Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Belle
No rain today. No working car either, but this time, I didn’t have a meeting. I flop down on my worn purple sofa in my second-floor threadbare but cozy apartment.
Another law of some kind, I’m sure. Everything goes perfectly when you don’t need it to.
Christ, I can see my mom and dad looking at where I live and judging.
Lucky for me, they don’t come this far east, as they prefer San Francisco and LA. The small Southern California town we’re from in the San Diego region, Salta, is still more their style, even though these days, it’s beneath them, too.
But I smile because for all their mover and shaker ways, and their complete lack of understanding I love being a teacher, and they’re supportive.
What they wouldn’t be supportive of and what I haven’t told my friends at school about is last night.
I shiver as I drag my bag over to me and pull out the homework I need to mark. Last night was an eye-opener.
This city has a center which is moderately paced, where most of the businesses are, and then we have Sweetwood Heights, where the affluent live on their big properties.
There are other expensive suburbs as well as divey ones. And then there’s the Industrial District that’s both abandoned places as well as working warehouses.
And, apparently, it’s a hotbed for gangs.
If my Saint of a biker hadn’t stopped to rescue me, I -I don’t want to think about it. Sure, they probably wouldn’t have hurt me, they just wanted to intimidate me, but I’m also not na?ve. Crime happens, and I don’t want to be a victim.
The encounter would also be prime Lance fodder for his book on why this city needs hardcore gentrification.
Not money into social services or more jobs. Not more affordable housing. But supermarkets, flashy apartments that cost too much for most in the poorer sections, and more shops for the rich and well-heeled.
I know he’d love to make this a small city destination for those wanting a break from big city life. It’s picturesque here. It could be a luxury city in the woods, small and sweet and full of all the high-end things the rich might like, all while not being beacons to paparazzi for those who want to get away.
I know because Lance has told me.
But . . . people need to live. They need better jobs and wages. They need help, and one thing that helps is being able to have a roof over their heads.
Sometimes, he makes me so mad I want to punch him.
My phone rings, and I snatch it up, heart beating hard as, for a brief moment, the name Saint flashes in my head.
The name Hannah flashes on the screen.
Of course, it’s not my Saint of a biker. He doesn’t even have my number. Or a reason to call. Maybe my brain’s water addled. I hit answer.
“Girl, get your ass down to Finally for a drink. I need to know how the meeting went and whether you saw the world’s hottest bag of dicks.” She hangs up.
“Hello to you too,” I mutter.
Today was crazy at work, and I didn’t get a chance to drop by the Sweetwood Library. But the bar, Finally, is near enough I can walk as I’m waiting until payday to take my crappy little car in to be fixed. I set down the homework assignments and get changed.
The bar’s the right level of busy when I get there, some indie music’s playing low, and the black wood and golden low lights make it intimate rather than dingy.
I spot Hannah immediately in her leather pants and skin-tight top. Her blonde hair’s streaked with blue and tied up in knots on her head. And her sleeve of tattoos is on display.
She’s the coolest librarian I know.
“Belle!” she shrieks my name and hurls herself into my arms, squeezing tight. I can feel the jealous burn of her male fan club who’ve surrounded her and pretty much want to be me right now.
It’s the Hannah effect, and I’m ninety-eight percent sure she doesn’t realize it.
“Someone get this girl a drink.”
Five guys race to the bar, and the one who gets back first earns a Hannah smile. I barely refrain from the eye roll.
“You are terrible,” I whisper.
She frowns prettily. “What?”
“All your admirers.”
“Oh, them? They’re just nice guys. Keeping me company until you got here.” She pushes through them, leading me to a table. “Now, how did it go?”
I groan. “It didn’t. Everything that could go wrong did, and when I got there . . .”
“Lance?”
“Lance.”
“The fucker,” she says, all murderous. Then she nods. “Tell me you got the signatures handed over. I’m still working on finding a lawyer who’ll take on the Hastings at a fee we can afford.”
