The Last Eligible Billionaire

Amelia has barely driven the cart out of hearing range, the security cart accompanying her but lighter two men who are keeping a respectful distance, when I hear my name, and it’s not coming from Begonia.

“Hayes! Hayes, hi. Everything okay out at the estate?”

I eyeball the woman responsible for me being here, on a dirt road, instead of safely on a golf cart headed back quickly to the pile of figures and new responsibilities I need to sort through today, away from the prying eyeballs of the single women of Sprightly.

Begonia smiles brightly, then grabs my hand and squeezes. “She can’t hurt you. She’d get fired as mayor, and trust me, after what I heard at the market this morning, that’s the last thing she’d jeopardize.”

“For the record, this is the last place I want to be.” And I mean both standing here, in the open, and also walking beside Begonia, who is so very damn bright and sunny and seemingly trustworthy, which I find completely untrustworthy.

“But it’s such a beautiful morning. That has to make it a little better,” Begonia replies with a Begonia smile.

The world will either eat her up, as they say, or chew her out for that smile. And the fact that I’ve never been able to judge which is exactly why I’m now the CFO of Razzle Dazzle while my brother and father are the creative geniuses picking our film and television line-ups every year.

“I’m so glad I ran into you this morning,” Kristine continues. She’s in her late thirties, white with mousy brown hair and a nose slightly too large for her face. Once upon a time, she was the perfect bland choice for a date when I wanted to feel like a normal person whose every move isn’t scrutinized by the press or well-meaning family members. “Seems like you might be having connection problems with your gate intercom system. Hamish is still around if you need an electrician.”

I stifle a wince as I turn and nod to Kristine as she descends the dune from the main road just outside of town. “Ms. Turner. Lovely weather.”

“Good job,” Begonia whispers with a hand squeeze.

Kristine is smiling brightly at me, but it’s not a Begonia smile. It’s far more awkward and inquisitive. “I called the sheriff’s office up at the point and let them know you were back, so they’re watching out for any unusual activity, though I see you’re not as alone as we thought you were. And we activated the Oysterberry Bay gossip chain. Nobody’s gonna bug you, and if you need anything at all, just give me a holler.” She looks down at where Begonia’s fingers are linked in mine, and a rare flash of guilt pokes me in the gut.

Dating Kristine was another act of rebellion the last time multiple family members decided they had the perfect woman for me. Thank heavens, Thomas ended up divorced not long after that, and Mathias Randolf landed on the list of the world’s dwindling single billionaires when stock in his healthcare software skyrocketed, so I was given a brief reprieve from scheming family members and their devious friends.

A reprieve that is now over and carries with it more grief than I can admit to in public.

“Glad to see you back,” she continues. “I tried to get in touch when Blaine left and his girlfriend stayed, because it felt unusual, but nobody at your office returned my calls. The sheriff checked in every now and again, and it didn’t seem like she was robbing you, so we had no choice but to let it go.”

That’s in line with what my head of security told me late yesterday afternoon.

I haven’t been back to this house since my ill-advised romp with Kristine two years ago. In that time, my long-standing property manager out here took a few liberties, including moving himself into the main house, and then got kicked out by his girlfriend, who decided to shove it to all of us by listing the house on a vacation rental site.

Hence Begonia’s presence.

With clear expectations of the house being empty for the foreseeable future, when in actuality, she would’ve been getting another visitor today, and three more tomorrow, because Blaine’s girlfriend double-, triple-, and quadruple-booked the house for the next three years.

The only reason Begonia was alone yesterday was that her intended co-occupants came down with food poisoning and couldn’t travel.

My security team is handling the details of taking care of every part of the issue.

“I love your island here, Kristine,” Begonia says into the settling silence. “Everyone’s so friendly, and the shops are adorable. You must love living here.”

Kristine eyeballs our hands once again, then gives Begonia a flat smile. “Couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Great place for keeping in touch with what’s important.”

“You can really feel the love all over. This is the best hidden gem I’ve ever visited. But don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone. Too many tourists would ruin it.”

