Grumpy’s Secret Crush (Billionaires of Yosemite Ranch #3)

CHAPTER 1

Evander

London

My happy place has a street address.

I’ve been told the color complements my eyes.

The expert hands are those of my personal tailor, Julian Henry, a man I would trust with my life. Of course, I would. I trust him with my suits, don’t I?

It is no small feat to custom-fit clothing for a man like me. I’m overly muscular, six-foot-four, two-forty, and pathologically particular.

That’s the term my oldest brother, Cal, uses to describe me, anyway. He’s not wrong, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

I’ve been called much worse.

“And how about now, Mr. MacLaine?” Julian stands.

I examine my reflection in the huge mirror, the shop’s rich polished mahogany and sparkling glass shelving behind me.

“Perfect,” I say.

With the slim, modern cut of this suit, the trouser should hang just at the top of my Italian loafers, with no break in the fabric. Which it now does.

“Thank you, Julian.”

“Of course, Mr. MacLaine. It’s always a pleasure.”

A few moments later, I make arrangements with shop personnel to have my new wardrobe shipped home to Yosemite Ranch.

I’ve purchased two autumn/winter-weight worsted wool three-piece suits, one in dark charcoal and one in the blue; a pastel gray summer weight suit in merino wool twill; a custom fitted seersucker suit jacket I can wear with jeans; one pair of corduroys; three pairs of navy slim-fit casual trousers; three pairs of heavyweight denim jeans for ranch work; nine shirts of the finest cotton—two pale blue, five white, and two pinstripe—one blue and one gray.

I’ve also purchased six silk ties, ten pairs of custom socks, ten pairs of custom boxer briefs, and ten undershirts, all of the highest-quality materials money can buy.

My baby brother Kevin—or Special K, as we call him—once said I’m better groomed than a best-in-show French poodle.

Again, I see nothing wrong with that assessment.

Yes, I’m a former Navy SEAL, like all my brothers. But these days, I’m also an attorney. I represent my family’s business interests in the States and abroad, for both ranching operations and our wildly successful tech company.

I hardly think I should be out here negotiating billion-dollar deals while sporting shit kickers and overalls.

My next oldest brother, Finn—who’s about to get married—says I need to find a happy medium somewhere between George Clooney and Chris Farley. And my next youngest brother, Declan, tells me I’m an obsessive-compulsive fashionista.

Those two bug the shit out of me. Always have. Always will.

For good reason.

I’m the middle son, squeezed in between Finn and Declan as tight as human biology will allow. They’ve been up my ass my entire life.

It’s true that they invented the surveillance tech that’s made us all billionaires, so I suppose I should cut them some slack. Fine. But that doesn’t change the fact that they’re assholes. Plus, they don’t know how to dress.

I dated a PhD psychology student while I was in law school. Over Chinese takeout one night, she told me I suffered from a classic case of middle-child syndrome. She called me an ultra-over-achiever determined to avoid mediocrity. She said my biggest fear was that I’d blend into the woodwork.

I told her she was wrong. That I’m not afraid of anything. Not death. Not mediocrity. Not woodwork. Nothing.

She broke up with me soon after.

Her loss.

I pay for my wardrobe, aware that I could buy a new dually pickup truck for what I’m spending here. I search for Julian and find him tidying up the fitting area. His next client is already waiting.

I always make sure to thank my tailor properly. So when I shake his hand, I slip him four-thousand pounds sterling in bank notes. He smiles up at me.

I know how difficult it is to get an appointment with this man. I’ve heard it was flat-out impossible back when Prince Phillip was alive because Julian had been at the old chap’s beck and call for thirty years.

I’m not glad the prince is dead. Not at all. I don’t wish ill on anyone.

But the old guy’s exit was my entrance. By the time I became a newly-minted billionaire, Julian was available.

“You are too generous, Mr. MacLaine,” he now says, discreetly sliding the cash into his trouser pocket.

I laugh, resting a friendly hand on his shoulder. “As we both know, there’s no such thing as too generous on Savile Row.”

With that, I’m off to my mani-pedi appointment and then to my business meeting. I haven’t come to London just to spoil myself. It’s not the only reason, anyway.

Two hours later, I’m seated at the gleaming conference table in a secure facility inside the British Ministry of Defence.

Already assembled are military and intelligence officials from Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and the UK.

I’m sandwiched between a US Army general and a British admiral of the fleet.

I’m here to discuss potential new applications for StellaR Tech capabilities.

Finn and Declan have come up with something so promising and revolutionary that the Joint Cybersecurity Task Force wants it launched immediately.

It’s my job to determine if we really have what they need and if we can spin up fast enough to create a usable product by their deadline.

Two chairs directly across from me remain empty, and I notice that we’re missing the US Naval Intelligence contingent. Just then, the conference room door opens behind me. I hear apologies offered. Two officers sit down.

Oh, shit.

Directly across from me is Captain Harper Dunn-Spence, the woman I once thought would become my sister-in-law. She dated Special K for more than two years. Why they ended it remains a mystery.

She looks up. I watch her face turn stony as she recognizes me. I smile and tell her it’s nice to see her again. She says the same and turns her attention elsewhere.

She’s exactly as I remember her. Not a blond hair out of place. Service dress blues, crisp and neat, white collar starched, and black necktie centered. Textbook badass Naval officer.

And once my presentation starts, I watch her slam down scones and clotted cream like she hasn’t eaten in a week.

It’s a productive meeting, and I leave knowing that we’re on the cusp of another huge contract. It’s mind-boggling how far we’ve come in under three years. Out in the foyer, I look for Harper, but she’s already disappeared. I hear the stairwell door slam and suspect she took the stairs to avoid me.

I make a stop at No. 6 Cavendish for a cigar, and then head to Heathrow. An hour later, I’m on the StellaR Tech private jet and on my way home. I’ve got my shined shoes propped up on the leather footrest. I’m raising a crystal glass of single malt whisky to my lips as a reward for a job well done.

My phone rings.

“Get home immediately,” Cal says. “It’s an emergency.”