Beauty (Boston Bolts Hockey #5)

Chapter 1 Sienna

ONE

SIENNA

“Why don’t we call your brother? He’ll fix this.”

Frustration flares to life inside me. Everywhere I go, people think it’s the most logical answer. Call your brothers. Use your family name.

For years, I’ve taken that advice, and look where it landed me. I’m two seconds from signing away the right to do the one thing I love.

I glare at the piece of paper in front of me, refusing to even glance at my attorney. “I paid you to resolve this, and you resolved it.” As the pen slides against the settlement documents, a boulder presses down on my chest.

Wasn’t a settlement supposed to make this feeling go away? The mediator said that if everyone was unhappy, then he’d done his job.

I feel beyond miserable, so he’s succeeded there. Yet the people on the other side of the table are all smiles.

I would be too if the finalization of this settlement meant my bank account balance had just increased by more than a million dollars.

A million fucking dollars. It’s certainly worth more than their designs.

Fuck, my head throbs from going over every step that led me to this moment.

The moment I agreed never to open another fashion house and promised never to sell another design. A thirty-year prison sentence wouldn’t feel this harsh.

But it had to be done. The vultures sitting across from me know what my family is worth.

This is about dollar signs and revenge. Revenge that is rightfully sought.

All they’ve worked for is gone. It isn’t their fault.

It’s mine, so this is my punishment. An eye for an eye, I suppose.

But not quite, because they’ll get to design again.

They’ll have to start over, but they’ll have that chance.

I won’t.

Money isn’t enough for them. They’ve taken my livelihood and my passion too.

“I want to thank you all—” the mediator starts in French.

But I’ve heard enough. I have no fucks left to give. So I push back from the table and walk out of his office without a backward glance.

Behind me, people I once considered friends snicker. Friends? More like back-stabbing bottom-feeders.

I don’t stop. I keep walking until I hit the street corner where my favorite café is located.

After ordering a cappuccino with a shot of sambuca, I slide into an uncomfortable black metal chair.

Parisians don’t care about comfort. They care about appearances.

The way the gorgeous black lines of the chair contrast with the cream-colored cushion.

The highest of heels and the tightest of belts cinched around waists.

I love everything about this city, yet five minutes ago, I gave up any reason to stay.

It feels like only days ago when Catherine Bouvier offered me my own television show, a show that would follow me as a bright, up-and-coming designer in the cutthroat world of fashion.

And now, here I am, almost six years later, left with nothing. I still can’t figure out how it all went so wrong. Or what I’ll do with my life.

So I close my eyes, take a sip of coffee, and try like hell to forget.

Six Years Ago

“Surely you can find someone with more experience.”

A flight attendant appears with the glass of champagne I ordered, and I mouth a thank you, though my focus remains on Catherine Bouvier, the acting editor for the best fashion magazine on the market, Jolie.

Through the screen, Cat spears me with a glare. She’s famous for the expression, really. She’s also famous for being insanely gorgeous. She’s tall, with long black hair, oversized natural lips that always look glossy, and eyes the color of whiskey.

The eye color is fitting, I suppose, since whiskey is what made her family rich.

A whiskey company, in fact, that closely rivaled that of her husband’s.

For years, their families were enemies, though lately they all seem to get along.

Cat and Jay recently married, and they have a teenage daughter and a toddler.

The whole family will be joining me in Paris next week to start filming our television show.

Cat and I both come from money. From large well-known families in Boston too. We’re the only daughters surrounded by billionaire brothers. Women who have chosen to buck the family business and go after our true passions. Though that’s where our similarities end.

While Cat is a go-getter and an incredible businesswoman, I’m a dreamer.

An artist. The art comes easy, but actually turning it into a business is a challenge.

Though, with a last name like Langfield nothing has ever been too difficult.

My family’s reputation alone opens more doors than most people find, but monetizing my passion has been the trickier part.

“The people want you. Remember that,” Cat says, her features softening a little. “Your story is inspiring. People want to know how the Langfield princess who grew up surrounded by pro athletes ended up one of the top fashion designers of our generation.”

I snort. “First of all, not a princess.”

She lets out a scoff.

“Second, I’m just starting out. No one is declaring me a top designer.”

“Hello.” She leans closer to the screen. “I’m Catherine Bouvier. If I say Sienna Langfield is one of the top fashion designers of our generation, then it’s fact.”

Lips pursed, I look away, letting out an uncomfortable breath through my nose.

Because she’s right. As editor of Jolie, she decides what’s in style each season.

Their winter list is every influencer’s dream.

