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Chapter Six
Nate
I’ve been plagued by thoughts of Vivian since I walked out of her cubicle, the soft vanilla scent of her perfume tickling my nostrils. It wasn’t cloying or sweet. It was musky. When I sank to my knees to put those shoes on her feet, the scent intensified like she’d slathered fragranced lotion onto her long, smooth legs.
Damn.
She makes me inexplicably curious, and explicably horny. Which doesn’t make a lot of sense. I don’t “need” her—the paperwork Daniel signed was legit, by the way. I greased Gary’s palm for speed reasons only. I didn’t need him to lie for me. My men do quality work. I have a perfect record for finishing the job on the day I say I will finish it and I refuse to allow a power-tripping jackass who works for the city to set me back to zero.
I do what I have to do to maintain my reputation—to maintain the Owen reputation. They took me in and gave me their name—I don’t take that lightly. My reputation is practically inherited. God knows I didn’t do anything noteworthy in my former life.
Anyway, while I may not do everything “by the book,” I don’t mess around when it comes to safety. You can’t cut corners and have a reputation as a decent builder, and I’m in this for the long haul. The Grand Marin project is humming along smoothly, which is always the goal.
Why invite her to dinner, I hear you ask.
Honestly, I don’t know. I lied about the reservation when I arrived to Cinderella those shoes onto her feet. I didn’t have one. I had no plans to see her beyond the delivery of the shoes. I was merely satisfying my curiosity about her.
The inkling that she was a ritzy wolf in shabby sheep’s clothing was reinforced when I slipped those shoes onto her feet. She belongs in expensive shoes. Her back straightened and she held her chin a little higher after I put them on her. Whenever I wear a suit, I feel like an overstuffed suitcase. No matter how well-tailored, it never seems to fit. Much like I feel in high society. I’ll never fit in as seamlessly as my parents or my brothers.
Speaking of, I arrive at the Owen house, cake in hand. It’s our mother Lainey’s birthday today. The entire event will be fancy and catered, and there are probably three cakes in there to choose from. But I know she loves the buttercream frosting at Caketopia, so I ordered her a chocolate-with-buttercream masterpiece in the shape of a Fabergé egg. Genius, right?
The massive front door swings aside and I’m saved from cradling the cake box under one arm to open the door myself.
I’m greeted by one of my brothers.
Archer Owen is the “real” Owen. Born and bred. It’s Benji, Benjamin if you’re looking at his business card, and me who are from much, much humbler beginnings.
“Welcome, Slumlord,” Archer greets with a sharky smile.
“Fuck off.” I grin.
Arch likes to give me crap for building live-works because he’d die before he touched any property resembling residential. He prefers commercial clubs, bars, and restaurants. They’re not my style. I enhance lives. I give people a place to live. I want them to have a taste of the good life, as good as they can get. Not all of us can be adopted by billionaires, after all.
I was lucky. Well, me and Little Orphan Benji.
“Has it started yet?” I ask, taking in Archer’s champagne glass. He’ll switch to bourbon after dinner. We all will. Paired with a cigar with our father, William…if Lainey allows him to smoke one tonight.
“There he is! Only one to go.” Lainey sweeps into the foyer in a slimming black dress and her own pair of Christian Louboutins. If you were wondering how I knew about ladies’ shoes, now you know. She’s opened more than one pair on Christmas morning.
The house is a monstrosity. A big, beautiful, tall, posh, comfortable, warm place. Just like my adoptive mother. Minus the monstrosity part. Lainey’s pretty. And even if she wasn’t, her kindness would make her so.
“Happy birthday, Ma.” Chicago leaks out of me sometimes since that’s where I grew up. This is one of those times.
“Caketopia. You’re my favorite son, Nate.” She kisses my cheek and hugs me.
Archer swipes a hand over his neatly trimmed beard and affects a dramatic eye roll. I hold Lainey closer and soak it in, and not only to rub it in Archer’s face that I’m her favorite. When you have a crappy mom and then the perfect one, you hold on to hugs like these for dear life.
I vowed when I started working for Owen Construction that I would make her and Will proud. She’s told me a hundred times she’s proud of me, and Will at least half a dozen, but my debt to them is so great, I’m still working on it. Probably will be for the rest of my life.
The door opens behind us.
“Finally!” Archer says dramatically.
“Fuck off,” Benji tells him, echoing my greeting. “The hood of Nate’s car is still warm. I haven’t missed anything. Happy birthday, Mom.”
Golden brown Benji takes Lainey into his arms and gives her a squeeze. He’s Israeli, second generation. He was raised in Idaho. William Owen’s sister, Aunt Judy, worked at the hospital with Benji’s late parents and was dating Benji’s then neighbor when his parents died. That’s how the Owens received word that Benji was a parentless kid chock out of family one cold, snowy December evening.
“I’m her favorite,” I tell Benji as I show him the cake.
