Chapter One
Belle
Fuck it all to hell. Fuck today. Fuck tomorrow.
And fuck the day after that too. And you know what?
Screw the mafia for dipping their toes into drug trafficking in the mid-twentieth century and causing an epidemic.
And screw big pharma for pushing the skinny societal narrative again.
And screw people who abandon adorable animals on the side of the road and—
“Uh, Belle?” Tyson, my realtor, calls out hesitantly on the other end of the phone. “Are you still there?”
I don’t realize how hard I’m clenching the pen in my hand until I look down to see my white knuckles. Putting it down, I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“What do you mean the buyers are thinking about backing out?” I ask through gritted teeth, rubbing my temples at the stress forming there.
I look at my watch. It’s been a long day, a long week, and it’s only Tuesday.
“I thought everything was going well. The last update you gave me was that the sale was final and all we needed was a closing date.”
“Well…” Tyson clears his throat uncomfortably.
“It was pending the inspection. And the potential buyers feel as though there needs to be more done than what they originally thought when they walked through the property. Plus, one them claimed they saw some sort of drug deal happening on the street corner and began questioning the safety of the area.”
Of course they saw a drug deal. They’re in central Pittsburgh for crying out loud.
It isn’t like they didn’t know what they were getting into after all those news articles came out about the rising crime rates thanks to the city’s growing drug problem.
Thanks a lot, organized crime leaders. I should really stop reading those deliciously smutty mafia romances that take up a solid ten percent of my kindle out of solidarity of my sanity.
“Ty,” I say slowly, trying not to lose my shit. But I’m close. I am so, so close. “They’ve been there four different times over the last seven months. They knew what they were getting into when they decided to take it on. That’s not my problem.”
The wannabe Wallstreet bros probably realized Daddy wasn’t going to hand them over his money so easily and now they’re trying to back out before having to dip into their own savings. Well, tough shit. They wanted to start their own business, and they’re not going to screw me over in the process.
“I could have sold Belle’s Place to five other buyers, but I chose them,” I remind him.
“You suggested I choose them. And I get it, Ty. It’s a bigger commission for you and a higher profit for me.
But we both know I can’t move forward with purchasing a place here until I close on the sale in Pittsburgh.
So, this needs to happen. Make it happen. ”
I can feel it then—the dull thrum forming behind my eyes. The last thing I need to do is crawl into fetal position under a weighted blanket and close out the world. There’s too much going on for me right now.
“I’ll do my best,” my realtor promises, though he doesn’t sound as confident as I’d like him to.
In hindsight, this is what I get for hiring somebody to sell my commercial building after spending only ten minutes googling ‘the best realtors for commercial sales in Pittsburgh’.
Tyson was the second on the list. The first never called me back.
“But I need you to know this may not end well. They are being flakey with phone calls and meetings. Even with a tentative closing date, they’re talking about pulling. ”
I take a deep breath. Isn’t that the story of my life?
“Let them know it won’t end well for them either if they back out a week and a half before they’re supposed to close.
There will be big financial repercussions that I’m sure Daddy Moneybag won’t like handling if he realizes his earnest deposit won’t be refunded.
There’s nothing ‘tentative’ about what we agreed on. ”
This conversation is only going to give me a headache. So, after bidding Tyson a tight goodbye, I put my phone facedown onto the desk and groan loudly into my hands. It isn’t even three in the afternoon and I’m ready for bed. Or a shot of tequila. Or maybe—
A hand touches my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
I yelp in surprise, nearly falling out of my crisscross chair.
Jesse catches me, those big hands grabbing my arms and repositioning me on the seat he bought and put together for me for my thirty-fourth birthday two months ago.
When he’d asked me what I wanted and I showed him the picture, he looked skeptical.
But he ordered it in the same bubblegum pink as the photo and put it together without so much as questioning me or my habit of not sitting properly in literally any seat.
One of his eyebrows quirks at he looks down at me. “You good?”
Fighting the flush, I nod. “I didn’t hear you come home,” I admit sheepishly.
When Tyson called, I took off my noise cancelling headphones that was playing a particularly smutty scene between a fae high lord and his mate and haven’t gotten back to it.
