Authors: Ellen Lane,Taylor Young
They kissed one another on the porch as the afternoon grew cooler around them. They left, pulling out of their driveway for the first time. There was chicken salad waiting for them. And somewhere after that, there was marriage and a future that Lauren couldn’t even begin to imagine.
But with Riley, she knew that the inability to imagine what was next was one of the best things about him. The future was wide open in front of both of them; it would be that way whether they were here among two-lane roads or the busy avenues of New York.
Wherever they were, she’d be happy as long as they were together.
Besides, they had a romance that had started in a failing shoe store and had somehow blossomed around career opportunities and her re-discovery of home. With such milestones already in place, how could she possibly be able to predict what might happen next?
***
Skip ahead two weeks and we see Riley, Lauren, and her dad looking at a building twenty-miles outside of town…a hipster little place with available storefronts. We find that Lauren’s dad agreed to Riley’s terms and this storefront will be his business. Also, Riley and Lauren plan on living around here after the marriage, as Riley has decided to sell most of his properties and finally become a family man.
THE END
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My Master
An Alpha Billionaire Romance
Ellen Lane
Before You Get Started Reading
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So much money has passed through my hands, it has lost all meaning to me. Working as a cashier of a chain grocery store, I see more money passing through registers and into hands than I will ever earn. At first it stings a little bit, knowing that your entire life can be summed up by the label of cashier—as in, that woman at the register who short-changed me, or who forgot to give my bag on the way out. We’re not allowed to socialize too closely with customers. It’s not professional. And that’s feeding into the illusion that we’re humanoid counting machines, just cogs with friendly faces.
I remember my mother used to tell me how she endeared herself to her customers by sharing everything—treating each person like a friend or confidant. Of course, this was way back in the day and in a small town. Nowadays and especially in the big city, people don’t care about your story. They see a thirty-two year old woman working the cash register and figure, something’s not right. Don’t make too much eye contact. Don’t say too much. Heaven forbid she has something to say.
The truth is I am more than just my label and even more than just my name. I am an artist. I am a crafter of the human head, a Picasso of long, luscious locks. My real dream job has always been working in a hair salon, full time, nothing but just the tranquil sounds of snipping in between deceptively intimate conversations with interesting people.
The idea of opening my own spa never leaves me and sometimes I even pass along my card to a chatty customer that asks one too many questions about how my day is going. I tell them they’re all more than invited to check out Cutting Edge, where I am freed from the obligation to be devoid of life and sound like a recording.
Little did I know that when my nephew Jake called me that particular Tuesday, it would set off a series of events that would lead me to one of those “life changing moments” that people talk about. Jake had just been promoted at his new job and came down to visit back home, insisting that I join he, Big Sis Cindy and his new wife for dinner and drinks at Malley’s, the swankiest place in our city.
Of course, when Jake is the one celebrating, anyone’s lucky to get in a word edge-wise. I just sort of listened, laughed and ate up since he was paying everyone’s tab. Naturally, conversations directed at me were limited to non-existent. I was the go-to girl on hair care. But when it came to money, success and fame, there was no association to speak of.
By the time everyone started toasting to Jake’s new success and quoting Richard Branson’s views on life, I was ready to call it quits. I was also the first to leave, since I had an early shift at the store the next morning.
And I imagine everything would have gone swimmingly all week, if only I hadn’t been so distracted by my $40 fish entrée and $50 glass of champagne—all of which were paid by the well-to-do, millionaire-to-be of the hour.
Still thinking of obscenely expensive the meal was, and how insanely rich Jake had to be to justify that expense, I hardly noticed another pair of headlights shining behind me, as I quickly pulled out of my parking spot, lost in La La land.
And bam—just like that I turned a free night’s worth of entertainment into an expensive mishap.
“Shit!” I screamed, having heard the crack of my back bumper plowing into the motorist’s side door. “Double shit,” I said to myself as I noticed the distinct label of a Ferrari in my rear view mirror. Jesus, I thought to myself, why would someone who could afford a Ferrari even be visiting a small city like Streetsboro?