“We aim for just right.”

“You’re doing a spectacular job.”

Begonia beams.

Kristine smiles back hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to but can’t help herself.

I saw my mother do the same yesterday when Begonia spilled the take-out lobster rolls she’d insisted on ordering for dinner for all of us. And there’s one for the floor, and one for Marshmallow, and one for a reminder to me to be less clumsy next time. We all have our moments, don’t we? Here. Take mine. I ate too much cheesecake yesterday anyway and I’m still not hungry.

“We should get going,” Begonia says brightly. “Lots to do today. Thank you so much for all of your kindness. Marshmallow! Drop the crab and c’mon, boy. You don’t want that thing biting your nose or tongue or your ears. Who’s a good dog? Marshmallow’s such a good dog.”

She waves at Kristine with a non-threatening smile. “He’s smart, but not always bright, you know? And we love him exactly as he is.”

With Kristine fully smiling back now, Begonia tugs my hand, and then we’re back on the path, me holding the bicycle with my other hand, her dog racing ahead of us with a live crab in its mouth.

We look like we’re in a damn Razzle Dazzle film.

But while Jonas always plays a character who’s charmingly baffled by his feelings for his on-screen love interest, I merely feel awkward and uncomfortable at suddenly being alone and the very picture of romantic perfection with the woman who put me to sleep last night.

How did she manage that?

She’s a virtual stranger, and when my brain starts spinning, there’s nothing that will calm it.

Except, apparently, lying in Begonia’s lap, with the scent of lavender mingling with the fresh sea air, getting a head massage that I never should’ve agreed to in the first place.

Maybe it was the incense. Is it possible to be overly sensitive to incense? I’ve never used the damn stuff before.

“Why did you get divorced?” I ask Begonia in the silence. It’s better than getting lost in my own head.

Also, I should know these things for the inquisition that’ll be coming from my mother. She clearly suspects this is fake, which means I need to improve my game if I don’t want to have to threaten to make a scene with the media.

And the truth is, I don’t want to have to threaten to make a scene.

I’ve made my peace with the media, but that doesn’t mean I go looking for opportunities for my social life to be featured.

Walking back with Begonia was, in fact, the better option for keeping up appearances.

“He didn’t like my dog.”

“You didn’t adopt the dog until after you filed paperwork.”

“Just how thorough was that background check, and did you memorize it?”

“Why did you get divorced? As your boyfriend, I should know.”

She lifts a thoughtful gaze to me. “You should, shouldn’t you? Okay. I’ll tell you. But first, you have to tell me if you’ve ever had a pet.”

Any other woman I’ve ever dated would’ve asked about my history with Kristine, and while Begonia might come off as flaky, I suspect she’s wiser about the world than the casual observer might notice when she hides it behind the compliments and bubbles of her personality, though time will tell if those bubbles are real or put-on. Either way, they’re suspicious.

“You don’t want to ask how many other women will be arriving on my doorstep vying for my attention?”

“Oh, you think there’ll be more? Will there be any actresses? Oh! What about famous artists? Wait. They probably don’t want you for your money, and your personality isn’t exactly the type that usually jives with artists. We like to be the temperamental ones in a relationship, and we love being broke, because it gives us something to complain about. Oh, barf. Tell me you’re not expecting a bunch of lady CEOs. Don’t get me wrong, I admire the crap out of them for the things they accomplish, and Amelia is lovely in her own way—I mean, she can’t be barf when she was on Dancing with the Stars—but give me someone who wants to talk about how difficult clay can be in humidity, and I’ll have a new BFF.”

Her eyes are sparkling like she doesn’t expect me to know what a BFF is.

Who am I to disappoint? “Clay is related to bank failure Fridays?”

She squeals with laughter and pokes me in the bicep. “You did it again. You made a joke. Sleeping was really good for you, wasn’t it?”

“Please tell me you don’t drink coffee. Or that you’ve already had six cups today. One or the other. Nothing in between.”

