The Wrong Husband (Billionaire Inheritance Arrangement #11)

Chapter 1

THEO

If anyone had told me two months ago that I’d end up stranded at a truck stop in the Arizona desert with a dying motorcycle, a dead phone, and less than half a bottle of warm water, I’d have laughed really loudly—and then I’d have told them they were delusional.

To be fair, I’d also have asked whether this absurd supposed future of mine included a cool leather jacket, and it did. The jacket was excellent, hand-stitched with protective padding and enough wear over the last couple months to make it look authentic.

The situation I was in right now, however, was less awesome. Especially with the sun fading fast and the tumbleweeds rolling in the distance the only sign of movement.

A bustling metropolis, Yuma was not.

“You dramatic piece of shit,” I muttered at my bike for probably the fiftieth time. “Why now, girl? We’ve come so far and I’ve been good to you, haven’t I?”

Okay, that last part isn’t quite true.

But it didn’t matter anyway because, naturally, the bike didn’t respond. It was too busy dying to take offense to my fib.

Smoke puffed lazily from deep inside the engine, like it’d finally accepted its fate but was crossing the rainbow bridge with a bit of theatrical flair just to stick it to me.

I’d known there was a problem for at least the last five hundred miles, but denial had gotten me surprisingly far in life, so I’d kept riding instead of having her looked at.

Now, I was stuck at a lonely truck stop smack bang in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by endless desert and a whole lot of nothing.

When this building had drifted into view on the horizon, it’d immediately given me lost-in-transit vibes, like it’d slid off the back of a truck and no one had noticed, so it’d just gotten left behind here.

There was exactly one gas pump, but it was wrapped in yellow caution tape and clearly out of order, but mercifully, I didn’t need fuel. Unfortunately, it didn’t have what I did need either.

The convenience store lights flickered, but it wasn’t open anyway. Mostly unstocked and wholly unmanned, there was a thick chain coiled around the doors that said it hadn’t been open for so long, those lightbulbs had probably been installed in the eighties and left to their own devices ever since.

I sat on the curb outside the store with my forearms resting on my knees, staring out at the highway shimmering under the late afternoon heat. Every now and then, a truck blasted past without stopping, rattling the loose metal sign overhead.

It’d been two hours since I’d parked my shuddering steed next to the curb, and at this point, I would’ve been stupid not to notice that I might be in trouble. As I pondered my virtually nonexistent options, I tipped the last of the water into my mouth and immediately regretted finishing it.

Fuck, that was a rookie mistake.

My oldest brother, Alex, would probably call it a valuable lesson in resource management.

Jesse, one of the twins in the middle, would tell me I was an idiot, and Zach, only just above me on the Westwood sibling ladder, would offer to wire me enough money to buy the entire truck stop—and whatever water might be inside with it.

I snorted to myself at the thought, watching a lizard dart across the pavement nearby. He was moving with a lot more purpose than I currently possessed, but even if I could, I wouldn’t have called any of my brothers.

Two months ago, I’d walked out of Westwood Manor in Chicago carrying a single backpack and a motorcycle helmet, and not one person in my family had realized I was actually going to be gone for more than a weekend until I’d hit Montana.

Honestly, the only one I’d even told I was leaving had been Zach. I’d said goodbye to him, his wife, and their girls, but I probably wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been living with them when I’d left.

I’d told Zach I’d see them in six months, but in reality, I’d planned to be gone maybe three weeks, knowing that if I pushed it any longer, Alex would probably send a search party—and a wedding planner—after me.

The last couple months, my life had consisted of highways, bad coffee, and random conversations with strangers I’d never see again. I’d slept in roadside motels, riding from coast to coast and forgetting what it even felt like to wear a suit.

I’d even crossed two borders, making it up to Alaska before the snow, then down to Mexico. It was mid-September now, and I’d somehow found myself outrunning the first snow like a bird flying south for the winter.

My hair was longer than I’d ever worn it, no longer neat or gelled back. I had a tan the likes of which I’d never known I was capable of and I looked more rugged than corporate, with no polished shoes or tie in sight.

Somewhere along the way, I’d even stopped checking my emails, stopped worrying about the ultimatum I was trying to outrun, and stopped even thinking about the Westwood and Sons building back home, where my office was now sitting empty with no word of my return.

Freedom was turning out to be pretty addictive, though. It was no wonder Jesse had left Chicago for so long to sow his wild oats. This trip had been a dream.

