Beau and the Billionaire: Fake It Till You Make It, #6

Prologue

A WEATHERED MID-SIZED vehicle traveled up a recently-paved road to a navy blue shotgun home floating in an ocean of land. The driver of the vehicle parked on the left side of the house and turned off the engine. He reveled in the silence before adult children swarmed the SUV. There was no welcome home, no I miss you. Instead, two curly-haired boys unloaded guns and clothes from the back of the vehicle. Two wavy-haired girls unloaded clothes, accessories, and jewelry, leaving him alone in the vehicle with his thoughts and a plucked rose draped across the passenger seat. The petals darkened at the ends and curled, parched with dehydration from its trip to the country from the bustling city.

Daddy. A young man tapped against the tinted windows of the vehicle, and the grey-haired man descended the window. A smile touched his tired features.

Bello. His tongue caressed the words.

How was your trip? You were gone for longer than expected, and you didn’t call. Bello’s stormy eyes searched his father’s wrinkled features.

I’m fine. I had a flat tire late the other evening and had no choice but to spend the night in the city. You worry too much. I’m here now.

I worry because we’ve already lost our mother. We don’t need to lose you, too.

The father clucked his tongue. You worry too much. How have things been?

Good, of course. Bello smiled. I’m glad you’re home. I made dinner for you.

Oh?

Well, Bello paused, his smile faltering, it was a premade dinner. I warmed it in the oven.

Ah, better. A deep chuckle emanated from him. How did your job interview go?

Which?

The one for the grocery store?

The younger man frowned, tracing the pads of his fingers over the vehicle’s muddy exterior. I didn’t get it.

Mm. For the better. You’re much too talented to bag groceries. You’ll find better employment. Step back. He opened the door and hopped out of the car. His son towered over him. With broad shoulders and a lean-muscled form, Bello had received his conventionally attractive looks from his mother. His blue-grey eyes he received from his father.

Thank you for the vote of confidence, Daddy, but it’s looking bleak. Maybe I should move to the city? I’ll have more options there.

You could. He snapped his fingers and then reached into the vehicle, snatching the rose from the passenger seat and presenting it to his son. You asked for this?

Bello’s youthful features brightened, and he took the flower’s stem between his fingers. The thorns pricked his skin, and rich red blood bloomed to the surface. He winced. Thank you.

I could’ve brought you more, you know. With this whole family inheritance sorted out, finally, we’re not poor anymore. I could’ve brought you all sorts of things.

I know, but I don’t need any of those material things. Bello put the rose to his lips, hovering it under his nose, and inhaled a deep breath. We should plant these.

We could. Come on, let’s go inside. I’m ready to eat this fine meal you made for me.

Bello smiled and led his father inside. He fixed the older man a plate of food, placing it at the head of a long table with a fork beside it. Then he uncovered a vase from the cabinets. He filled it with water and dipped the rose in it, setting the vase on the table as well. Tell me more about your trip.

The father bit into the cheesy casserole, chewed, and swallowed it. It fell to the bottom of his stomach. Well, there’s not much to tell. I met with lawyers, and we discussed the assets in your mother’s name. The case wasn’t even a case. It was a little discussion, and we worked out a solution. Then I started on my way home.

Ah. You said you had a flat tire? What time did you leave the other night?

Well, I wanted to avoid rush hour traffic and all the sports-game stuff, so I left well after dark. It was raining, and you know how the city gets with potholes. I hit a bad one, who knows. All I know is right after I was lumping along with a flat.

Why didn’t you change it?

In the rain? The older man ate another bite from his plate.

True. Did you have it towed to a hotel?

Actually, no. Turns out, the house I stopped in front of had an extra room for me to sleep in. It even had a maid, a driver, and a gardener. Mm. And a little boy.

So, you stopped in front of some rich person’s house?

Indeed. They gave me a good meal and let me hole up for the night. I believe the gardener took care of the tire.

Bello chewed his bottom lip. It’s dangerous to stay in strangers’ houses. You could’ve been killed or poisoned or anything.

You worry too much. Anyway. When I was on my way out, I noticed a brilliant rose bush with the most beautiful blossoms I’d ever seen. I wanted to get you something right before I arrived here, so it would still be lush and alive, but I couldn’t pass these roses up.

Okay, so you picked one.

The most beautiful one.

And I’m grateful.

The father went silent, stirring the food on his plate.

What is it?

Well. I met the owner of the place.

Was he nice?

Not so much. We owe him for the rose.

Why didn’t you hand it back to him, then? What kind of person lets you into their home, lets you eat their food, and then gets mad over a silly rose?

Look, I don’t know. I tried to pay him for it, but he refused my money.

Okay, what then?

He wants someone to work off the debt.

"The debt of a rose?"

