Chapter Ten
In the basement, I’m surprised to find Steve sitting on a faded leather couch in what can only be described as the ultimate man cave.
A neon beer signs flickers, casting its low light to every corner of the spacious room. A bar sits against one wood-paneled wall and a tiny wine rack in one corner, while a flat-screened television plays Jeopardy! .
The floor is covered in a worn carpet that has seen many spills and late-night conversations. It’s mottled with splotches of different shades. To the right of the bar is a pool table that has seen better days, its felt rubbed bare in spots.
Beside it is a dartboard with numerous little holes outside the scoring area.
Steve looks up from the TV, a quirky smile playing on his lips.
“Escaping all the hormones?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.
I can’t help a slight smile. “Just came down to get a drink.”
He rises. “What can I get you?”
“I hear you have Wild Turkey.”
“Love the stuff. But you? I’d have pegged you for a Basil Haydn kind of guy. Or maybe even Pappy’s.”
His reference to Pappy Van Winkle surprises me. It’s a top-shelf bourbon that can run you sixty-five bucks a shot in Boston.
“I won’t lie,” I say. “Pappy’s is smooth as mother’s milk, but I grew up on Wild Turkey. It’s in my bones, and it’ll always be my favorite.”
“Mine too. Skye enjoys it as well.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I suppose you would.” He pours us each a glass.
The aroma of dinner wafts down the stairs. I inhale the savory goodness. “Smells good.”
“Maggie’s pot roast,” Steve says. “Always a treat.”
“I love pot roast. I have vague memories of my mom making it before…”
“Before what?”
“Never mind.” I’m not about to confide in a man I just met about how the fire and my father’s drinking led us into poverty so deep that we didn’t eat beef for years.
I take a seat next to Steve on the couch and take a sip of my drink.
“ Jeopardy! , huh?” I say.
“Never miss it,” he says. “I love trivia. Always have. The categories are tough tonight though. Opera? I don’t know shit about opera.”
“I don’t really, either,” I admit. I peruse the categories that are listed.
Opera masterpieces, world capitals, movie quotes, mythology, famous firsts, and rock and role , whatever that means.
“I’ll take ‘rock and role’ for four hundred,” the contestant says.
“This ‘Ziggy Stardust’ rock icon played the Goblin King in the 1986 cult classic fantasy film Labyrinth ,” the host reads.
“Who is David Bowie?” I say.
“Impressive,” Steve says. “You couldn’t have been more than a toddler in eighty-six.”
“My father’s a huge Bowie fan. He used to blast ‘Space Oddity’ through the house, singing along with a beer in hand, no matter what time of day it was. His vinyl collection was impressive, though most of the records were scratched.”
And most of them burned up in the fire that destroyed our home, but I don’t mention that.
“Bowie was an icon,” Steve agrees.
I continue to talk and laugh with Steve as we finish our drinks and watch the game show. Steve seems to be a good guy and has a great sense of humor. He sucks at Jeopardy! , though.
I look up at the sound of a throat clear.
Skye stands at the bottom of the stairs.
“Mom says dinner’s ready.”
Crap.
I was supposed to take drinks up for Skye and her mom. Instead, I got wrapped up in talking and laughing with Steve. Over Jeopardy! , of all things.
But damn, it felt good to laugh. I don’t laugh often enough.
Hell, I hardly laugh at all.
“Okay, sweetie,” Steve says. “Tell her we’ll be right up.” He turns to me. “I have a little wine cellar in the corner. I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what you’re used to, but let’s pick a wine for dinner.”
“My pleasure,” I say.
I’m enjoying myself. Actually enjoying myself with Skye’s father. I rise and walk over to the wine rack. It’s hardly impressive, but I’m flattered that he asked me to choose one.
I peruse the few bottles of wine in her father’s rack. I choose an Argentinian Malbec. I love fine red wine, the kind you contemplate as it sits on your tongue, drizzles down your throat. But I also enjoy a good table wine—something that doesn’t require a lot of thought and is there only to complement the meal. “This one, I think. It should go well with the pot roast your wife made, which smells amazing, by the way.”
“Agreed.” Steve pats me on the back. “After you, sweetie,” he says to Skye.
She nods and walks up the stairs to the dining room. Her dad and I follow her.
“Dinner’s all ready,” Maggie calls from the kitchen. “I’ll be right in with the meat.”
“Sounds good, Mags,” Steve says as he shows me where to sit.
Skye begins to sit down, but first I hold Skye’s chair out for her.
I’ve always done that. My mother taught me to be a gentleman when I was just a kid. But I can see her dad is suitably impressed. We wait until her mom comes in. Steve holds the chair out for Maggie, and once she’s seated, Steve and I finally sit.
Steve says a quick grace, after which at least five minutes pass in silence, but I’m oddly comfortable with Steve and Maggie. Skye takes a serving of each dish that’s offered to her, her gaze focused on the plate of store-bought bread.
Is she embarrassed?
Hell, I grew up with cheap bread on the table. Some days, it’s all we had.
I grab two slices. “This takes me back,” I say. “Sliced bread on the table every night. I grew accustomed to it.”
“Really? In Boston?” her dad says. “I thought it was a Midwestern thing.”
“It’s definitely a Boston thing, too,” I say. “Sometimes, bread was the only thing on our table.”
Skye’s eyes widen into circles. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but Skye knows how I grew up. She may not know everything, but she knows enough.
Silence again. Neither of her parents seem to know how to respond to my revelation. My cheeks warm a bit, but I don’t feel embarrassed and I don’t regret my words.