“Nope. I’m riding the high from horrifying your mother when she came into our bedroom last night.”

I jerk to a stop. “My mother came into the bedroom last night?” That wasn’t a dream. “What did you say to her?”

“I shushed her and told her you’d had a few long days and that you needed your sleep.” She tilts her head. “She was really horrified. Is it a Rutherford family thing that you’re not supposed to be shirtless with a woman in bed in real life in your own home?”

“Yes.”

She studies me, and when I tug her hand to move again, she doesn’t move. “Is it the hair dye? I was worried yesterday about leaving it on too long, but I actually like how bright it turned out. It’s like, hello, world, Begonia is ready to experience all of you again. But hair dye isn’t against your family’s principles and image, is it?”

“Yes. It’s the hair dye.”

“Are you always a bad liar, or are you just trying to make me stop talking?”

“Yes.”

The confounding woman laughs. “So sleep doesn’t make you more charming. Noted. Were you up early enough to see the sun rise? It was glorious this morning. Like Monet painted it. I know it’s totally cliché for an art teacher to say Monet’s her favorite, when I could pick Berthe Morisot or Alfred Sisley, or a non-impressionist, but Monet’s colors are like—looking at his water lilies collection is like seeing the full potential of my soul on display. They make me happy and peaceful and hopeful all at the same time.”

I frown. “Have you been to Musée Marmottan Monet?”

“No, but it’s totally on the bucket list. I started a Paris fund the day I left Chad, and if I budget right, I can get there in two years.”

Her face is shining, eyes lit up, her smile wide, as though the idea of pinching pennies to afford a trip to Paris to see a gallery featuring hundreds of pieces by her favorite artist makes her happy.

And not a small amount of happiness, but more excitement than I’ve ever felt over anything in my life since—

Dammit.

Since I got my first pet. “When I was six, my parents got us a puppy for the holidays. I came down with a horrible cold the same day and lived in utter misery for a week while hugging that damn dog at every opportunity until my nanny suggested I was allergic to it.”

She squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry. That’s heartbreaking.”

“We had fish tanks instead for the rest of my childhood.”

“My dad ran a summer camp. Mom hated it, which is why they got divorced, but I loved it. Hyacinth and I spent every summer there, running wild and playing on the ropes course and shooting archery and swimming in the pool and riding horses and fishing in the lake. We had minnows for bait, but neither of us could bear to actually hook them, so we’d sneak them back to our cabin and try to raise them as pets.”

“We had jellyfish and stingrays in our tanks.”

Her eyes go wide, and after a moment of her eyebrows arching wildly, she bursts out laughing. “Of course you did.”

A reluctant smile tugs my lips. “There was a very large grouper that I named O-face.”

She snorts. “You didn’t.”

“I was informed quickly that the grouper preferred to not be mocked for its expression, and it was renamed Theodore. And the octopus that I named Octopussy was rapidly renamed Harrison.”

Her laughter mingles with the sound of the surf, and for the first time since my phone rang with the news two weeks ago that my cousin Thomas had passed, I feel as though I can take a full breath.

It’s one small moment of peace without the weight of grief and familial expectations and my sudden status as the world’s last eligible billionaire bachelor.

This is the respite I sought when I left New York for Maine.

She was right to insist we walk, for more reasons than appearances.

“Hyacinth named an entire batch of minnows after all the roles Jonas played one summer,” Begonia says.

My sigh is so automatic, I can’t stop it.

“Do you not get along with Jonas?” she asks. “Or does it just annoy you that everyone thinks he’s so perfect?”

“You accused me of setting you up yesterday, but I’m beginning to wonder if the opposite is true, Ms. Fairchild.”

“Don’t Ms. Fairchild me, Mr. Rutherford. I saw you in dancing hamster pajama pants. Fancy doesn’t work between us anymore. Also, I work with teenagers, and I have yet to see any set of siblings who adore each other all the time, even the ones who like each other most of the time. It’s not natural to not have conflict with your family. If Hyacinth was as famous as Jonas is, I’d probably sigh like that too. And we might be twins and adore each other, but we fight plenty too. Hello? Signed non-disclosure agreement? You have a very rare opportunity to bare your soul to someone who won’t repeat a word, won’t judge you and who’s had enough therapy in the past year to probably say some very insightful things about your life that just might make you smile more often. Hit me with it. What’s the story with you and Jonas?”