The father nodded. He tapped his fork against his plate. I was going to send one of the girls. Emma needs a job.

Why?

Why does she need a job? I expect she wants her own money.

No, I mean, why are you sending Emma. I wanted the rose. I’ll go.

No, no. You stay here. I couldn’t imagine not having you around.

I’ll leave one day, Daddy, and I don’t like the idea of someone else taking responsibility for me. I asked you for the rose. I will go pay off whatever ridiculous debt there is for a silly flower. Bello squeezed his father’s hand, kissing his cheek.

With a sigh, the older man nodded. All right.

Part 1

Chapter 1

BELLO

Bello stepped off the airplane with his carry-on bag slung over his shoulders, and his cell phone clutched between long fingers. He wandered through the massive airport towards the baggage claim, weeding through a sea of other travelers. Once he posted himself at the baggage claim, he crossed an arm over his body and put his cell phone to his ear after dialing his father’s number.

After two rings, a male voice answered. Bello?

Daddy. I’m here. I’m waiting for my bags. He paced around the circle conveyer belt.

Good, good. The other man’s voice tensed. How was the flight?

For my first time being in the air, not bad at all. I had only a little motion sickness, but it went away after a while. I slept, mostly. I’m nervous.

Why?

This whole thing is ridiculous. I don’t even know why we’re honoring this request. What’s this guy really going to do if no one pays him back for a silly flower? Is he going to come after you? Hunt you down with a pitchfork? Bello rolled his eyes.

It’s the principle. I took comfort in his hospitality. He didn’t charge me for the room and board or for changing the tire, either.

Sure, but he’s not asking for repayment for those services. He’s asking repayment over a damn rose. I should come home. Book me a flight to come home. How soon can you book me a flight home?

A few days.

Too long. Can you come pick me up?

"If I come pick you up, Mijo, it’ll still be a few days."

Bello sighed. Okay.

I’ll book you the flight. Is there enough money on your card to get a hotel room?

There should be. Bello chewed the inside of his cheek. Thanks. Tell everyone I made it safely, okay?

Of course. Call me when you get to the hotel.

I will. Bello ended the call and pressed his cell phone to his lips as the conveyor belt cranked to life. The conveyor belt rotated twice before bags popped out. It started with a sparse trickle, but bags quickly filled the belt. He hung back as other travelers swarmed the baggage claim, grabbing bags left and right. When the tornado of people thinned, he was left beside an old woman. She approached the conveyor belt, and her arthritic fingers clawed at the swinging handle of her duffle bag. She missed it, and it chugged back around the circle.

Bello grabbed his hard-sided suitcase and set it next to his feet. I’ll get yours. He smiled.

You don’t have to. I can get it. She rubbed her swollen knuckles.

No, I insist. I can grab it for you. Where are you taking it?

My son is waiting outside for me. I’m visiting him for the fall.

Fun. I love the fall. It’s the most beautiful time of the year.

Are you here visiting someone? The old woman’s penciled-in eyebrows lifted to her foundation-caked forehead.

Um. It’s a little complicated. Bello’s cheeks warmed, and he turned away from her. Here’s your bag. He pointed and leaned forward, grabbing it and setting it on the ground.

Oh! Thank you. I think I can get it from here. It has wheels.

Let me pop them out for you, at least. With still warm cheeks, he crouched on the ground and fussed with her bag, uncovering hidden wheels and extending the metal handle.

You’re so sweet. Your mother must be proud.

Bello paused, fingers spasming as a pang of sadness coursed through him. She is. He forced a smile. I’m walking out, too. Would you like to walk with me?

Do you have someone waiting for you, too?

I-I don’t. I was going to catch a taxi into the city.

"My son could give you a ride. He works for one of those rideshare things. Liftin’?"

He chuckled. No, thank you. I’ll take a taxi, really. I don’t want to delay any of your time with your son. He grabbed the handle of his suitcase and strolled alongside the stranger to the sliding exit doors. In the little foyer, they parted ways as she flagged down her son’s red compact car.

The older woman squeezed Bello’s shoulder before dashing off, and Bello watched her son climb out of the tiny vehicle and tuck the woman’s suitcase in the trunk. He even opened the door for his mother before returning to the driver’s side and rolling out of the covered pick-up area.

When the sliding doors opened, again, they brought a wave of warm, sticky August air with them, and it curled the feathery tips of Bello’s dark hair, sticking them to his olive cheeks. He sat down on his suitcase and thumbed his phone in his hand.

His decision weighed on him, and he watched yellow taxis pass between a variety of other vehicles. He watched the people who had been on the flight with him jump into familiar vehicles, hug family members, and load their bags.

The airport lulled between flights, and it was barren. The shift workers took rounds, clearing fallen debris, sweeping sidewalks, and emptying overflowing trash cans.

