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“I love my boys equally,” Lainey says, betraying me. She pats my cheek, her version of condolences.
Benji was adopted a year before me, when Archer was thirteen years old. I was the latecomer at age fifteen. By then Benji was eleven and Archer was fourteen and I was the shithead foster kid who wouldn’t follow the rules. These two have been my brothers in every sense of the word since the day I was given my own room in a house so nice I couldn’t believe I was allowed to live there.
Regardless of what you’ve witnessed tonight, I’d take a bullet for any of them. I never met a family who cared about each other until the Owens. My parents were less “all for one and one for all” and more “look out for number one.” Had I been raised to completion by Jewel and Jarod Weeks, I would be a blight on society like they were.
I’m wearing a dark suit, sans jacket, for the festivities. Predictably, Benji chose the stylish combo of slacks, a checkered shirt, and a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo shoes. He inherited Mom’s penchant for fancy footwear. Archer is in a sleek gray suit that costs twice as much as mine. The prick. One-upmanship is his pastime.
The front door swings open again and in scuttles Cristin Gilbert, Benji’s “life assistant coach.” At least that’s how he refers to her. The rest of us know Cristin as his best friend-slash-woman who is madly in love with him.
“Hi, guys!” Cris chirps. She’s adorable. Big, doll-like gray eyes, chin-length dark blond curls. She used to work for the Owens, before Benji claimed her for himself. She’s comfortable in this dynamic. The Owens are like her second family.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Lainey tells Cris with a smile. “I’m so glad to see another woman. Not as if any of my boys would bring a date.” Our mother harrumphs. Cristin sends a look of pure longing over at Benji, who cluelessly doesn’t pick up on it. Mom drags her into the next room.
“How are things with the life coach?” Archer asks, sipping his champagne.
“Life assistant coach. You should consider one. You’d never forget a haircut again.” Benji smirks at Archer’s disheveled locks.
“Exactly what I don’t want in my life,” he growls. “Someone telling me what to do.”
Control is Archer’s thing. Can you tell?
“She is the reason I sit at the big-boy table with the grownups and you two scurry around job sites trying to make the bills,” Benji replies smugly. He runs the finance department for Owen Construction. He’s a math wizard. In other words, he’s really fucking nerdy.
“But you miss all the fun,” I tell him. “Nearly got shut down yesterday. A woman in a pencil skirt and heels was sent to reprimand me for not having the appropriate paperwork.”
“I do love a pencil skirt.” Benji’s interest is palpable.
“You love to be reprimanded,” Archer says, chuckling at his own joke.
I can’t help laughing. That was a good one. I’ll hand it to Benji, though. He has a mystical way with women that Archer and I never quite grasped. I tend to fumble. Archer is as malleable as forged iron. Vivian had it wrong when she accused me of being charming. Benji has the market cornered.
“Nate, when are you going to learn to stop sleeping with the inspectors?” Archer grouses. “It’s unprofessional.”
“She’s not an inspector,” I say, instead of admitting I didn’t seal the deal. There’s always dinner tomorrow. I’m not sure if there's anything to uncover when it comes to Vivian Vandemark, or if my assumptions are off. I doubt it. My gut rarely steers me wrong. Something tells me she’s hiding. Normally, I’d let it go. I have what I need, my site is up and running. But I didn’t miss the flare of heat in her eyes while I was sliding those shoes onto her feet. She tried to pretend she wasn’t interested in me. I know better.
And, yeah, sex is not off the table. If I’m really lucky, we’ll have it on the table after we eat. I can clear Villa Moneta with a wave of my American Express card.
After dinner, I’m admiring the expansive backyard with my adoptive father. William Owen is the OG blue-collar billionaire. He didn’t inherit his wealth, he created it. He started with cleaning companies—you heard me—franchised them and, after fifteen years of solid growth, sold the company for a mint. He’d been in touch with many large businesses by then, so he branched into new-builds—mostly office buildings. Once my brothers and I came along, we were groomed to run our own sectors of Owen Construction based on our talents and skills. Will never missed an opportunity to teach us to get dirty, either. We may have wealth, but hard work is the backbone of this company.
Arch and Benji took to it better than I did. I never lost my rough and tumble. I don’t exactly fit in at corporate meetings, and whenever I visit our headquarters, I’m sure everyone can tell. Will, on the other hand, has learned to blend. He can attend a charity function or an investor’s meeting without standing out like my thrice broken nose. I’ve never had the reputation for being easygoing. I don’t suspect I’ll have one soon.
“How’s Grand Marin?” he asks. It’s time to talk business since we aren’t allowed to talk business at the dinner table. That’s Will’s rule. He wants to keep Lainey happy and she’s happiest when we talk about our personal lives at dinner instead of the goings-on of the company.
“On schedule. Ahead, actually,” I say proudly. “We start filling units next month.”
He raises one bushy eyebrow. He’s shaven, but a dark five o’clock shadow presses his jaw. Like his son, Will could easily grow a full beard. If Lainey let him. “I hear you took out a wall with a sledgehammer.”
“Shoddy craftsmanship doesn’t stand with me.”
He offers a half smile of disbelief. He knows I don’t mean it. I’d never berate or belittle the men and women I employ. I know the struggles they face. I understand they have bills to pay and families to support. I relate to them, and that’s what makes me aces on site.
“You shouldn’t cause problems where there aren’t any,” he warns.
I suck on my cigar and crane my head to take in the stars. The Owen property sits on several acres. Without light pollution, I can see the Pleiades. Which is why I fought those restrictions for lower-wattage bulbs at Grand Marin. Everyone should be able to see the stars, not just rich folk. I don’t know that I ever looked up when I lived in Chicago. There was too much going on in front of me I had to keep both eyes on.
“I keep my enemies close,” I say, the cigar between my teeth.
And I keep my would-be inspectors closer, especially when they look like Vivian. Which, by the way, they never do.
