Blue Collar Billionaires
These brothers were raised to roll up their sleeves and put passion first in their careers. Now they’re doing the same in their personal lives…
“...the perfect friends to lovers romance that had me hooked from chapter one.”
Excerpt from Once Upon a Billionaire
Vivian
It has to be him. I’d bet my tiny, budget-busting apartment on it.
His charcoal-gray suit is well-made and expensive and too hot for the day, hinting that he’s spent most of his day in A/C. His suit jacket is tossed over one arm and a pressed white shirt is stretched over his broad back. Sweat darkens the material between his shoulder blades.
One hand is raised to shield his eyes as he studies the uppermost floor of one of the buildings. I approach, curious and disgusted in equal measure.
Rich people. Yuck.
I stand next to him and crane my head as well. I’m not sure what I’m looking at, so I study the pitch of the roof while I wait to be acknowledged. He doesn’t flinch.
“Mr. Owen, I presume?” I finally say.
I feel the turn of his head, the weight of his gaze like a hawk that’s spied his dinner.
“Who wants to know?” His voice is low and rough. Despite the day’s heat, the tiny hairs at the back of my neck stand on end.
It’s the kind of reply I would expect from a guy who doesn’t do things by the book. The kind of reply that might’ve come from my father.
“Do you have drywall in these units, Mr. Owen?” I turn to meet him face to face. The second we lock eyes, heat flames my cheeks and my heart rate soars.
As much as I want to blame summer or anxiety on my physical reaction, I can’t dismiss the man’s attractiveness. Of their own volition, my eyes drink in the sight of him. The men I’ve encountered since I started working for the city are never this good looking. Rarely are they average looking.
Whenever Daniel or Gary mentioned Nathaniel Owen, I pictured a cantankerous old codger, not a guy in his thirties. A fan of lines surrounds Owen’s eyes. Late thirties, I mentally correct. He’s probably a few years older than me.
His brawn doesn’t belong in a tailored suit but he wears it well. Like it’s bending to his will, not the other way around. Let’s blame my reaction on surprise. Owen is fifteen years younger and fifty times more attractive than I imagined. That would throw anyone for a loop.
“Now, why would you ask me something like that?” He offers the barest tip of his lips.
I size him up, taking inventory. His blue eyes sparkle from behind long eyelashes. His nose has a crooked bend like it’s been broken more than once. That’s not surprising. He has a knack for pissing people off.
A breeze kicks his dark-blond hair. It’s thick, wavy on top. Every inch of him, from his wide shoulders to his confident stance, the stubble on his cheeks and jaw in need of a shave, is disturbingly male. The most disturbing thing about him is that I haven’t stopped staring at his stupidly handsome face.
“Miss…” He trails off and waits for me to fill in the blank.
“Vandemark.” I offer a hand. “Vivian Vandemark.”
“Nathaniel Owen.” He takes my hand and pumps twice, long enough for me to notice the calluses on his palm and feel a little shiver run through me.
Interesting.
This is one billionaire that is full of contradictions. He stinks of wealth, with that suit and his stature, but there is a hefty dose of rough and tumble beneath his smooth exterior.
. . .