“I can do it.”
She glares and leans forward, grabbing my white wine and shifting it out of the way. “I know that. Just like I know you’ll probably find the best lawyer, but two smart brains working together is better than one, Belle. Besides, you saved my library. I owe.”
Hannah sits back and crosses her arms.
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“Belle—”
“I was planning a Christmas for the poorer families in my neighborhood,” I say as I sip my wine. “This year’s been hard, and I’ve been thinking of trying to come up with something.”
“People have pride.”
“I know. But if it’s for the kids, a dinner, or gifts, or something . . . I don’t know, we can work out the details.”
“Count me in,” she says, then picks up her beer. “But I got one of the guys here, Mason,” she waves her hand back toward her adoring crowd, “to dig into the company who owns your building.”
I shrug. “It’s some hardcore management company that owns places all over the eastern States.”
“Ever wonder why the Hastings own everything else around you but not that building?”
I’m about to make a flippant answer when I stop. “Not until right now.”
“Mason found out one of the owners in that company was Esther Hastings.”
“Lance’s Gran?”
“And the company handles the payments and management, but your Secret Gardens belongs solely to Esther.”
“To Lance, then.”
“No, Mason did some diggings and said a number of her properties fall into his hands only if met by certain criteria. If not, they’re run by that company.”
A frisson of electricity sparks up my spine. “Like what?”
“Not sure, that he couldn’t find out.” Hannah’s gaze flicks to the door. “Don’t look now, but the Grinch on Karmic steroids walked in and is heading our way.”
Lance. I don’t need to look. And his aftershave, expensive and manly-according to him—hits me. “Isabelle.”
Being Lance, he only glances at Hannah, who makes no move to vacate her seat. That is, until I give her a slight nod.
“Watching you, rich boy,” she says as she shifts past him.
“I really wish, Isabelle, you’d choose a better place to go to.”
I count to ten, slow and silent. “Lance? What do you want?”
“You.”
Once that would have melted me. Once.
The man who charmed me with his supposedly soft-edged and warm ways, his chivalry, and his supposed desire to protect the small people while expanding his fortune turned out to be a lie.
I’ve got nothing against making money and wanting to make money. I do have an issue with grinding others into the ground to get there.
Beneath the smooth layers of Lance is a brutal-edged man. One with avarice in his veins.
“Me?”
“I asked you to marry me, after all.”
“Or my parents’ money.”
His mouth hardens. “Do you really think so badly of me, Isabelle? Do you think someone like me needs their money? And worse, you think I researched you? I was charmed by the sweet, sunny, and passionate schoolteacher. That’s it. You broke up with me. And I think I deserve to try my hand at winning you back.”
He likes to twist. Not in an evil way, but that slick, manipulative touch that wins him all kinds of things solidifies what his face promises. We both know I didn’t mean he wants my parents’ money. His account can run rings around theirs. Or maybe one ring. I don’t know.
Money isn’t the be all for me.
But he also knows I meant I’m acceptable because of the Rosso money.
It’s something he doesn’t air, but it’s there, in the shadows, down in the bones of him.
“I want to win you back, Isabelle,” he murmurs, reaching for my hand as I snatch it away and put it on my thigh under the table. “I think you want it too. You and me, we could change the world.”
“In what way?” I ask. “By destroying things?”
“By moving with the times, and the only thing being destroyed by your continual rejection is my heart.”
“Now, who’s being dramatic?” I try not to clench my hand under the table. He’s got a knack for dragging me into his little emotional webs. What I should be doing is getting up and walking away.
Except . . .
His grandmother owned the building.
For a second, it flashes in my head that he’s been nice and trying to worm his way back in with me over that. Like I’m standing in his way.
But how?
I frown. “Is this about the signatures?”
“The—” He stops, and the slight set to his mouth gives him away. He knows about them. “The signatures? The fact your building’s poor people are trying to stop the mega Hank’s?”
