“We are completely and utterly screwed,” he muttered to the empty office as he observed the mess in front of him.

Financial statements lay strewn in disarray, completely covering the aged and scarred patina of the antique mahogany desk. A desk that his great-great-grandfather, and the founder of Austen’s Book Stores, had sat behind when turning one small bookshop into the nationwide chain it was today. Although, if the papers in front of him were to be believed, a floundering national chain.

Wick Austen groaned loudly, the guttural noise coming from the back of his throat sounding almost painful before he dropped his head to the desk with a thunk and mumbled to the empty room, “I bloody hate eBooks. Whoever is responsible for their invention deserves a slow and painful death. Preferably, by being buried alive in an avalanche of hardback books or failing that, a pack of hungry raptors.”

“That’s a bit harsh, even for you, brother. Besides, velociraptors are extinct. I think you’ve watched one too many Jurassic Parks. You do know movies are make believe, right?” Came the reply from the open doorway, and Wick snapped his head up to find his eldest brother, Darcy, leaning against the door frame with his hands loosely in his trouser pockets and one leg crossed over the other.

“The prodigal son returns,” Wick sniped. His retort was harsh with spiky barbs, barely concealing his shocked annoyance at his brother’s return from wherever the hell he’d been for the last few weeks.

“What’s the matter, Darce? Run out of money?”

Not waiting for or expecting a reply, Wick picked up the top leaf of paper and glanced at it briefly before letting it flutter back down to rest on the dozens of others just like it.

“Well,” Wick continued with a bite to his tone, indicating the piles of papers before him. “As you can see, running out of money is going to be a problem for all of us soon enough.”

“You know what I think, but you’re too stubborn to listen to sense, Wick,” Darcy stated calmly, his stance never changing, his body language relaxed and open—which only served to piss off his younger brother further.

“Oh, that’s right,” Wick replied as he bristled and straightened his spine, pushing himself upright against the soft, worn leather back of the chair that matched the antique desk before him; a chair that along with everything else in this office told the tale of their family’s hard work and success. “You think the easy option is to sell up before we lose everything we own. Well, let me tell you, big brother—” Wick locked eyes with Darcy and leant forward to brace himself on his forearms. “—Over. My. Dead. Body.”

Darcy observed his brother for a beat, and then shrugged. The action made Wick’s blood boil, and his accompanying words almost sent Wick over the edge.

“You keep going on this crusade of yours to save a sinking ship, and you’ll stress yourself into an early grave. We sell up, we reinvest, and we move the Austen name into something far more lucrative. It’s a no-brainer, Wick. Even Bing and Dad agree. You’re the only one being stubborn.”

“Give me six months,” Wick rushed out. “Six months to find a cash investment and turn the business around. If I fuck it all up, you can sell. I won’t stop you.”

Darcy silently met the defiant glare of his younger sibling. Wick had always been the most ambitious of the three Austen brothers. Darcy wanted to break away from the family name and lead his own life, but a sense of familial obligation kept him in place, and Bingham or Bing for short—the middle of the three brothers—was so laid back he was practically horizontal. Bing was happy to coast along in life and his career. But it was the youngest, Wick, who wanted the Austen name to soar to the dizzying heights of their ancestors. What the younger Austen failed to grasp was what little of their fortune they had left was buried deep in a failing business drowning in a dying industry.

Nobody read physical books anymore. Today’s consumers wanted disposable entertainment in quick fixes. EBooks and audio books were ruling the market, while establishments like Austen’s Book Stores were paying the price.

“Okay, Wick,” Darcy conceded, his head nodding once towards the other man in a placatory motion. Darcy knew that nothing could save their waning business, and nobody with any sense was going to invest, but he wanted to show his little brother that he was willing to offer one last chance. “You’ve got six months.”

Wick returned the nod, but couldn’t force out any words through the tight clench of his jaw. He was sure to crack a molar or two if he wasn’t careful.

“I’ll see you at Mum and Dad’s tonight?” Darcy carefully enquired while standing to his full height and pushing away from the door frame.

“Tonight,” Wick offered in return while biting his tongue. His mind was running at a thousand miles a minute trying to come up with a foolproof six-month plan, and he didn’t have space in his brain for a polite conversation.

Wick watched as Darcy turned and walked away, and then listened as his brother’s steps echoed off the polished floors of Austen’s head office. Once he was safely alone, his head dropped once more to the unforgiving surface of the desk, and he lifted his hands from the aged wood so he could apply pressure to the sides of his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on, and he didn’t have time for it. He needed to plan.

“Six fucking months,” he muttered to himself. “That’s just twenty-six weeks to figure this shit out.”

With a huff, he straightened and began to stack the papers laid out before him into a neat pile. The harsh reality of the figures printed on those white sheets was doing nothing for his positivity or his impending headache.