The light outside changed with the movement of the sun, casting an orange glow on his skin, burning his cheeks, and rushing his decision-making process. Another airplane had long since landed, and the airport bustled again. Droves of people came through with bags rolling behind them.

Bello rested his chin in his hands, and his long eyelashes touched his cheeks as he closed his eyes. With one sense down, his others magnified, and he eavesdropped on small conversations going on around him. A mother scolded her child to the left, and a tourist couple fussed over potential attractions. A collection of men lingered in the foyer with him, standing on the opposite end and murmuring to themselves.

Bello couldn’t decipher their conversation.

When he opened his eyes again, a man stood in front of him with hips cocked to the side. His designer shirt lifted at the hems, exposing toned muscles. His jeans sagged on his hips. You here for Pride week?

Um, no? Bello blinked. No, I’m not.

The virile man glanced at his friends. Told you he wasn’t. A grin highlighted his features when he turned back around. You’re cute, though. Maybe you should hit it up. How long are you in town?

I don’t know. Bello leaned backwards, craning his neck as his eyes met the other man’s face, traveling over swarthy skin.

Bummer. How about this. How about I give you my number, and if you feel like hitting up Pride, I can show you around. I come every year.

Um. No, thanks. I don’t think I’ll be in town long, and parties aren’t my scene.

Okay, then how about I give you my number, and we can hang out one on one somewhere. Maybe dinner?

Bello flashed the stranger a quick smile. N-no, thanks. I’m not going to be in town for long.

The stranger’s grinning features fell, flipping from easy-going to harsh. Fine. You’re probably no fun anyway. Have fun being by yourself. His words were venom, and his lips curled away from his teeth as he spoke. Soft eyes hardened as he glared at Bello.

I will. Thanks. He moved off his suitcase and strolled past the collection of men, greeting the humidity head-on. Wide eyes glanced in both directions before he sighed. I might as well at least check the place out, he muttered. After flagging a taxicab, he crawled into the sticky backseat with his suitcase clutched to his body. One arm roped around his suitcase, and he fumbled with his phone, relaying the address his father had given him.

The driver eyed him out of the rearview mirror. You riding all the way to Uptown from here?

Y-yes? Is there a cheaper way to go?

Guess not if you don’t have anyone to pick you up. Do you know where you’re headed, kid?

Bello wrinkled his nose, but when the older gentleman turned watery brown eyes to him again, his frustrations dissolved. The man directed the vehicle away from the covered pick-up area and merged onto a busy intersection. The city loomed in front of them, but the bumper-to-bumper traffic had already started. No. I’ve never been here before. I mean, I’ve been when I was a child, but not since I could remember.

The address you gave me. You’re headed to the Young-Johnson estate.

I’m sorry?

Pretty, yellow, gated house on the right side of St. Bernard. He motioned to the right as he drove. Big place. Used to be a pile of nothing until he built it up there.

He?

Marcus Johnson. He built it up from nothing. He added two more levels, painted it from blue to yellow, added the gated area, and everything.

Is he nice?

The family’s all right. Miss Goldie’s a fine cook but loves her some jewelry. The old man passed away some years ago. I heard he was a drunk and a theft. They were divorced way beforehand, though, and Miss Goldie remarried years ago. Though his son, Marcus Johnson, he’s a good man. The driver continued talking about the family. His southern accented voice providing background noise for the trip.

Bello lifted his chin, pale eyes tracking the colorful buildings.

They eventually turned off the highway onto a major city street with a green space separating four lanes. Cars dotted the street, parked left and right, and an old, red streetcar swayed on its rails. Bello stared out the window, eyes widening as they passed antique buildings sandwiched together with vast front yards and trees blooming with beaded necklaces glistening in the sun. His nose touched the window.

The taxicab driver chuckled. Carnival season. Don’t ever take the streetcar unless you have nowhere else to be.

Streetcar. I’ve seen it in pictures.

Yup. Nice ride, but you’ll always be late for work. Plus, it’s always crowded with tourists. Not that it matters. If you’re meeting the Johnson’s, you can’t be hurting for money. You kin to them?

I-I-it’s complicated. Bello's cheeks flamed as they continued up the street.

We about there.

The architecture is beautiful.

I’d say thank you, but I didn’t build any of this, so I can’t take any credit.

What’s the son’s name again?

Marcus Johnson. The taxi stopped in front of a three-level house painted yellow and white. A black, metal gate connected over a smooth concrete sidewalk and traveled around the house, disappearing under looming trees and thick bushes. Bello’s eyes landed on a massive rose bush full of magenta blossoms to the left. Small trees decorated the right side. He sucked in his breath.

Is he nice?

He all right. An acquired taste.

Bello hung back, staring at the building until a round woman emerged from the front door. She tramped across the well-kept lawn and opened the gate. Confusion marred her homely features.