I grab my wine and take a gulp as he pulls his phone from his suit pocket and checks it, placing it on the table. He doesn’t have a drink. But he doesn’t need one in the way he sits and takes up space with the self-entitlement I never noticed until almost too late.
“You hate the signatures. We both know you want to kick everyone out.”
“Okay, you got me.” He flashes his winning smile. “But that isn’t me trying to kick anyone out. There’s a real estate company. Grandmother chose that company?—”
“A company she was a shareholder in.”
“Yes, she was a part owner, but she chose them to represent Secret Gardens and her other properties precisely so they could be handled hands-off. There are rules, Isabella, and she never wanted the family to fight over it all.”
“You’re the eldest.”
“I own the land opposite, and when?—”
“If—”
“When Hank’s and other places are built, rents might go up. That’s it. The only reason I’m offering to pay for people to move. If they want to.”
“It all sounds so perfect,” I say to him. And it does. Maybe it’s too perfect. “But they have nowhere to go.”
“There’s always cheaper accommodation.” He sighs heavily. “The signatures won’t stop me building on the land around the crumbling building. Now?—”
“What would Esther say?”
He offers his movie star smile. “She put all this in place, the handling of the building through her company to stop anyone manipulating things, like I said. She’s hands off.”
“Because she’s no longer with us.”
“Yes.” He leans in. “The building’s mine. It’s in her will. But I’m not ripping it down. Even though that’s the best thing, she wants—wanted—what’s best for the people and being priced out isn’t. “
I huff. “You’re happy hurting people?”
“I’m happy improving things.”
“Like your already fat bank account.”
He winces and dips his head. I swear the light bounces off his golden hair like a halo. “I have a vision.”
“To price people out.” Angel my ass.
“I’m creating jobs. A lot of jobs. And if you got off your high horse, we could resume the engagement, and I could show you a better life.”
His phone lights up with a call. The name isn’t one of his many friends I recognize.
Nicholas.
I almost ask him who it is as he moves the phone away, but I don’t. It’s just getting dragged into things I don’t want to be dragged into. “I’ve no interest in being a show pony of a wife.”
“I think you mean trophy wife.”
“I know what I mean.” I take a breath. All this new information swirls in my head, but I grasp something. “One thing you could do, considering this building is yours, is to go easy on people with rent. There’s a policy . . .”
“Where late equates eviction? I’m more than aware.”
“Maybe you could back off on that over the holidays? It’s Christmas.”
“You should spend it with me,” he says. “And I would, but I can’t back off. As I said, hands off, protocols.”
I push back my chair as I catch Hannah’s eye. She motions her head to the door. “I need to head home. Think about it.”
“I’ll do my best,” he says.
I try as I might, I don’t believe him.
After a quick chat with Hannah, who left when I did, I walked home. After the storm, the weather’s cooler, bordering on cold, but we’re nowhere near snow weather. It’s a funny little quirk of Sweetwood in that it can be mildly cold even in December.
Still, I’m glad for my coat.
My heart warms as I approach Secret Gardens. It’s a throwback to more romantic times, and I always wonder what it looked like back in the day with a manicured courtyard and the garden that lives in the center of the building lovingly tended to by someone full-time.
The hexagon shape has a hollow center where I can see the garden and my neighbors’ windows.
I suddenly come to a stop when I near the big front doors.
To the left, in the shadows, is a big black and chrome beautiful bike. It looks familiar to me.
So is the man who comes out the front doors, making them look small.
He’s in a black shirt and a leather jacket. Black jeans and motorcycle boots.
In the light, I’m struck by just how good-looking he is. Beard or no beard—and I’ve never been a beard girl—he’s hot.
His shaved head gleams, and there’s a light in his hazel eyes that sparks something inside me that fizzes.
My mouth goes dry.
“Saint?”
“Yup, Red. Sure am. And I’m your newest neighbor.”