Once the desk was clear, he ran his fingers over the worn wooden surface, tracing the old scars and dents, and sent up what felt like a desperate prayer to his forefathers to show him the way.

Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes and waited for a sign.

Nothing.

No inner voice came to him to show him the way. No divine intervention appeared to lead him towards the right path.

With a resigned sigh, he opened his eyes and looked around the office. His gaze flickered over the familiar furniture and lingered on the old photographs of generations of the Austen family that lined the walls, while his mind still hoped for some miraculous sign from above.

Still nothing.

How stupid was he to wish to the universe for help?

Tomorrow he’d make it happen.

Wickham George Austen didn’t wait for life to hand him anything. He took it; he found the chances hidden in plain sight and used them to succeed. He waited for nothing and no one. He was master of his destiny, nobody else.

Emboldened, Wick informed his assistant that he was taking the rest of the day off; hoping some respite from his surroundings would bring fresh inspiration. Walking outside into the crisp spring air, he looked left towards the city park and then slowly right towards the hustle and bustle of the busy streets.

He needed to think, and to formulate his ideas. He had so many of them pinging around in his head like an erratic pinball that his brain struggled to latch onto any one of them for a long enough period to let the idea take root. He needed somewhere calm. Somewhere he could sort through his jangling thoughts and separate the ones that had a chance of success from the ridiculous—just like the idea currently at the forefront of his mind as he chose left and headed towards the park.

What if he married into another wealthy family?

What if he bankrolled Austen’s by taking a rich bride?

It’s not like the city wasn’t full of them. Air-brained society princesses with bucket loads of daddy’s money were ten a penny in this town.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, and he pushed away the thought to let another equally foolish idea slip into its place.

But the universe was listening, or so it seemed, when mere minutes later he took a seat on a park bench to watch as an old-fashioned horse and carriage that offered rides to park visitors, rattled past him. It wasn’t the ornate chaise pulled by four horses that caught his attention. It was the discarded newspaper abandoned on the wooden slatted seat next to him that drew his gaze.

*Bennet Sisters Charity Gala*

The headline screamed at him in Blackletter font. The grainy image of the three sisters below did nothing to hide the wealth that poured off them or their undeniable beauty. The local rag’s quality control needed some serious improvement, and it was no wonder print in all its forms was a dying breed, but it wasn’t the poor print quality, or the pretty faces that held Wick’s attention. It was the upcoming charity gala that the Bennet sisters were hosting that held his gaze. Well, that and the younger Bennet sister’s long, artfully tousled, dark hair and the cheeky glint in her crystal-clear eyes that not even poor print quality could hide.

Clarity hit him like a punch to the chest, briefly knocking the air from his lungs. On a deep, shuddering inhale, he steadied his hands to roll up the well-read newspaper and slipped it under his arm.

He’d asked, and the universe—or maybe it was his long-dead grandfathers—had given him his plan.

Wick had one week to find the five thousand pound a head fee for him and his brothers. That was fifteen thousand pounds for the chance to spend the night in a room with the Bennets.

Getting one of them to fall in love with an Austen brother would take less than his six-month deadline.

He was sure of it.

With the idea bursting through his mind, he allowed himself to smile.

“Thank you, you old buggers,” he exclaimed as he grinned towards the heavens. “I’ll do you proud. I’ll get Austen’s back to the top. I refuse to let anyone take it away. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” he dropped his gaze from the blue spring sky and headed towards the park gates “—I have some money to acquire and some ladies to seduce.”

“You’ll not seduce any ladies by talking to yourself like you’re a few sandwiches short of a picnic,” an old guy walking a dog muttered loud enough for Wick to hear, but Wick couldn’t give a shit what some random old codger thought. He was going to save the family business and land himself a pretty, rich wife to boot.

He was a fucking genius.

He ignored the ornery old bastard and lengthened his step. Nothing was going to—Motherfu…

“Pick up your dog’s shit, you lazy geriatric,” Wick shouted to the old guy’s back when his Italian leather loafers landed in a fresh, steaming turd. He hopped from one foot to the other as he hopelessly scuffed his feet across the gravel, trying and failing to remove the thick brown faeces from his only pair of expensive shoes.

Wick glared at the back of the dog walker’s head and raised the rolled-up newspaper to throw at the bloke when the man, who didn’t bother to turn around and look at him, flicked him the bird over his shoulder.

Seconds before he launched the missile in his hand, he remembered it was the key to saving Austen’s.

“Wanker,” he shouted instead, earning him a glare from a young mother pushing a small child on a trike. He opened his mouth to protest, to tell her about the dog shit covering his shoes and the old bugger giving him the finger, but snapped it shut just as quickly.

He didn’t have time for this.

He had a family name and business to save, dog shit or not.