Home > Once Upon a Billionaire (Blue Collar Billionaires #1)(3)

Once Upon a Billionaire (Blue Collar Billionaires #1)(3)
Author: Jessica Lemmon

Our resident billionaire builder either delights in being a pain in the city’s rear end and uses workarounds as a way to save money, or he enjoys watching city officials jump through hoops.

I’m not in a jumping mood.

I pull the white hardhat over my hair and carry a storage clipboard with my cell phone tucked inside. I’m going for aesthetics. I’m not an inspector, but I can look like one.

The guys onsite seem to be in a light, airy mood, and there are a lot of them. Most holding Starbucks cups and leaning on either buildings or shovels. I must have stopped by at break time.

Heads turn as I approach. Their conversations and laughter ebb. All I hear is the crunch of gravel under my high-heeled shoes. I look left and then right, noting more hardhats and tool belts, before my eyes land on a man in a suit.

Owen.

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 spent most of his day in A/C. His suit jacket is tossed over one arm and a pressed white shirt stretches 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 waiting 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 part 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. A little shiver runs 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.

“Why do you ask about the drywall?” The bemused tick of his mouth is distracting. The way he takes a step closer to me, insulting. Is he trying to intimidate me? I straighten my spine and stand at every inch of my five-six frame.

“It’s a waste of resources to install drywall without an electrical inspection, Mr. Owen. You’re also breaking the law. If you proceed, you’ll have to tear it out for us to reassess. That could cause a huge delay.”

His smile disappears, a hard glint shadowing his ocean-blue eyes. There he is: the cold-hearted billionaire. So much for the brief glimpse of charm.

“You’re looking for Gary Williams, Ms. Vandemark. He completed the inspection three days ago. Thanks for stopping by.” He turns and dismisses me.

I don’t think so.

“If you can’t provide proof of a passed electrical inspection today,” I gleefully inform my opponent, “I’ll be shutting you down.” I smile, but his expression grows more intense. His lip isn’t quite curling, but damn close.

Oh, yes. I was right. This does feel good. Wealth can buy a lot of things—prestige, a good reputation, and sometimes, friends. But not everyone is bribable.

Owen turns on the heel of one shiny leather shoe and stalks away from me. I blow out a disbelieving laugh. He’s running away? Really?

That’s a sure sign of guilt.

I follow, my mind rewinding to the day my father was arrested. He came home and began frantically packing suitcases. He’d slipped out of his office building when the FBI entered. They found him at home, half his closet emptied into too many bags for him to carry.

My mother was helping him pack.

“Mr. Owen!” I pump my arms to catch up to his long strides. I’m a little winded as I can’t afford a gym membership. I have to settle for walks around the block rather than hire a trainer to come to my home gym three times a week like I used to.

I know, I know. Don’t say it.

“Running away won’t solve your problems,” I tell his back as a trickle of sweat rolls down mine.

“You can peddle your threats and your prissy skirt off my property, Ms. Vandemark.” He turns in a plume of sexism and rage. “Talk to Gary.”

“This isn’t Gary’s property,” I snap. “It’s yours.” He starts walking again so I march after him over the uneven dirt-and-rock terrain, my heels not exactly cooperating. “The burden of proof lies with you, not a former employee of the city.”

“Former.” He stops so suddenly I nearly smack into him. I’m still teetering when he whirls around. “Did he quit?”

“Did you bribe him?” I lift my chin not only to take in his height, but also to let him know I’m not backing down.

There. Now that’s a curled lip.

“I’m the one in charge around here, Ms. Vandemark.” He pokes a blunt finger against his own chest. “I say when we proceed with this job, not you. You think prancing in here to slap my wrist is going to scare me? It won’t. You are succeeding at pissing me off, though.”

The firm, full set of his mouth is bizarrely attractive, even as he attempts to intimidate me. He doesn’t merely stand over me, he surrounds me.

Poor Gary and his five-foot-three-ness.

“You can’t intimidate me, Mr. Owen.” I keep my voice even, a feat since chasing him left me gulping for breath. His legs are a lot longer than mine. For every step he took, I had to take two and a half.

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