“He got married.”

“You wanted his wife for yourself?”

“Dear god, no. I didn’t want to be the richest single man in the world. It makes me a target for more attention than—”

“Hayes!” someone calls from the road above. “Oh my gosh, Hayes! That is you. Hi! Hi, I’m Martina.”

“In short, it makes that happen,” I finish on a sigh.

“Back off, lady,” Begonia calls. “This one’s mine.”

The elderly woman’s brown face scrunches in irritation. “Well, aren’t you an impertinent little twit. I was just being friendly to a neighbor I’ve never met.”

Begonia grins. “Sorry. I’m terribly jealous. I thought you wanted him for his butt in these jeans.”

Martina fans her face. “If I did want him, and I’m not saying I do, but if I did, could you blame me? I might be old, but I’m not blind.”

“Keep being fabulous and putting yourself out there.” Begonia flashes her a thumbs-up, then smacks my ass, which has the unfortunate effect of making me picture her naked breasts, and that is not nearly as unappealing as it was yesterday when they were surprise naked breasts. “We need to get going. Hayes is late for work, and if he doesn’t work, he can’t afford to treat me to a lobster dinner on a sunset cruise.”

Begonia winks.

The old lady titters. “Oh, you’re a cheeky one. A billionaire not affording a lobster dinner. Ha! Come say hi at the flower shop, Hayes. Your girlfriend deserves it. I like her.”

“How the devil do you do that?” I mutter to Begonia as she waves at the woman and tugs my hand to get us moving again.

“Do what?”

“Make friends with anything that moves.”

“All people just want to be accepted for who they are. It’s not that hard to tell someone they have a nice haircut or a great smile or excellent taste in butts.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It brings me so much joy to see people happy. Way worth the effort.”

“All people?”

“I don’t like to think about people who don’t deserve to be happy, which means I basically refuse to acknowledge they exist, unless I have to, like when I think they’re a tuxedo-clad murderer bursting into my bathroom, so in my little world, yes. All people.”

I cannot fathom looking at every person I come into contact with as someone who deserves to be happy. Not when so many of them give me headaches.

But Begonia—Begonia took my headache away.

I could argue she gave me a scalp massage and lit her lavender incense because it makes her life easier if I’m more agreeable, or because if I was unconscious, she could’ve found more Maurice Bellitano originals for her dog to chew on, or that she was planning to copy my driver’s license to try to steal my identity and bank accounts, but between her saucy grin, her background check, and her utter horror at what her dog did to the carving of my grandfather, I can’t find it inside of me to believe anything she’s done since I found her in my house yesterday has been a purely selfish act.

Sorcery with that head rub, possibly. Selfishness, no.

She’s had ample opportunity to rob me blind if that was her intent, and if she’s looking for a hair sample for god only knows what reason, she could’ve waited until I got out of the shower and not had to touch me in the meantime.

And for as much as I don’t trust her, I don’t believe she’d be snapping pictures of me in my sleep to sell to the tabloids or anyone else.

“Your mom said you just took over as the Chief Financial Officer for Razzle Dazzle—does that mean long hours and endless meetings? And can you really do it from here with limited cell service?”

“We’ll go to Paris this weekend,” I announce.

She stops. “What?”

“You’ve never seen Musée Marmottan Monet. A weekend trip to Paris for you to see Monet’s waterlilies is pocket change to me, and an impromptu date in Europe will solidify the rumors that I am not, in fact, eligible.”

She’s staring at me like I’ve kicked her dog. “But—but I haven’t earned it yet.”

“You—pardon?”

