I shut the door when the two men leave and take a deep breath. I lean against the door, my heart thumping like a tribal drum.

What the hell just happened?

Did I really just tell off the richest man in Blackwell?

I’m about to set my mug on the coffee table, but I hesitate when I see this year’s edition of Forbes Thirty Under Thirty richest people list.

And guess who is on the cover?

Sebastian Blackwell, that cocky asshole.

He was expecting a man. He apparently didn’t even remember me from my first job, years ago.

I sure as hell remember him.

I thumb through the magazine and read the blurb about him.

Sebastian Blackwell

The small town, homegrown businessman is famously known as the “Blue Collar Billionaire.” Born into a poor family in the small town of Blackwell, he made his first million in his early twenties. After high school, with nothing but the work ethic his dad instilled in him and a one way bus ticket, he moved to an oil boom town. In Louisiana, he worked eighteen hour days of hard labor as a hand. He even claimed that for months at a time he would sleep on friends’ couches or the streets to save every penny. After that, he moved back to his hometown and made a series of investments, each one more spectacular than the last, and was an early investor in cryptocurrencies. His net worth is estimated to be close to three billion.

So what are his next moves? Mr. Blackwell says he wants to take on an ambitious schedule of constructing both a world-class ranch and a distillery in the land around his hometown, Blackwell. He says it will bring jobs back to the area and restore the heartland.

I hear my mom’s steps, as she traipses down the stairs. “Who was it, honey?” she asks, her voice raspy, as she’s still waking up.

“No one,” I croak. “Just some traveling salesman.”

“A traveling salesman?” she asks as she gets to the bottom of the stairs. “What were they selling?”

“Rugs,” I say quickly, the first thing that comes to mind.

“Rugs?” she parrots. “Well, we could use a good rug in the living room to tie the place together.”

My mom’s voice is soft and kind, but she still seems out of it.

She hasn’t been the same since my dad passed away earlier this year.

Neither have I.

“But honey, you know we don’t have the money for rugs. Oh dear me, you didn’t buy one, did you?”

“No, Mom,” I swallow. “I know that money’s tight.”

A woosh of butterflies overtake my stomach.

“We’ll make it honey,” she smiles warmly, and her optimism is contagious.

“I know,” I say, and resign myself to the fact that the little thing that happened this morning will have to go into the category of ‘what Mama doesn’t know, doesn’t hurt Mama.’

“But honey, there is something I need to tell you. Why don’t we take a seat on the couch?”

“Alright. Would you like coffee? I made some already this morning.”

“Of course.”

I join my mother on the couch in our living room, and hand her the hot mug. Even in the dead of summer, she’s always been the type of person who prefers her liquid hot.

“Honey, I’ve been meaning to share something with you. I should have told you months ago, but with everything that happened...I just couldn’t find the right moment.”

My face tightens, and worry pulses through me. The blood in my veins feels cold. My mom is rarely serious.

Much less when it’s barely nine a.m. on a Tuesday.

“Your father, you know he had some debts after his treatment.”

“Well yeah, of course.”

Mama closes her eyes and nods. She tips her chin up and looks up toward the ceiling, like she’s searching for something invisible.

She takes my hands in hers. “Since I didn’t have enough to pay them a lump sum, I’ve been making monthly payments. The hospital has us on a payment plan for all of his treatments, but we still owe three thousand a month for the next two years. The longer we wait, the more we owe.”

“Are you serious? That’s bullshit! They can’t do that!”

She nods, and a tear drop slowly heads down her cheek.

“They can, and they are doing it.”

My jaw drops and my heart feels like it wants to jump out of my throat.

I take a deep breath. “It’ll be okay, Mom.”

She starts to cry outwardly. I join her.

All of a sudden, I have the worst feeling in the world.

I could have sold the place and our problems would have been solved.

The question remains in my mind, though.

Why does Sebastian Blackwell so badly want the Blue Estate?

