other actors look better.
Everything about her radiates a passion for what she’s doing. She sells every single word.
I want to check the program to find out who she is, but I can’t take my eyes off her. Not for a second.
Her enormous brown eyes are more captivating than anything I’ve ever seen, even though her sweet, heart-shaped face is smudged with makeup to make her appear shabby.
That’s the funniest thing about this whole production: she doesn’t belong on that stage.
She belongs on Broadway. She belongs … with me.
I tear my eyes away for half a second and glance around at other members in the audience. I’m clearly not the only one here who has been bewitched by her.
A dormant, territorial beast awakens in my chest. She’s mine. I want her, and I don’t share well with others.
I am not a man who wants people. I want things. I see a crumbling old coastal resort, and my skin itches. When I see the potential, I want it for myself.
But her. I would not change a thing.
Every time the actor playing Henry Higgins comes anywhere near her, my fists clench.
At one time, I had thought that if I ever met my match, it would be at our annual shareholders meeting. But no. I’m struck by Cupid’s arrow while covered in bug spray in a public park adjacent to a frisbee golf course. What the hell is frisbee golf, anyway? It’s not golf at all without clubs and greens, and…oh god, what is happening to me?
This mystery woman has got me turned so completely upside down I nearly forget the reason I’ve come here tonight. At intermission, Miles has to elbow me to distract me from flipping through the playbill to find her.
“Oh. That’s right. Dammit, where’d he go?”
Miles and I find Ford in the crowd without too much trouble. I zero in on him. No longer worried about appearing too eager, I waste no time approaching him.
I shake Weston Ford’s hand vigorously. “We spoke on the phone yesterday. As I said, my daughter Ridley attends Greenbridge Academy, and she and her swim teammates have a problem. I’ve been asked to help solve that problem.” Weston Ford listens while I make my pitch, which ends with a generous salary offer as reflected in the paperwork that Miles hands over to him.
Ford counters right away with a higher salary. I have to respect him for that. I tell him I’ll get back to him. I consider countering with an immediate “yes,” so I can get on with googling the name of the actress playing Eliza Doolittle, but unfortunately I don’t have that authority without the approval of the rest of the board of trustees. However, I can make a few calls and if anyone whines about Weston’s counter offer, I can personally make up the difference. It’s what I do.
We shake hands and I assure him that I’ll have Miles come back to him with the board’s decision tomorrow.
Business attended to, I whip out my phone flashlight and get back to studying the program.
“You coming?” I barely glance up at Miles, who looks anxious to leave.
“I think I’m going to stay.”
He laughs incredulously and peeks at what I’m doing.
“Hunter Rydell.” I murmur her name and it falls from my lips like poetry. Will we be changing her name to Rushmore? Maybe, but I think hyphenated has a better ring to it. Hunter Rydell-Rushmore. That’s the name of my next wife. My second and last wife if I don’t fuck this up.
I hear Miles’s voice issue a warning.
“Easy, Hoss. I don’t think she’s even legal.”
I raise my eyebrow at the nickname as I hold up the program. “You didn’t read the playbill. Her bio says she’s 18.”
Mile lets out a sharp guffaw. “And she’s on the swim team with your daughter. If Martha finds out the board of trustees president is fixating on one of her students, she will shit a brick.”
I meet his gaze with the fierceness of an angry bull, the face I typically reserve for Rushmore Hospitality Group board meetings when the chairman behaves like a little bitch. “I have an easy fix for that. Don’t tell her.”
Miles opens his mouth to reply but the stage lights go on and the music swells and I can barely understand what he’s saying. All I catch are the words “Hunter’s father,” “attorney,” and “beast.” He chuckles and pats me on the shoulder before leaving.
I make my way back to my godforsaken lawn chair and try to settle in for the rest of the show. But I cannot settle. I can’t sit still. I have to stand because everything in my life is about to change and I’m feeling things I barely recognize building in my heart.
Standing at the back and off to the side to avoid getting in anyone’s line of sight, I curse the fact that I’m not closer to her.
By the time she appears in a knockout ball gown, I’m so overcome I’m nearly singing all these silly songs right along with her.
I text my assistant, Pearce.
Need a bouquet. 2 doz red roses. Delivered to the park ASAP.
On it, he replies.
I think better of it and text him again. Make that pink roses. Don’t want to come on too strong, I think.
Of course, Mr. Rushmore.
My irrational feelings toward Henry Higgins’s proximity to her do not wane, and by the time the show ends, I’m ready to leap onto the stage, punch th
at fussy, misogynistic asshole in the face and whisk my lovely Hunter away. Maybe whisking any woman away is its own kind of misogyny, but nothing about my own urges makes any sense to me anymore.
Everything in my life has been a series of pragmatic, well thought out business decisions up to this point.
And now, I’m head over heels for someone young enough to be my daughter.
This is going to turn my entire world upside down.
And for the first time in my life, I’m OK with that.
3
Hunter
My best friend Addie appears at the edge of the stage as I’m taking my bow. She hands me a small bunch of wildflowers and I blow her a kiss, knowing I’ll see her after the show.
“Thank you!” I shout over the cheers of the audience.
“So proud of you!” She waves and gestures to indicate she’ll see me at my house later.
I love that girl. I watch her sprint off to gather supplies for our late-night binge fest.
Addie and I are nearly seniors at Greenbridge Academy. Swim practice will begin this week for both of us, so tonight is our last sleepless night spent devouring junk food before the end of summer.
Just when I’m about to step back and join the full cast bow, I see someone from the audience come forward holding up a massive bouquet of long-stemmed pink roses.