Billionaire's Unexpected Bride (Slade Brothers Book 1) Read online

  I stand and take my cup to the kitchen, pouring a fresh cup. “Coffee?” I ask as he follows along behind me.

  I turn to look at him as I pick up the bottle of whiskey, pouring just a tad into my coffee.

  “Hitting the sauce a little early, are we?” Harrison has known me since I was a boy. He doesn’t exactly approve of the way I live my life.

  “I don’t need your judgments, Harrison,” I say flatly.

  I hear him take a deep breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shake his head. “I guess I’ll be off. You know, enjoying my life instead of wallowing in the past.” He turns without another word.

  I lean against the kitchen counter and sip my coffee as I watch him walk out. When the door slams behind him, I decide a shower is in order. I take my cup to the bathroom with me and set it down on the counter as I start the water. As it heats up, I yank off my shirt and look myself over in the mirror. I look jaded and bitter. My tanned skin is wrinkling around my eyes, my beard is long and overgrown, and my dark hair is starting to gray around the temples from the hard life I’ve lived. I look rough and haggard. I guess Harrison wasn’t too far off when he said “bitter and cynical.”

  I turn away from my reflection and finish undressing before stepping into the shower. The hot water pours over my head and I close my eyes, giving myself over to the heat and relaxation. For the first time this morning, I just let everything go. I don’t think about the past or the future. I don’t think about the stress the company is causing me to feel. I don’t think about what Harrison said, or what the locals think. For once, there’s nothing. It’s silent, and it’s much needed.

  I wash off quickly and end up sitting in the shower, just letting myself waste some time and absorb the heat. God knows my body needs the relaxation. When the water begins to run cold, I step out and get dressed for the day. I pull on a pair of jeans, my dirty work boots, a white sleeveless undershirt, and a flannel shirt. I add a leather belt and pull a hat on my head before heading outside to get some work done.

  I live in the country, and my house is completely private. There’s a long gravel drive that’s at least three miles long. There’s nothing but wheat fields as far as the eye can see. Where the fields end, the mountain range begins. It’s absolutely breathtaking.

  There’s a big red barn just to the side of the old farmhouse. At one point in time, it housed many horses, but the last 20 years or so, it’s been empty. I’ve been thinking about filling it again, but the barn needs a lot of work before that can happen.

  I walk over to the barn and pull the doors open. I’ve been working on mucking the stalls and repairing the old, rotting wood piece by piece. I head up to the loft and flip on the light. I open the doors to let some sun and air in, then plug in the power saw to start cutting the wood I’ll need for the day. After I’ve cut what I need, I carry stacks downstairs and get to work on repairing the stall doors. For each one, I replace all the hinges and hardware, hang the door, and oil it up so it opens easily without any squeaking. By the end of the day, all 12 stalls have new doors. Since I spent all of last week building new stalls, the entire ground level of the barn has been rebuilt.

  I stand back and check out my handiwork. All the workbenches have been refurbished, and all the stalls and doors are brand-new. Instead of heading back upstairs to start my work there, I opt to crack open a beer, blare some loud music, and get to work on putting everything back in place.

  I’m on my sixth beer when my older brother, Colton, walks in.

  “Damn, are you going deaf in your old age?” he teases as he grabs a beer for himself and jumps up onto the workbench to sit down.

  I turn down the music and pick up my beer. “Not yet. Is that something I need to prepare for? You would know,” I joke. He’s only a couple years older, but I’ll never let him forget it since he wouldn’t let me forget it growing up.

  He holds up his middle finger and takes a long drink.

  “Where’s Milly?” I ask, leaning my shoulder against a horse stall.

  He waves his hand through the air. “She’s with the new nanny.”

  “Another one?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

  He doesn’t reply, only nods.

  “How many nannies can one guy burn through? What are you doing to these poor women?” I ask around a smile. My brother is not easy to handle, and he’s only gotten worse since his wife passed away, leaving him alone with their one-year-old daughter.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it, man.” There’s a long minute of silence between us. “The barn is looking good. You must’ve been working nonstop on this.”