It’s only sixty acres. The man is so rich he could buy the moon if he wanted…

Right?

“So we won’t be buying rugs any time soon,” she says.

I nod. “I get it. No rugs any time soon. Now I’m gonna head out and get some work done.”

Later that day, after I’ve spent some time taking care of things on our farm and had dinner with my mother and little sister, I head up to my room.

It’s interesting to be twenty-three years old and still living in your childhood room. There’s something as comforting about it as there is confining.

After my father got sick, I had to drop out from my junior year in college to be at home with the family. It was just something I had to do, but now I’m a twenty three year-old girl with two and half years of school and no degree.

And that doesn’t get you much around here.

Come to think of it, nothing gets you much of a job around here anymore. Ever since the Maytag plant that employed thousands of people moved its operations to Mexico, there really hasn’t been much of anything here.

I chuckle to myself. Except, of course, Blackwell Industries. It’s the only well-known employer for miles.

I sigh, realizing I’ve been staring at my computer screen and spacing out for a couple of minutes.

I refocus and do a Google search for ‘jobs you can get without a college degree.’

That brings up a bunch of click-baity looking articles. I click on the first link, and unfortunately it requires that I move to Los Angeles.

I click the second. New York.

The third. Wisconsin.

I try my search again. This time, I put, ‘jobs you can get without a college degree in Blackwell.’

At the top of the page, there’s an ad for Blackwell Industries. Curious, I click, and read.

Seeking: sales rep for west Blackwell rep County. No degree required. Base salary 30k + incentives. Apply digitally by sending resume.

A glimmer of hope comes over me for a moment, and I wonder.

Could I make it as a sales rep?

No. That’s silly. I’m a farm girl through and through. I could never do some stuffy sales job.

An ice cold chill runs through my veins, as I remember how high and mighty I got this morning.

What on Earth was I thinking, telling Sebastian freaking Blackwell off like that?

Am I insane for what I did?

No. My father would be proud of me for sticking to my principles.

All the money in the world doesn’t mean a man is happy, he used to say. Money--that’s just paper.

Just paper indeed. But when you owe a few thousand a month, it sure feels a lot like indentured servitude.

Blackwell Industries has an easy as can be submission process. Since I already have my resume mostly ready, I tweak it and then hit submit.

I sigh. Somehow, I feel like I’ll have to submit twenty resumes just to get one response back for an interview.

I click the ‘back’ button, and see what other queries my search result has brought up.

One article is interesting, but sorry, I won’t be moving to an oil boomtown.

I click on another, for a maid in the local hotel.

Also a Blackwell Industries hotel job.

Shoot, I’m glad I didn’t cave to that monster of a man, even if he offered me a ton of money. It’s like he owns the entire freaking town.

I click and scroll to the second page of Google, always a clear sign of my desperation.

How am I going to even put a dent in the my father’s unpaid medical bills, and keep the credit collectors from coming after our house?

I see a curious headline, and I can’t help but be intrigued.

How I quit my job and became a romance writer.

It’s some obscure blog that I’ve never heard of. There’s not even a real name to go along with the site.

I glance to the shelf beside my bed, the one keeping my journals I used to write in every night.

When I click on the article, the author claims they were able to quit their full time job at a restaurant and make almost as much money by writing romance novels.

Well hello.

I like writing.

And I like romance.

Why not give it a try?

What would I even write about?

Shoot, I haven’t had any romance in my life since Patrick.

And as all my friends know, Patrick is the one who shall now never be named or brought up after what he did to me.

Still, I read through the article, and I wonder if I could ever write a book some day. When I was nine, I wrote a bucket list and it had three things, titled My Three Goals in Life.

-Own a hot tub

-Eat lots of peaches

-Write a book.

What’s the worst that could happen if I at least tried to write something?

“Really, Brett?” I whisper. “You’re going to write a bestselling romance novel. You haven’t even been on a date in over a year. Where would you find your inspiration?”