Even scoring an item on that list can make a person a legend.

To be seen in it, an icon. And for some reason, a year ago, she saw something in me.

So now here I am, a terrified twenty-four-year-old about to embark on the wildest year of my life.

“Fine, Your Majesty.” I huff. “Thank you for believing in me.”

With a raspy laugh, she spins in her office chair. Behind her, the Boston skyline is visible. If I squint, I can pick out Lang Field and Bolts Arena, the sports facilities that house my family’s teams.

My brothers and I originally planned to spend the weekend at my family’s compound in the Keys.

One last hurrah before I leave for Paris.

Unfortunately, my father summoned them all at the last minute, apparently calling in reinforcements to charm Cortney Miller into signing with our family’s baseball team, the Boston Revs.

Miller plays catcher for the New York Metros, and my brother Beckett has been trying to get him to agree to a trade.

Miller’s family is well-known in the highest echelons of society in New York, so it’s been a challenge, but the trade would be huge for the Revs.

Gavin made me promise I’d fly to the Keys anyway, insisting that I deserve a few days in the sun to celebrate and swearing they’d all fly to Paris to visit next month.

I won’t hold my breath.

My brothers are incredible. I couldn’t ask for better siblings, but they’re all ridiculously busy.

Aiden, who is two years older than me, is the Bolts’ center and well-known throughout the NHL as the guy to be watched.

He’s incredible. Brooks is too. He’s two years older than Aiden and the team’s goalie.

Gavin is the Bolts’ general manager. Though our dad owns both teams, he turned over the Revs reins to Beckett.

The MLB and NHL seasons are both ridiculously long, and between the two, they span the entire year, so when my brothers aren’t attending a hockey game, they’re supporting the baseball team.

I grew up doing both, though I was normally doodling designs on any scrap of paper I could find.

“Have fun in the Keys,” Cat says. “I’ll see you next week. No working until then.”

I burst into laughter, and she follows suit. The notion that either of us could go a week without working is absurd.

“Thanks, Cat, and seriously, thanks for believing in me.” I click out of the call and set my phone on the armrest. Then I finally take a sip of my champagne.

I haven’t flown commercial more than a couple of times in my life, and if my brothers were with me, we’d definitely be on one of our family’s jets. But since I’m alone, I’m more than happy in first class.

After my brothers bailed, I scrapped my plans to stay at our place in the Keys. Rather than sitting on our private beach all alone, I’ll spend this weekend at an all-inclusive resort in the Bahamas.

My brothers would lose their minds if they knew about my change in plans.

All my life, I’ve been sheltered, and it’s come at a cost.

It’s cliché, I suppose. Here I am, a wealthy girl complaining about how she has all kinds of money but no love.

The love part isn’t true, really. Though I’ve never been in love, I know love.

My brothers show it to me all the time. Being raised by nannies meant that the five of us always banded together because our parents were always too busy.

My brothers have been my best friends all my life.

Leaving them will be difficult, even though they’re all so busy that we don’t see each other much anymore.

I drop my head back against the seat and close my eyes. Why am I doing this? Why am I reflecting on my life like it’s suddenly going to end?

Maybe in a sense it is. Leaving Boston, leaving my family and the only home I’ve ever known, is a big deal. And honestly, I’m not sure I’m ready for it. Or that I even deserve the opportunity.

The masses believe I’m only given these opportunities because of my name. And they wouldn’t be completely wrong. Cat never would have heard of me if her über-wealthy husband didn’t run in the same circles as my brothers.

But I’m also a twenty-four-year-old that’s been completely sheltered for most of her life. I’ve never been in love. Never even come close to it. I’ve never had a chance to make really bad decisions, like having a one-night stand or fucking a stranger.

Maybe hot sex with a stranger is exactly what I need for this trip.

I settle back into my seat, and with another sip of champagne, I promise myself that I’ll say yes to every opportunity the universe gives me this weekend.

The instant after I make that promise to myself, a man steps into the aisle, and my heart stutters just a little.

He’s tall, with the body of an athlete. His black T-shirt hugs his broad shoulders, muscular chest, and impressive arms like it was tailor made for him.

His thick, sandy brown hair is perfectly messy, adding to his natural swagger.

His cheekbones belong on a fashion model, and his irises are the exact color of a tropical wave.

The color is only emphasized by the thick black frames of his glasses.

Who knew glasses were my personal kryptonite?

The guy is a sexy nerd, and I’m officially interested. What a perfect way to start my last hurrah.

Please let him sit next to me. Pretty freaking please.