  I look around. “Yeah, it’s something to do.”

  He looks at me. Really looks at me. “Is this something you’re doing for you, or is this something you’re doing in the hope of—”

  “Don’t even say her name,” I threaten.

  He holds up his hands. “I was just asking, man. I mean, she was the one who wanted horses, right? You’ve never shown any interest in raising horses.”

  I finish my beer, toss it into a nearby trash can, and grab another from the cooler. “It’s just something to do. Yeah, I’m fixing up the barn. That doesn’t mean I’ll be buying horses anytime soon. Hell, I was thinking about putting an apartment in the loft upstairs, though that doesn’t mean I’m putting ads in the paper. It’s all just something to keep my hands and mind busy. Pass some time.”

  He nods once. “Ah, I get it. Why don’t you go out and make some friends around town?”

  I scoff. “Yeah, like that’ll happen. Why don’t you go make some friends around town?”

  He snorts. “Yeah, you’ve got a point there.”

  Our family is the most hated family in this town. It’s all over a bunch of bullshit too. Years and years ago, back when my family started building the brewery, some locals swore we built on their land. They say my great-grandfather paid off the zoning commissioner and got him to move the property lines. In their eyes, our brewery is on land we stole from them. Of course, it’s been so long now that all the original people involved have passed, but that hasn’t stopped the rumors or the dirty looks we get from their descendants. In my mind, I picture each family sitting down at Christmas dinner and telling their next generation the story of how the Slade family stole their land.

  “So, what you been up to?” I ask, needing to take my mind off of this town.

  He shrugs. “Nothing much. The garage has been keeping me busy.”

  Colton got tired of this small town and the way everyone in it looked at us like we were diseased, so after he married, they moved to a neighboring town and settled down. He opened his own garage with a sliver of his cut from our substantial family fortune and has been living there ever since. I don’t blame him for needing to distance himself from this town. I should’ve done the same thing, but I got stuck with the largest portion of the business when he ran off to get married instead of sticking around and helping Dad when he was needed. He was the eldest son who refused his destiny. I was the second-eldest who was more than happy to take what the oldest rejected.

  “Have you talked to Wyatt lately?” Colton asks. Wyatt is our younger brother. He’s absolutely crazy—the wild child out of us boys. He’s the type who will take any dare—no matter how stupid or dangerous—just to make everyone laugh.

  I shake my head as I lift my beer and take a sip. “No, why?”

  He laughs. “He called me last night. Guess where he was?”

  “Fuck if I know,” I laugh out.

  He chuckles. “His ass was sitting in a Florida jail.”

  I shake my head and rub my eyebrows with one hand. “What? How?”

  “Party boy decided to get drunk and take a page from that movie Coyote Ugly. He got up on the bar and started singing and dancing. When the bouncers tried to get him down, he refused and started a fight that destroyed the whole damn club. A riot started, and the police broke out the police vans, all of it.”

  I
laugh long and hard. “Oh, shit. What’s his bail set at?” God knows we have the money to cover it, but I can’t resist the opportunity to tease him relentlessly.

  “He’s waiting for the judge to decide. He’ll be there until Monday at least.”

  “I tell ya what . . . that kid has lived his life way better than either of us.” I point at him as I toss my empty can into the trash and grab two more from the cooler.

  He joins in on my laugher. “I’m tellin’ ya. Makes me wish I would’ve done some things in my life differently.” A sadness settles over his face.

  “Yeah, but if you had, you never would’ve met and married Haven. And you wouldn’t have had Milly either.”

  He doesn’t say anything. He just nods his head as he stands, lips pressed into a thin line. “Well, I’m going to get out of here. I just wanted to stop by and fill you in on Wyatt. I’d better get back home.” He takes the beer I handed him and pops it open as he moves toward his truck.

  “Careful driving home, man,” I shout to him.

  He laughs. “Okay, Dad,” he teases.