With the stress of my dad being in the hospital for so long, I didn’t have much time for a boyfriend. Plus, I always think about how my father always said no boy will be good enough for me. But thinking about the pickings lately in Blackwell, I have to say I agree. They are slim.

Still, I can come up with a story. I’m sure of it. I’ve got imagination for days.

I’m startled when my cell phone buzzes on my desk.

I pick it up. I don’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“May I please speak with Miss Blue?” says a woman’s voice on the other end.

“Speaking.”

“My name is Fiona Marshall. I’m with Blackwell Industries. How are you this evening?”

My heart about jumps up through my neck. They’re calling me back already?

“I’m well, and you?”

“Just fine. I’m going to cut to the chase. You applied for a position in sales at Blackwell Industries today, did you not?”

“Yes I did,” I say. Barely a freaking half hour ago.

“Excellent. Well, we’d like for you to come to our headquarters for an in-person interview.”

I swallow. “Al-already?” I silently curse the fact that I just stuttered. Confidence, Brett.

“Yes. How is tomorrow at eight a.m.?”

I blink, and my vision drifts off to the street, where a sole black Lincoln Towncar is passing through the street. It looks out of place.

“I can do that,” I say with feigned confidence.

“Excellent. I’ll send the instructions to the email you used to submit the application. I realize this is a bit fast, but we just had a position open up and we’re looking to fill it ASAP. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Miss Blue. Thanks, and have a nice--”

“Wait--one question,” I manage to say quickly, before she hangs up.

“Yes?”

“Who will I be interviewing with?”

“With Mr. Blackwell.”

A knot forms in my throat. “Okay, thank you. See you tomorrow.”

I hang up.

In a daze, my eyes dart again to the shelf where I keep my journals.

My mind drifts to my first encounter with the man, one that apparently didn’t even register very much with Sebastian.

I get up out of my chair and pull out one of them, dated seven years ago, when I was sixteen.

I’d hoped somewhere in my heart that Sebastian Blackwell, the cocky asshole, would remember me after all these years. I suppose I wasn’t even a blip on his radar when we kissed all those years ago.

I thumb through my journal, finding the entry from July 4th, and read the short story I wrote from that day.

July 4th -

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

-Brett Blue.

Okay, allow me to explain that. I’ve been having an interesting time working at my new job. It’s only my second week working at Blackwell Country Pizzeria, and today, I had the best and worst customers ever. I figured Mrs. Saracimi, my English teacher, would be proud of me for quoting A Tale of Two Cities. Now, without further ado, here is the story I wrote about the hottest man in Blackwell.

Sebastian Blackwell, who owns Blackwell Country Pizzeria, came in with his little brother Liam and I got to wait on them. He’s looking more handsome than any man has a right to. I keep stealing glances at him as I passed by his table, and my heart raced every time our eyes connected. The best customer ever.

Now, let’s get to the worst.

A little later in the evening, a party of eight rolls in, and from the first moment I walk up to them, they are weirding me out, and I get the sense they’re gonna be trouble.

They order four pizzas, all custom-built. I take detailed notes, double check their order, and then punch their order into the POS system. I get double-sat right then, so I go and take orders and got drinks for those two tables. Well, about fifteen minutes later I go to check on their pizzas, since that’s how long they typically take to cook normally.

Marcus, the cook, is confused when I ask him about the four custom-made pizzas.

“I’ve only gotten two pizza orders in the last twenty minutes. And they went out to table six on the patio already.” Marcus check the receipts of the orders in front of him. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing.” He shrugs.

A brick suddenly forms in my stomach. “Oh,” I say.

“Did you put it in the system?” he asks condescendingly.

“Yes! I did!”

“Well you better double check it,” he shrugs. “I can’t make a pizza if I don’t have the order.

I race over to the nearest computer system to check on the order.

It’s right there. I put it in seventeen minutes ago.

I run back to the kitchen, sweating bullets. I need to tell Marcus.