Until now, with my freedom sitting in front of me, smelling faintly like something inside its engine was on fire. Groaning out loud, I leaned my head back against the wall behind me and closed my eyes.

I’m shit out of luck, aren’t I?

The desert started cooling as the sun lowered, the brutal heat of the day finally breaking. Wind swept dust across the empty lot. The whole place was beautiful but in a murder-documentary way.

My phone had died an hour ago after bravely hanging on at one percent battery all morning, but there wasn’t enough signal out here to call anyone anyway. Even if I wanted to, which I didn’t.

The idea of calling one of my brothers to explain I’d broken down in the middle of nowhere would mean admitting defeat.

Any of them would absolutely come get me, but they’d also drive me straight back home to Chicago, where Alex would have me set up with a whole parade of eligible bachelorettes before I’d even scrubbed all traces of oil from my hands.

A semi finally appeared on the horizon just as the sky started turning orange.

I straightened as it pulled into the truck stop, the driver’s door opening to reveal an older man.

He climbed down slowly, a sun-faded cap resting on his head but not hiding his weathered face or the concern in his eyes.

His jeans had probably seen the moon landing and his shirt was worn, hanging over shoulders way too broad for a guy his age, but at least he seemed to come in peace.

“You okay over there, son?” he called as he slammed the door behind him. “Need some help?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I said, rising and dusting off my ass as he approached. “My bike seems to be staging a protest and I’ve tried sweet-talking her, but I think she’s done with me.”

The motorcycle was still coughing the occasional puff of smoke into the air, and the guy turned from me to her, taking a few steps closer and sliding a hand along the metal. Up close, he looked somewhere around sixty, deep lines carved into his face and his heavy boots coated in dust.

Since it looked like he knew how to survive three separate apocalypses, I was hopeful he could help me figure out how the bike could survive this. Finally, after a few long seconds of inspecting her, he rocked back on his heels and looked at me again.

“You been ridin’ her hot?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I was on my way east to Phoenix to pick up the supplies I need to fix her up. There’s a specialty store I was aiming for, but she’s sabotaging her own rescue mission.”

He let out a deep chuckle. “Well, you ain’t getting to Phoenix tonight.”

“Nope,” I agreed. “I gave up on that plan about an hour and a half ago when I realized she needed more than just an oil change and some kind words.”

He glanced back at the bike. “Kind words sure won’t be enough to help this old girl anymore. You’re in luck, though. There’s a town about fifty miles north that’s got a mechanic. He’s a good one, too. He can probably fix her up.”

“North?”

“Mm-hmm.”

On instinct, I glanced east, to where Chicago was waiting somewhere far in the distance. I’d been hoping a few days in Phoenix would allow me to fix up the bike before I went home, but no one else had stopped and this guy was going north.

He was, quite literally, my only option. Even if he was going in the wrong direction.

The old man started walking back to his truck. “I’m heading that way now. The tow company can come grab the bike after dark or first thing tomorrow.”

I looked back at the semi as he moved toward it, my mind racing.

Statistically speaking, this was how at least thirty percent of true crime documentaries started, a young man getting into stranger’s truck in a remote desert, his family later describing him as free-spirited while ominous piano music played in the background.

But the way I saw it, one of two things would happen next. I would either become a serial killer’s next victim or I would still get to delay my trip home for a few more days. Just not in Phoenix.

Without consciously having decided to do it, I’d been taking every detour on the map and running my bike into the ground, trying to buy myself more time on the road. Not that Chicago was bad.

It wasn’t. Chicago was family dinners, nieces and nephews climbing all over me, and bantering with Lu.

It was coming up with excuses not to go running with Zach every morning and driving Alex to the brink of insanity at the office every day by pretending not to know what I was doing.

It was mediating at some points and being the fuel on the fire at others.

In a word, it was home, but at some indeterminable point over the last two months, I’d realized I just wasn’t quite ready to go back yet. I glanced back at my bike sitting next to the pump, but she wasn’t getting me home anytime soon no matter what I decided here.

The old man stopped in the open driver’s door of his truck and jerked his chin toward the passenger side. “You comin’ or not?”

With the sunset bleeding orange and gold across the desert sky, this really was my only option. Well, this or spending the night right here on the curb with no phone, no food, and no water.

Nope. There’s no chance.

“Yeah,” I said finally, grabbing my backpack off the ground. “I’m coming.”