“It’s an incredibly generous offer. I don’t mean to imply I don’t appreciate it. I do. That’s so thoughtful and kind, but while it’s pocket change to you, to me, it’s the entire experience of saving and anticipating and savoring the idea. Like Christmas morning. Do you live for those five minutes when you’re tearing through the wrapping paper, or do you live for the months from the minute you start making your wish list and talking to your friends about what you’re hoping to get? And like, dreaming about the pony you’ll find in the backyard, even knowing that your dad declared bankruptcy this year and can’t afford a pony. Plus knowing that your mom and stepdad would never get you anything that would make poop that has to be cleaned. But you spend all those months dreaming and waiting anyway until that moment when you see the tree and the presents under it, and it’s like, the joy of the possible?”

She’s speaking English, and I think I follow what she’s saying, but I can’t at all comprehend why she’d say no. “You would rather anticipate seeing your favorite paintings than actually see your favorite paintings?”

Her glowing smile slowly drops off her face. “Never mind. You’re right. We should go to Paris. It’ll keep up appearances. Marshmallow! Sweetie, don’t eat the rock. Where did—oh. Yes. Okay, good boy. Good boy helping push the bike back to the house.”

The dog’s latched onto the bike’s other handlebar and is attempting to walk on its back legs on the bicycle’s other side, helping push it along.

“He could’ve made such a great service dog, but he doesn’t take orders well.” She’s talking faster, like she’s grateful for the subject change. “He knows how to do all the things, but it’s like he’s missing that part of his brain where he understands that he’s supposed to do it when people tell him to, instead of when he wants to. And he went through three owners who thought it was cute at first and then couldn’t live with him, and so I adopted him because he deserves to be loved for who he is, flaws and all, and so do I, so we make a good pair. Especially now that I’ve figured out how to Marshmallow-proof my apartment.”

Ah. Of course. She’s worried about leaving her dog. “The animal will survive without you for a weekend. I have competent staff who can arrive within a day to learn his eccentricities before we depart. And we need to keep up appearances.”

She bites her lip and looks down at the dirt road. “I don’t actually have a passport. That’s the other issue.”

“I’ll make a phone call.”

“That’s cheating.”

“I live in a world where my every public move is under scrutiny, where I’m judged based on the fantasy world of the films my family puts out into the world rather than on the world we actually live in, where people befriend me for every reason except enjoying my company, and where my acquaintances are just as likely to double-cross me as they are to follow through on their promises. So if the other side of that coin is that I can make a phone call to have a passport application expedited, then I’ll make the damn phone call.”

She gives me another of those looks that I’m coming to dread. “You’re very suspicious of the world and its intentions.”

“Welcome to my life, Ms. Fairchild.”

“So why do you trust me?”

“I don’t so much trust you as I trust that I can destroy you if I need to.”

The damn woman doesn’t so much as flinch. Instead, she studies me as if she’s trying to peer into my soul and decide if I have it in me to crush a high school art teacher who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Having been labeled the weird one from a young age simply because I wasn’t what anyone thought I should be, having spent my entire life feeling like I don’t conform to my family’s expectations, taking years to grow into my too-serious, too-angular, awkward face and body while everyone else in my family just seemed to fit, and knowing how very vulnerable it can make a person to be on the wrong end of a rejection at exactly the wrong time—the truth is, I couldn’t intentionally hurt her.

I don’t enjoy hurting people any more than I enjoy being a dick. And I enjoy it even less when being an asshole is necessary.

Like now.

I refuse to feel guilty about it—this is my estate, and I didn’t wish for this situation any more than she did—but I’m realizing I’m not angry with Begonia.

I’m angry with the world, and I’m taking it out on her.

To be fair, I take it out on everyone, but in this instance, I can acknowledge it’s not her fault.

She’ll realize I’m right about Paris once we get there. And I’ll make sure she has a nice time.

I have to.

The world will be watching.

“I’ll find a sitter for Marshmallow and go to Paris with you,” she finally says, “but only on one condition.”

“You’re mistaken if you think you have room for negotiation, Ms. Fairchild.”