As I’m running across the restaurant, the guy who is at the head of the table grabs me by the elbow.

“Hey, lady! Where the hell are our pizzas? We’ve been waiting a while.”

I take a deep breath, straighten my spine, and look him in the eye.

“Sir, I’m sorry. We had a kitchen error, and we’re remaking the pizzas right now.”

He sneers. “You’re joking right?”

“I’m afraid not.”

He rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath to the guy next to him. “Figures we get an airhead blonde for a server. It’s like talking to a wall with her.”

My chest swells, and I feel tears bubbling to the surface. “Excuse me?”

The guest chuckles, then looks me dead in the eyes. “Alright, well I might as well say it to your face. You’re not the smartest server here, are you? You took an easy order, messed it up, and ruined our night because you are incompetent. It’s pizza, lady, it’s not rocket science.”

I sniffle, holding back tears. I’m at the brink of crying, when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

It’s the owner, Sebastian Blackwell.

He’s the strong silent type, but when he speaks, the whole room listens. He just has this presence that has the ability to take over the room.

“What’s the problem here, Sir?” he bellows, his voice deep.

“The problem,” the guest sneers, “is that your server here doesn’t know how to take an order. She has one job. Take the order. Write it down. Put it in the machine. It’s so easy, a monkey could do it. But wait, I bet a monkey could do a better job of getting our order to us on time. We’re fucking starving here.”

My heart beats so hard, I think it might explode. Sebastian turns to me, and I’m wondering if he’ll unleash on me for messing something up.

Instead, he turns back to the guest.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Sebastian says calmly and authoritatively.

The man’s face turns into a severe frown.

“The fuck you are,” he scoffs. “We’re getting our pizzas, and you’re giving them to us for free.”

Sebastian doesn’t flinch in the slightest.

“I’ll not tolerate that attitude, nor your verbal abuse of my employee. I’m going to say it nicely once more so I’m clear, Sir. Please leave. Now.”

I see the man clenching his fist. Suddenly, he jumps to his feet, and takes a swing at Sebastian.

Sebastian sees the move coming, and he ducks like he’s Keanu Reeves in The Matrix. I put my hand over my heart.

He then grabs the guest’s arm and takes the man down to the ground and holds onto him, pressing his body against the floor.

A collective gasp goes up from the all guests in the restaurant.

“Sir,” Sebastian says. “You’ve just committed assault. I’m going to hold you here while Brett calls the cops.”

“I’m sorry,” the man can barely breathe. “My father just died suddenly this week. We’re all here after the funeral. It’s got me on edge. I’m being an asshole. I’m sorry.”

Sebastian’s face softens at this news. He loosens his grip and lets the man up.

The guest looks at me. “I’m sorry I called you those things,” he shrugs. “Been on edge all week. And I’ve been looking forward to that damn pizza.”

“I’d better go check on my other guests,” is all I manage to say.

I watch Sebastian from afar as he and the guest chat for twenty straight minutes. The pizzas arrive and the guest pays them no heed. Eventually they shake hands. Sebastian comes over to me.

“You’re very smart, you know that, right?” Sebastian says to me.

“Yes?” I answer in a question.

“‘Yes.’ Say it like a statement. I watched the entire interaction from start to finish. The guest was just telling me that, all things considered you actually handled their table like a pro. So good job.”

“You were...watching me?”

“I don’t miss anything that happens in my restaurant,” he smiles slightly, tapping his head. “You did good.”

“You really think I did good?”

He nods, and I notice how Sebastian’s long eyelashes are the perfect complement to his dark eyes. When I inhale I can’t help but take in a waft of his woodsy, masculine scent. I wonder if that’s his cologne or his after shave or what. Whatever it is, it’s intoxicating.

My heart speeds up. I don’t know exactly what I want from him, but I want...something.

Though I should definitely not be thinking about him like this. He’s six years my senior. Still, I can’t help wondering what it would feel like to run my hands up and down his muscular arms.