I don’t regret my roots, either. There’s a reason why I’m called the blue-collar billionaire. I came from nothing. Built my company with some seed money and a lot of hard fucking work.
I regard Skye and her parents. This—right here—is their roots.
My roots don’t exist anymore. My family no longer lives in South Boston. I can’t “go home” again to find myself like she can.
Perhaps Skye is right.
Perhaps I’m looking for something that no longer exists for me, so I came here instead.
I didn’t come here to figure Skye out. I came here to figure myself out.
Steve interrupts my thoughts. “This is a golden opportunity for me, Braden. To talk to you about the market.”
I lift my eyebrows. What market is he talking about?
“I’ve been watching the exchange lately. It’s been swinging all over the place. People get so nervous when things dip, like they’ve never seen it happen before.”
Ah. “You keep up with the stock market?” I ask. Then I regret my words. Just because he’s a farmer doesn’t mean he wouldn’t follow the market.
He seems unfazed by my comment, though.
“Yeah, I’ve been investing for a while now. It’s not that different from what I do. You’re planting seeds, watching for growth, knowing when to make your move.”
Interesting. I rub my chin. “What’s your take on it all?”
He swallows his bite of pot roast. “You invest in the right spots, just like I plant the corn every year. Some seasons are good, some are rough, but you don’t go digging up your investments the moment things start going south. You give it time, ride out the bad stretches. It’s all about knowing when to hold and when to shift.”
He’s not wrong. “True,” I say, “but there’s more volatility in the market than farming, isn’t there?”
Steve shrugs. “Volatility’s part of it, sure, but it’s predictable if you’re paying attention. Just like reading the weather. You don’t panic at the first sign of a storm, but you also don’t ignore the signs. Most folks pull out of the market too early, same way they might overreact to a dry spell on the farm. It’s about patience and knowing when to adjust.”
“So you’ve been investing?”
Steve grins. “Yeah, been picking my spots for years. Bought some tech stocks when people were calling it a fad. Sat through the rough patches, didn’t blink. Knew they’d bounce back.”
“Absolutely,” I agree. “I have a company that’s devoted only to stock investments, and that’s how we look at it. It’s a long-term thing. Diversity is key, but so is patience. You’ve got to let your investments grow, give them time, and resist the urge to jump ship when things get rocky. It’s about finding balance—staying flexible enough to adapt but grounded enough to trust the process.”
Steve nods. “That’s exactly right. It’s the same principle with farming. You have to be patient. You don’t see results overnight, but if you’ve diversified and taken care of things properly, you can handle the rough patches. It’s not about reacting to every downturn. It’s about trusting the process and knowing when to adjust. Long-term thinking always wins out.”
Steve’s a smart man, which isn’t surprising, of course. Skye is extremely intelligent. Good genes.
When all the plates are empty, Skye stands to clear the table. Her mom stops her. “Sit down, Skye. I’ll take care of this.”
“That’s okay, Mom. I’m happy to help.”
She’s no doubt happy to get out of the dining for room a few minutes. Steve’s and my conversation has turned to stock options. Skye has never indicated any interest in such things.
I’m impressed with Steve’s knowledge. He’s done well over the years, choosing stocks to invest in and making a modest profit.
A few moments later, Skye and Maggie return with a pie.
“I hope you have room for dessert, Braden,” Maggie says as she hands me a giant slice of pie topped with a large dollop of whipped cream.
“I always have room for dessert, Maggie.”
Though I’m addressing her mom, my gaze locks with Skye’s.
Dessert, indeed.
Many times, Skye and I have indulged in dessert. I know what I’d like to be tasting for dessert. Just her presence has me hyperaware, my groin reacting.
I blink, tearing my eyes away, and focus back on Maggie.
“Mom’s elderberry pie,” Skye says. “My favorite.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had elderberry pie before,” I say, “though my mother made gooseberry pie once. I remember thinking it was kind of sour.”
Maggie smiles. “Now that takes me back. I haven’t had gooseberry pie in years.”
“What’s a gooseberry?” Skye asks.
“It’s a green berry,” her mom says.
“Green? A berry?”
“Yeah. You can still find them in stores with the canned fruit sometimes, but I haven’t seen a fresh gooseberry since I was your age, Skye.” She turns to me. “Elderberries are tart as well, but don’t you worry. I use a fair amount of sugar in this pie, plus the whipped cream will add sweetness as well.”
“I’m sure it’s delicious. Something doesn’t have to be sweet for me to like it.” I smile.
Does Skye recognize my double entendre?
She’s anything but sweet most of the time, and I wouldn’t have her any other way. I quickly maneuver my gaze to Skye, though.
I take a bite of the pie, chew, and swallow, never taking my eyes off her. “Delicious.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Her mother grins.
It is delicious. The flavor is tart and earthy, almost like a cross between blueberries and blackberries, and Maggie’s crust is flaky and buttery.
But I wasn’t talking about the pie.
I’m thinking of Skye’s lips touching mine. The sweet taste of her tongue entwining with mine. The tangy flavor of her pussy.
Fuck.
I’m hard.
Hard and horny as I sit at a dinner table with Skye’s mother and father. Not a good look.
I need to get out of here. How can I learn about Skye—or myself—when all my body does is respond to her? All my brain does is picture her bound and defenseless? At my mercy?
She finishes her pie and helps Maggie clear the table. And all I can think about is getting her back to my hotel room and fucking the hell out of her.