  I lean against the barn door and watch as he backs out of the driveway. When he’s down the road a ways, the silence of the night settles around me. I forget how quiet it is out here until I have company and they leave. The silence is almost haunting. Deafening. Coming from a large family with four brothers, silence is lonely.

  I shake off the chills running up my neck and shut down the barn for the night. I head into the house, and it’s just as quiet as the barn was. My old hunting dog, Tatum, lifts his head off the floor when I walk in, but he’s old and lazy. He doesn’t move to welcome me.

  “Hey, boy,” I say, bending down and patting his head as I pass. He lets out a small groan. “You hungry?” I ask, looking down at him like he might actually answer me. I pour a bit of kibble into his bowl and place it on the floor. His eyes follow me, but he still doesn’t move.

  “Ugh, fine,” I grumble as I pick up the bowl and move it directly in front of his nose. He rolls from his side to his belly and begins to eat, lying down. I laugh as I stand up and grab the bottle of whiskey off the kitchen table. I twist the cap, take a swig, and set the bottle down with a deep breath. “Whoo, that’s some good stuff, Tatum.”

  He looks up at me but doesn’t stop eating.

  I decide I’d better find something for dinner. I haven’t had any food all day—only coffee with whiskey, then beer, and now, some more whiskey. I open the fridge and pull out a steak. I toss some salt and pepper on it and throw some butter in my old cast-iron skillet. I cut up some peppers and onions and toss them into the pan, then throw the slab of meat on top. I place the lid on the skillet and move toward the bedroom. Stripping out of my clothes and boots feels amazing. My back is sore and my feet are tired. It’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long year—er, I guess a long four years.

  I sit on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but my plaid boxers and open the bedside table. Inside the top drawer, pushed to the very back, is a picture frame. I pull the frame out and turn it over. The picture inside takes my breath away and causes a sharp pain to radiate through my chest.

  Casey Edison. The woman I wasn’t enough for. The woman who made me fall in love, only to rip out my heart and stomp on it when she left. In this picture, her long blonde curls are blowing in the breeze. Her plump red lips are turned up in a big smile. Her blue eyes are sparkling with the sun shining against them. Her white summer dress is being blown back by the spring breeze, showing me the perfect outline of her body: long legs, curvy hips, toned stomach, and perfectly round breasts. She’s standing out in the old garden—her garden. The one that’s now overgrown—a field of weeds since she hasn’t been here to take care of it. When she left, the world stopped for me. Nothing mattered. Nothing matters, because I wasn’t enough. Not for her. Not for anybody. This is my life. I am and will always be bitter, cynical, alone.

  Anger washes over me and I toss the picture back into the drawer. I slam it closed and push myself back up. That’s all I have to do: keep fucking going. As I walk into the kitchen, I grab the bottle of whiskey, drink away a little more of my bitterness, and take my place at the stove. One side of my steak is cooked perfectly, so I flip it over and replace the lid before leaning against the counter, staring off into space and wondering how the hell I ended up like this.

  My eyes land on an old family photograph that’s hanging on the wall. It’s a picture of my mom, my dad, my brothers, and me. First, I look at my mother. She passed away from breast cancer when I was 15. She was a kind, patient, loving woman—the type of person every woman aspires to become. Then I look at my dad. Even in this picture, he looks aged, tired, and angry. Bitter. I guess I know where I get it. Then I look at myself. I’m only 10 or so in this picture. A boy. A boy who was always happy and smiling. Growing up, our family already had billions in the bank from the brewery and investments, but if you looked at how we lived, you never would’ve guessed it. We lived just like everyone else, and our home was an old two-story farmhouse. We had land, a barn, animals . . . everything you’d expect to see. While my dad was at the office, the boys were expected to take care of the animals and the land. I guess that’s how we became the hard workers we are now.

  Now that Dad’s retired and the business falls mostly to me, we all get a cut of the profits. None of us needs to work, yet we all still do. Life’s too short to spend it being lazy. Hell, life’s too short to spend it being alone, but here I am.

