Chapter One #2
Despite all her theories and attempts, he never had.
Though, she still got butterflies when she passed him in the halls, or saw his red Ferrari parked in the driveway, or heard him walking through the rose covered lane that her window looked out to. And it had been going on since she was eleven.
Roman was a billionaire, just like his brother, but a different kind.
He had no part in the business and wanted no part—even after the begging of his poor mother.
He played tennis, drove his Ferrari too fast, lazed around the house, disappeared to Spain, sailed the French Riviera, drank champagne more expensive than most people’s rent, and dated girls who never seemed to last.
Surprisingly, Roman was not the better-looking Woodhouse brother.
Finn had the unfair advantage there. But Roman’s carefree, haphazard, and guiltless living made him interesting.
He was a good person, was never found sinking yachts for fun, but he did enjoy his life as much as he could without getting into too much trouble.
Sort of.
There had been that incident in Barcelona, but Finn had taken care of that.
Always cleaning up everyone’s messes—even when it involved the Barcelona Police, angry business owners, and a U.S. Ambassador.
Finn, the decidedly better-looking of the two, was nothing like his brother. While they were only separated by four years, it might as well have been thirty. Finn ran the business and that’s all he did. He had no time for girls, photoshoots, and trips abroad, unless it was for business, of course.
At twenty-nine, he was the CEO of the Woodhouse Corporation, a vast tech conglomerate bigger than anything else on the market. If he took a second to breathe, it was with the company in mind. He never stopped, never smelled the roses, and was always on the phone with someone.
He was better than his younger brother in most ways, but also scarier, and therefore, much less likable.
When Men’s Health asked him to do a cover shoot, he was mortified they thought he’d ever do something so tasteless.
When Forbes asked him to pose for the “Thirty Under Thirty” issue, Finn was offended they thought he’d associate with them.
When Vanity Fair asked for a comment on artificial intelligence, he just ignored the email.
His mother said the media was garish anyway.
Clara Woodhouse—COO of the Woodhouse Corporation—was a fierce businesswoman and loyal mother.
She’d earned herself the nickname “The Vulture” from wary businessmen.
A name that still held up after all the years.
However, Clara was the first to admit that she enjoyed the finer things in life—trips to the spa, wine tastings, expensive dinners—and her enjoyment of those things was the reason why the Woodhouses were not just a business family.
They were a party family.
And they threw the most beautiful parties anyone had ever seen.
Most of them were held on the lawn overlooking Richardson Bay.
None of them were forgettable occasions.
There were orchestras, singers, bartenders, wait staff, twinkle lights strung across every surface, and never a shortage of flowers or champagne.
Every guest showed up in their finest, because everyone knew that a Clara Woodhouse party was not for the casually dressed.
Flora had always dreamed of being invited but had never made the guest list.
She was the driver’s daughter.
Despite this, the Woodhouses knew her very well.
Perhaps too well.
There were many times Mrs. Woodhouse found herself looking after Flora when Fairchild was out driving someone. Clara would leave Flora with whichever housemaid was nearby, but always came to check on things once her hair appointment or business meeting was finished.
Because of this, Flora and Roman had played together when they were younger, making mud pies and pretending to be Robin Hood and Maid Marian.
As they got older though, the divide grew silently.
While Roman became the coolest boy in Marin County, Flora developed an unrequited crush, started wearing glasses, and—more often than not—fell out of trees.
The last time she spoke to him at length was the night of the thunderstorm.
She was twelve, Roman thirteen, Finn newly eighteen.
Mrs. Woodhouse had called and left Finn in charge of “the kids” after getting stuck in the city due to the weather. Flora’s father was also stranded on the other side of the bridge with Mr. Woodhouse.
When the power went out in the apartment, she went looking for someone to comfort her, but everyone was gone. Except for Roman, who was in his room watching Seinfeld reruns. It wasn’t like Flora was going to run to him for help.
She took off, running down the hall back to the dark and lonely apartment to hide under the blankets, when she bumped into Finn. He was holding an armful of clothes, doing his laundry. Even though there were workers for that.
Flora stopped short, even more scared now, and excused herself hastily, apologizing for bumping into him.
There was no one she was more afraid of than Finn Woodhouse—the eighteen-year-old with a broody temper and a cold expression.
He was going to Harvard in the fall, and she couldn’t wait to be rid of him.
There was a long silence after she’d apologized.
“Are ya alright?” he asked. He still had an odd English-Scottish accent after all his years of being in America. “Flora?”
The question hung in the air for another few seconds.
“Y—yes,” she squeaked back.
Thunder rumbled and lightning cracked within feet of the house. The lights flickered.
A small shriek escaped before she could stop it, and she covered her mouth.
“No. I think I’m scared,” Flora backtracked.
“Of the lightning?” he asked, making sure she wasn’t talking about him.
He got the feeling the chicken-legged, frizzy-haired, pre-teen viewed him as more frightening than the perils of nature.
Flora merely nodded in response.
She thought he was going to tell her to toughen up or grow a thicker skin. Instead, he left his laundry in a pile at the stairwell and said, “What’s your favorite movie?”
“I like Cheaper by the Dozen,” she replied. “The one with Steve Martin.”
“I like that movie too,” he answered. “However, I can’t say I’d ever want more than one annoying brother.”
He took a few steps down the hall and then looked over his shoulder.
“You coming?”
She found herself sitting in the part of the house she was never allowed into. A large room with a white couch, dark hardwood floor, a TV that took up half the wall, and windows looking out onto the stormy, black mountain lit up with homes weathering the storm.
With some convincing, Finn got Roman downstairs too, and the three of them watched movies (Cheaper by the Dozen and then Harry Potter) until it was way past her bedtime.
When her father finally arrived to collect her, she was half asleep on the couch, a soda can and box of licorice at her fingertips
That was the last real, friendly interaction she’d had with either of the boys.
After that, they all went their separate ways. Summer camp in Maine. Finn to Harvard. Roman back to the private academy, Branson. Flora still at the public school, trying to make the tap team.
Now, they merely exchanged pleasantries in passing.
Roman bounced between colleges—Duke, Princeton, then Stanford—and managed to eke out his bachelor’s degree five and a half painful years later.
He had been in and out of living at home on a monthly basis, always saying he was changing his major, and giving Mrs. Woodhouse many gray hairs in the process.
Finn, on the other hand, finished his business degree and MBA from Harvard in four years and came back to take over right when his father died. He hadn’t been home for two months before the label “CEO” was slapped on him.
Eventually, everyone settled back on the estate.
It was too beautiful, too comfortable. Fifty people could have lived there without crossing paths more than once. For everything else, making an appointment was necessary.
Despite the size of the estate, Flora managed to find Roman wherever he was. She’d done this since she was younger.
Her father always knew it was an unhealthy crush. She was around Roman too much and he paid no attention to her. Partly because he was focused on other things and partly because Flora was… rather plain, if not just a little strange.
Mostly because she didn’t know how not to be.
Fairchild assumed, though he never said it, that Flora would grow into a very average-looking person. There was nothing wrong with that. Average was exactly as it was—average.
However, she was now twenty-three, and it was becoming clear that she was actually very pretty. The problem was she dressed like a bohemian schoolteacher, in long, loose dresses and clogs or Doc Martens from thrift stores. Her thick, black glasses did nothing but hide her pretty, light blue eyes…
And her hair, well, it might have been the worst of all.
Naturally curly, yet she never styled it. It just hung from her like a blow-dried yeti.
Her skin was pale and unblemished, she was tall and thin, and really could have been something special, but she’d never done much to help herself. She looked like she sewed couches for a living or was a goat herder’s wife.