“Dammit!” an angry voice said, exiting the car and surveying the damage. It was hard to ignore. My car had dented his driver’s seat door pretty good, though even now in retrospect, I don’t think it was anything a Ferrari owner would have a cow about.
But to be fair, when you own a Ferrari sometimes that’s all you have to do in life is make grief for the less fortunate. I sighed, knowing there was no way this night was going to end pleasant, not anymore, and given his voice of “outrage” there was no way he was going to let this one slide.
“Ah, sorry,” I said, after getting out and looking over the dent. Sure enough, it was ugly and undoubtedly cast a shadow over what should have been an eventful and relaxing night for both of us. “I didn’t see you.”
“You didn’t see me?” he fumed. “Did you even look? How hard is it? What if you had killed somebody?”
I let him vent a few moments, figuring nothing I had to add would score me any points. I noticed his face. Clean shaved, dark hair and intelligent eyes. His frame was strong, about thirty or maybe a couple of years younger. Even his voice, irritable though it was, seemed blessed with charisma. He was a very attractive man, the kind I would surely never meet, having never visited Malley’s on my own budget. The fact that he had a Ferrari and was freaking out over a minor collision that was probably an hour’s worth of work to him on any given day only helped emphasize that this was an out of my league starlet, the type of guy that would only imagine a cashier/hair stylist—probably never talk to one in person.
“Well, I’m glad that didn’t happen,” I said, staring into his eyes, partly to calm him down and partly because they were so gorgeous.
“But it could have,” he said, avoiding my eyes and still looking over his car.
Oh God, I was so disgusted at myself and the thought of my insurance rates going up yet again because of something so stupid, so small, that never should have happened. Of course, he could have let it go. Chalked it up to poor decision making and counted it as his one good deed for the year. But it seemed as if the handsome, very rich stranger had other plans.
“Whatever. Just give me your phone number. Name, address, the works.”
I hesitated a long moment, thinking over the dour future to come.
“What…you don’t have any? Don’t tell me…” He said in spite.
“Of course I do,” I answered quickly. “I wouldn’t be driving without it. I’m just…disappointed. In myself. For letting this happen.”
“Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“It’s no big deal. Just you know, poor person stuff. Just a bunch of whining. Something I’m sure you don’t care about.”
“What, like hiked up insurance rates?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“Huh.” He looked at me for the first time, studying my face.”
“But it’s my fault, I know. I wasn’t paying attention. No one to blame but myself.”
“And I guess you figure, since I have the Ferrari and you have the uh, Ford…that I should be the bigger man and let it go?”
“No, of course not,” I said, almost laughing, as if I expected anything more refreshing from one of those rich boy types. “It’s the principle of the matter. Right?”
I didn’t care if he smiled back. I sent him a sincere one, with a painfully wide simper and a wink. Let him be hateful, I figured. I might as well try to have fun with it.
He shrugged. He seemed genuinely tired. Maybe even a bit stressed, like so many guys that come into the salon, needing a friendly face just as much as they need a trim.
“You know what? Just forget it. I don’t want to be the cause of your misery. It’s not worth it.”
“Not worth it?”
“That’s what I said,” he said with a sneer. “Guilt costs money. And I don’t want to try to sleep tonight knowing that I’m costing you more money than you can afford.”
“What do you mean…”
“I mean, silly girl, that I’m not going to report this to your insurance company. I’ll figure something out.”
“Really?” I said excitedly, tilting my head at the thought. I didn’t want to get too excited just in case this was a sarcastic slow burn. I bit my tongue, wanting to say never mind…that I’d report it just on principle. To take responsibility like I should. But damned if I could afford it right about now. He really was doing me the favor of a lifetime.
“Yeah. Just…go back to driving school or something. You’re going to get someone killed.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Oh My God,” I said, shivering in relief. “Thank you. Oh my God, thank you!” I smiled at met his eyes, distant and unyielding, but still somehow watching me in curiosity. “Listen, I will pay you back.”
“No need,” he sighed. “Just go.”