“I’ll find a sitter for Marshmallow and go to Paris with you,” she repeats, “and in return, I want you to have sex with me.”

I draw to an abrupt halt while the dog tries to keep going, leading to him yanking on the damn bike handle while I gape at Begonia.

She peers back expectantly like she hasn’t asked for a larger favor than my bank account.

“There it is,” I mutter. “We’ll be ending this relationship the minute we get back to—”

“Quit being a pompous ass who thinks this is about me taking advantage of you and listen.” It’s the schoolteacher voice, which, unfortunately, despite all the reasons it shouldn’t, causes blood to flow south to my cock again.

“You don’t have to kiss me, you don’t have to look at me, we don’t have to have the lights on, and we can keep touching to a minimum,” she says. “There will definitely be multiple forms of birth control in place, and I’ll sign whatever you need me to sign, agreeing to whatever you need me to agree to in the event of something unexpected happening.”

I make a noise, but she keeps talking.

“I just—I haven’t slept with anyone since Chad, and I want to move on. Physically. I need to take that leap, and I’m not quite afraid of it, but I haven’t been putting myself out there either, and you’re here, and we’re pretending to be dating, and you’ve already seen me naked, and your mother caught us in bed together, and I wouldn’t even care if you wanted to call me by someone else’s name to make it palatable enough for you, so—”

This time, when I make another unintelligible noise, she pauses.

But only for a moment.

“Never mind. Never mind. Forget I said anything. This is a terrible idea. I’m done talking. Fine. We’ll go to Paris. I’ll ask Kristine for someone here on the island who’s good with strong-willed and over-trained dogs, and I’ll go pop my post-divorce cherry with some lovely fisherman in the village once our two weeks of fake-dating is over.”

I stare at her without blinking, completely still. I’ve been asked to sleep with a woman so that she can add a billionaire to her body count. I’ve been asked to sleep with a woman because she claims she finds me sexy and desirable. I’ve been asked to sleep with a woman when we’ve both been drunk. I’ve been asked to sleep with a woman because I’m into the weird ones and she believed all the rumors that started about me when I was in college.

But I’ve never been asked to be a woman’s first post-divorce romp, where we’re pretending we’re not actually fucking each other, just because I’m convenient.

And while my brain is horrified, my body—well.

My body still remembers what her hands felt like on my scalp last night, and what it felt like to kiss her when my mother arrived, and how easy it was to grip her hips not ten minutes ago while putting on the show for Amelia and my security detail, and it’s eager to see this through.

Even in the dark.

Calling each other by different names.

She shakes her hand out of mine and keeps walking. The dog attempts to push the bike to keep up. I make a noise at it, and it shrinks back on its haunches and gives me the same wounded look Begonia’s worn more than once in the past twenty-four hours.

“Begonia.”

“I know, I know. We have to get back to the house together and look like everything’s fine. Just—I need a minute, okay?”

“Begonia.”

“What?” She spins and glares at me. Her cheeks are flaming red, nearly as bright as her hair, and her bright eyes are clouded over.

I swallow hard. I don’t know which one of us is right and which is wrong here, which is unfortunately standard in my world.

It happens when you trust exactly no one. “I’ll be finished with work by four, so we can take the sunset cruise for dinner. If you don’t have a dress you’d like to wear, I’ll have Charlotte take you into town to go shopping. My treat.”

“I don’t want your money, Hayes.”

“You can’t fake-date a billionaire without taking advantage of it, bluebell. It’s just money.”

She’s sad.

I’m offering her Paris and shopping and romantic dinners, and ignoring her off-the-table offer to let her save face, and she’s sad.

Confounding woman.

“Thank you for your generosity,” she finally says stiffly. “I’m sure I have a dress in my luggage that will work, but if I have to be in something new to be seen in public with you, I’ll clear my calendar for this afternoon and go shopping with your mother’s personal assistant. I’m sure it’ll be a wonderful time to get to know her better.”

At least I’m getting one thing right about this fake relationship.

We’ve mastered the art of irritating the shit out of each other.