Normally, I’m in tune to the tires rolling up the driveway whenever he gets home.
Jesse’s lips threaten to twitch upward. “I must have snuck in while you were yelling into your palms.”
I scoff. “I wasn’t yelling. I was releasing irritation before it ate me alive. If I didn’t, you’d have to deal with me the rest of the day all pent up and angry.”
Something in those hazel eyes flash, and his lips hitch higher. “I could handle it. It’d be like dealing with an unruly kitten.”
A hand flies to my chest in mock offense, and I know the comparison has partly to do with the long nails I get done every three weeks.
They’re longer than normal, because I missed my appointment last week when a migraine struck me out of nowhere.
I should really reschedule before the acrylic tips start breaking off.
“I am far fiercer than a kitten. I’m like a hangry chihuahua who hasn’t been fed in two hours. ”
He snorts at the reference to my mother’s dog Taco, who’s one of the most annoying pets I’ve ever met.
She thought it’d be hilarious to name her dog that since she has me.
Hence, Taco and Belle. I’m not convinced she was sober when she made that choice, but who am I to judge?
I had a turtle named Shelly and a cat named Kitty growing up. I lacked originality.
“Have you eaten yet today?” he asks, dark brown eyebrow arching. “When I left for practice this morning, you were in the same spot staring at your laptop.”
I wince before I can stop myself. “Uh…”
He sighs, offering me his hand and wiggling his fingers for me to take them. “Bells, you can’t skip eating.”
“I forgot,” I whine like a child, accepting his hand. “I’ve been on the phone all morning fielding calls, and don’t get me started on the emails. I lost track of time.”
Jesse pulls me up and doesn’t let go as he walks us into the kitchen across the hall from my home office.
Our fingers interweave effortlessly, making my heart skip a metaphoric beat.
I silently will it to calm its ass down, but it’s no use.
It’s reacted this way since I saw Jesse Clarkson walk into study hall when I was in seventh grade twenty-two years ago.
And despite the two decades since, it hasn’t let go of that schoolgirl crush.
Not that I can blame it. I’ve tried reasoning with myself—that it’s an innocent feeling.
Who wouldn’t have an infatuation with the six-foot-three hockey player who’s carved with lean muscle and thick thighs?
Physically, he’s a ten out of ten with a tan, masculine face to match that athletic, broad body.
His brown hair has gotten long on the top, and I can tell he’s dragged his hand through a time or two today.
Watching footage with the team must not have gone well, because he only does that when he’s irritated.
Then there’s the scar that stretches across the left side of his cheek that makes him oddly hotter. And it’s not just me who thinks so. That scar has its own fan page, where people have often wondered what it tastes like.
So, yeah. Having a twenty-year crush on him is totally justifiable, and nobody would fault me for it. They would, however, judge me. Because thinking your stepbrother is hot is probably deemed weird by most of society. But I can look, even if I can’t touch.
It feels like a loss when he lets go of my hand. That is, until he grabs ahold of my hips to pick me up and set me onto the counter. I stifle a giggle when his fingertips dig into the fleshy part of my waist that’s ticklish, managing to keep my composure.
“What do you want?” he asks, turning to the fridge. It’s a good thing he does, because that loaded question paired with the romance that I listened to for the last two hours conjures up some very creative answers.
I want you to touch me. Preferably my boobs.
I want to know what your scar tastes like along with the eight hundred thousand other people who follow @JClarksonsScar.
I want you to make me soup and then bend me over the table—
Nope. Better not finish that thought, or my flushed face will be a dead giveaway for what I’m thinking. Which has nothing to do with food at all. Although, soup in this cold January weather would be kind of nice.
“I can make you a sandwich,” he goes on when I don’t answer, ruffling through the groceries I picked up the other day. “Or I can cook us chicken and—”
“No,” I blanch, snapping out of my dirty thoughts. “Then you’ll make me eat it grilled with broccoli and no carbs on the side. What kind of heathen makes somebody a meal with no carbs?”
Jesse rolls his eyes when he looks back at me, an amused smile curling half his mouth. “The kind of person who has to stay in shape for the hockey season.”