Our eyes meet, and linger on me.

I glance quickly around the restaurant to make sure there isn’t anyone staring at us.

This is half premeditated, half impulsive, but I can’t help myself. There’s an opening and I go for it.

I lean in and kiss him on the lips.

My toes curl and butterflies flutter in my stomach. I’ve kissed boys before, but I’ve never been made to feel quite like this. It’s electric, and my whole body shakes with desire for him.

He pushes me off lightly, and I swear I see reciprocating desire in his eyes too. But his words sadden me.

“Brett,” he says softly. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m...thanking you,” I mouth.

“You’re great. You really are, but we can’t do this. Please, you should find a guy your own age. And who’s not the owner of this restaurant.”

“Okay,” I breathe.

My heart speeds now, as I read the story I wrote about the cocky bastard, even though it was seven years ago. At sixteen, I crushed on him hard, like only a sixteen year old girl can. Yet today, he doesn’t even know who I am. He’s probably got plenty of girls crushing on him like this.

“Asshole,” I mutter, closing my journal. I jump into my bed, on top of the covers.

Why is it that the assholes are always the hottest? It’s like some inevitable law of nature that is totally unfair.

Even now, as I think about Sebastian, I can’t help but skim my hand over the lace of my underwear a few times, then hover on the sensitive part.

I’ve always wondered what Sebastian would feel like on top of me—if he’d be rough and in control, or the kind to drag out my pleasure until I just couldn’t take any more. When he’s in a suit, his pants pressed with a perfect crease down each thigh, he’s the epitome of a man in control, a man who’d stop at nothing to get what he wants.

But without the tie, he’s someone completely different. He’s not your average over-the-top alpha male billionaire. He has this relaxed demeanor, like the country boy next door who can get down and dirty with the best of them. More casual, more layered than some suited businessman.

Still, he does look damn sexy in a suit.

My clit swells throbs with heat and need, begging for relief. So I slip my hand beneath my panties, and the first soft, desperate moan escapes.

Why have I not gotten over him?

Sebastian’s the type of guy who would seem to have unlimited patience until you crossed his line, and then he’d unleash on you.

I dig the fingernails of my free hand into the pillow above me.

I’d love for him to unleash on me.

My hips rock ever so slightly with each stroke of my finger.

As I touch myself, a scene unfolds in my mind, almost uncontrollably. I don’t fight it, nor do I question what it means. I just give in and allow it. I visualize it and give the details free rein.

He enters my room, a country boy in a charcoal grey suit.

“Hello Brett. You’re so wet thinking about me, aren’t you?”

Yes. God yes.

He stares at me with his dark brown eyes, taking off his suit coat and tossing it onto the back

of a chair. His frame is slim at the waist and wide at the shoulders.

“I’ve been thinking about this for years,” he continues. “Fuck, Brett, you look so damn sexy. When the hell did you grow into a woman?”

I rub my finger over my swollen clit and another moan escapes me, louder this time.

Still with a laser focus on me, he removes his tie.

Followed by his light blue collared shirt and undershirt, showcasing his beautifully toned body.

He takes it all off.

My breath hitches, as he removes his pants, and his dick is as big as his presence.

He slowly strokes it as he walks toward me.

“I can’t wait to be inside you, Brett. But first I want to do this.”

Sebastian unhurriedly kisses each of my legs, starting at my calves, until he lands between my legs with his head.

“I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”

Softly, he tongues my clit, barely touching me.

I moan again.

Finally he takes out his thick cock.

“Beg for it.”

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me.”

He penetrates me slowly, inch by naughty inch. It’s not long before he rocks into me with his whole weight.

Oh, God.

I moan louder, and glance at the door to make sure it’s closed.

Screw it. I throw my panties off and spread my legs. I’m so wet.

I press my fingers on my swollen nub, rubbing in a tight circle.

My other hand drifts to my breast and I pinch my nipple.

“Oh God,” I mutter as I come, panting.