  When my steak’s done cooking, I toss it onto a plate and move to my favorite recliner. I turn on the TV and zone out—eating, drinking, and pretending I’m actually happy with my life. When my stomach is full and I can drink no more, I recline my seat and drift off.

  I wake to the sound of my front door slamming. My eyes open to a room filled with blinding light. My hand immediately flies to my face, covering my eyes as a groan escapes my mouth. “God, what the fuck?” I mumble, desperately trying to uncover my eyes and adjust to the light so I can see who just walked into my house. Whoever it is better hope they can run fucking fast, because when I can see, I’m chasing them with my shotgun.

  “What’s the matter? Have a little too much to drink last night?” Harrison asks, and I can hear the humor in his tone.

  “Fuck you and close those damn blinds,” I say, sitting up and straining my eyes against the light to see him standing by the front door.

  “It’s going on 10 a.m. Do you remember what you were supposed to do this morning?” he asks, face reddening.

  “What? No.” I push myself forward, grabbing the cord on the blinds and yanking it so the shades fall down. Finally, I can see, but it’s like when you’re in a dark room and a camera flash goes off. That blinding light is still in my vision every time I blink.

  “You were supposed to make an appearance at the local food drive. How in the hell can you expect this town to like you when you make no effort to be a part of it?” He holds his hands out at his sides, eyes narrowing on me. “Remember that big cardboard check you were going to hand over to the shelter?”

  I wave my hand through the air. “Any asshole can do that. Send Dave from accounting.” Why am I the only one who can hand over a check?

  “That’s who’s doing it, you little shit. But that’s not the point. The point is, you need this town to be okay with you so you can expand your damn brewery. This town will never accept you as one of their own if you don’t at least try to be a part of it.” His face is now red. He picks up a newspaper from the coffee table and throws it at me.

  I catch it. “Okay. Damn. I’m sorry.” I toss the paper back onto the table.

  He points his finger at me as he takes a step closer. “If this business fails, it’s on you. I’ve done and am doing everything I can do. But I can only do so much. This one is on you.” Without another word, he turns and walks out, slamming the door behind him.

  I fall back into my chair and take a deep breath. My head lolls to the side, where I find a half-
empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the end table. I reach out and pick up the bottle, but then guilt begins eating at me and I put it back down.

  “Fuck,” I whisper, massaging my temples. How the fuck did I get here?

  I know exactly how I got here, but I refuse to think about her. I already gave in and looked at her picture. That’s something I only do in moments of weakness. I try my hardest to forget about her, but sometimes she comes sneaking back in. In those moments, a pain seizes my heart, and a pit opens in my stomach. It’s enough to stop me dead in my tracks.

  I shake my head and stand, moving toward the shower. I need to occupy my time—to get my mind off everything. I step beneath the hot stream of water and rest my head against the wall as my eyes drift closed. Her picture forms beneath my lids. It takes on a life of its own. The memory of that day plays out and I’m powerless to stop it.

  We were getting ready to go to Colton’s, to have dinner with him and Haven. She went out to the garden to cut some roses—planning to give a bouquet to Haven as a thank you for dinner. When I went outside and saw her, I couldn’t keep my eyes or hands to myself. I snapped that picture and she caught me at the last minute. When the wind blew that dress back, giving me the perfect view of her form, I knew I wouldn’t be able to wait until after dinner. I walked up to her nice and slow, just taking her in. I pulled her against me and pressed my mouth to hers. I can still feel her soft lips moving with my own. I can still taste her. I can still feel her heat from the moment I pushed that dress up and slid into her against the back door.

  My body comes alive just thinking about that moment. My palm moves up, taking myself in hand. I begin pumping up and down. My heart rate spikes when I remember her soft moans. My breathing picks up as I recall her soft skin against mine. My release rises to the surface and I let out a deep growl as I spill myself onto the shower floor. But the moment my body comes down from its high, anger washes over me and I reach out and lightly punch the shower wall. A tile cracks under the pressure. I hate myself for being weak. I hate myself for not being enough. But most of all, I hate myself for chasing her off instead of just being what she needed.