“No! Listen, I can pay you the damages. I would feel better about it. I don’t like hand outs. You know how that goes. Independent working woman. Doesn’t want any favors. And yet…sometimes needs them?”
“Fine. What’s your name? Number?” he said stoically.
“Barbara Adams. I’ll write down my cell number and address. I promise to pay you back. I won’t feel right about this without doing something. It’s a beautiful car.”
“Yeah it is,” he said evenly, watching me write down my number on a small tablet.
“Your name? If you don’t mind me asking?”
He stared at me, a bit peeved, and then shook his head. “Alfred Banes.”
“Alfred…like Banes? Like the writer guy?”
He scoffed and almost laughed in my face. “No, not like the writer guy. The writer guy. I am He.”
“You’re Alfred Banes? Seriously?”
“Why would I lie about being Alfred Banes? If I were lying I would choose someone more visible like Johnny Depp or Orlando Bloom.”
“Wow. I just…never thought I’d ever meet you.”
“You know who I am?”
“Know who you…well, yeah. I mean, I read “21 Shards”. I’m a book worm to the end. To a library girl, you’re like a rock star.”
He actually smiled, but not totally forgiving yet. “That’s nice to hear, I guess.”
“I just…can’t believe it’s really you.”
“Didn’t look at the picture on the flap jacket, huh?”
“No, who cares about that?”
He lowered his eyes.
“I mean, yeah, we care. Sort of. But it’s the writing. That’s all that matters. You should know that.”
“Yeah, right. Well I wish we met under better circumstances.”
“Yeah. So should I take your number too or…”
“NO. I don’t want you calling me,” he said firmly.
“Oh right. Good idea. I mean, you can contact me whenever you want. No need for me to call you. And you’re so generously dropping the insurance trade. Thank you so much. I owe you one.”
“Yeah, you do,” he said as he turned around and paced back to his car, stuffing my phone number note into his pocket.
I couldn’t help but watch him in awe, and tried to wipe the smile from my face. Though I could hardly contain myself from the ridiculously unfeasible moment—indeed worth the poor man’s trouble, since I would have never met him otherwise.
“Learn how to drive,” he couldn’t resist yelling, just as he plopped into the driver’s seat and slammed his ruined door shut.
Alfred Banes, the billion dollar novelist. The wizard of the literary world, doing me a favor. Me and not some hot twenty-year-old he met in a hotel. My inner teen swooned at the idea.
Well, it pained me to admit that even though Alfred was saving me a fortune by not reporting my incident to the insurance company, I still didn’t have much to give him. Rent was due and the car payment was due and I was running out of resources. I don’t know what I expected to happen. Maybe I was hoping Daddy Warbucks would grow a heart just this once. Or maybe I would totally slip his mind and I would have a celebrity urban legend to share at parties for the rest of my life.
Naturally, the best-case scenario rarely happens. Much to my chagrin, I was interrupted during a bubble bath to see his name on the caller ID—even his name in LCD lights seemed angry.
“Hello?” I answered softly, still figuring I could pass as Barbara Adams’ daughter if worse came to worse.
Instantly, he knew who I was. “Hey,” he said rough and deceptively chatty. “So how are we today?”
“Umm, good. Uh, listen…”
“I haven’t heard from you. About the money you owe me. You said you were going to take care of it.”
“I am. I want to. I just…I don’t have the money right now.”
“Really? What did you spend it on? Jewelry? Liquor?”
“I…no, that’s not what...listen, I’m sorry. I know you did me a favor. And I’m going to pay you back.”
“Well, what did you spend it on?”
I blinked out and bit my tongue. It was none of his business. But I couldn’t bring myself to pick a fight. “I…I can’t go into it over the phone.”
“Right. Cigarettes probably. Or was it movie night? Gals night out?”
“None of the above. I promise you. How about we make a deal?”
“A deal? You want to make a deal?
His voice went up a note and he began huffing and puffing. “God, Barbara or whatever your name is. I don’t make a deals. What I ought to do is just turn you into the insurance company AND the police. That’s what I should do. That’s what any other nice guy would do. Because ‘nice guys’ let parasites like you run them over all the time.”