Get out, the driver encouraged.

Chapter 2

BELLO

Bello’s heart jumped into his throat, and trembling fingers grabbed the door handle. He stumbled out of the vehicle, dropping his suitcase on the ground. It cracked, and his clothes spilled into the road. Oh my god, he whispered, crouching on the ground. Desperate fingers grabbed at his shirts and underwear as his cheeks and ears burned.

Oh, dear. The woman smoothed her apron and crouched down with Bello, collecting crumpled shirts.

When Bello’s things had been collected, she looked at him again. Can I help you?

I-I, yes. You can. I’m-I’m looking for Marcus Johnson? Is this his address?

It is. Is he expecting you?

My father-wait, hang on. Bello dug in his wallet, pulling out two twenty dollar bills and handing them to the taxicab driver. Thanks for the ride and information.

Not a problem. The driver saluted Bello and shifted gears, rolling away.

Bello turned back to the plump, grey-haired woman and clasped his hands behind his back. He’s-he’s not, I don’t think. He chewed his bottom lip. My father stayed here. The rose situation a few weeks ago?

The woman stared at him.

Um. His car broke down?

She shook her head.

Um. He picked a rose from the bush there, and someone demanded he repay the debt? A pause. Of the rose? Bello flicked his eyes at the looming building. Yeah.

Oh, of course. I’ve heard a little about this. Come in, come in. How was your trip? The woman took Bello’s suitcase and beckoned him through the gate, leading him up the concrete walkway and into the house.

It was fine. Thank you. Bello stepped inside the foyer and blinked. Oh my god. The words tumbled from his lips as he peered around the room. He rocked his canvas shoes on the square, patterned rug covering glossy mahogany hardwood floors. He glanced to the left, spying a matching rug underneath a luxury dining room set and hanging chandelier. A sitting area with a cream wingback chair and a matching couch was to the right.

I should give you a tour.

Um-um, yes. A tour would be nice. What’s your name, by the way?

Anna, but everyone calls me Mrs. Potts.

Okay, Mrs. Potts. You, um, live here?

She shook her head as she carried his bag up the winding staircase. I do not. This is my job, and I’ve worked for Marcus for years, but I don’t live here. I’ll make sure dinner is prepared, and I’ll leave for the evening.

Ah.

I used to live here when I was a single woman, but since I got married and had Chip, I’ve had my own place.

Chip?

My son. He’s about ten years old. She furrowed her eyebrows. He’s around here somewhere, probably on the third floor in the playroom.

It’s nice you’re able to bring your son here during the day, right?

He enjoys it. Marcus has many discarded video games and toys from his youth. And books, of course. There are shelves of books up there, too. Chip loves reading, and Marcus buys him books all the time. Anything he wants. To him, Marcus is more of a doting uncle than anything else.

Aw.

Once up the stairs, she turned to Bello. The left side of the house is Marcus’. I suppose you can have the right side?

Um, sure. I’ll take the right side. The first door on the right opened into another seating area with a crisp white couch, a bench coffee table, and a desk illuminated by sunlight.

Mrs. Potts carried his suitcase into the attached room, resting it on the bed.

Everything’s so beautiful.

Mm. It’s all refinished antique furniture. The floors are original, and the rugs are all from the same collection, she explained. Now, I should leave you to get settled.

Right. Ah. C-can I talk to this guy? Do you know where he is? I mean, all of this over a rose seems a little, you know, ridiculous.

Perhaps so. I can’t speak on it. It’s none of my business what he does. I’m only the maid.

Yeah. Where is he right now?

I believe today he had a business meeting. He should arrive in a little while.

Oh. Bello raked his fingers through his hair and peered at his suitcase. Right. Thanks.

She nodded. If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs. Let me know when you want a tour.

Okay.

Mrs. Potts breezed out of the room and disappeared back down the stairs. Bello paced his new space, fingers tracing over the sharp corners of the refinished dresser and side tables. He retrieved his phone from his pocket, chewing his bottom lip before selecting a name and putting the phone to his ear. The cell phone rang three times.

Hiya. A cheery voice answered. Are you there yet?

Hey, Diana. Yeah, I’m here. I arrived an hour ago, maybe?

Cool. Have you met him yet? Are you going to stay?

No, and I don’t know. I met his maid, though. She’s nice, I guess. She told me more about him. The guy seems, well, nice.

Except he wants service in exchange for a rose?

Except for that. I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe he dries roses? Maybe he has a flower shop? Maybe I’m really paying him back for my father spending the night at his place, eating his food, and using his services?

Maybe, but why would the rose be the tipping point, then?

I don’t know. Maybe he’s really into his garden.

Diana gave a hollow laugh. Maybe he’s a creeper. You better stay in touch. If you don’t call me every night, I’m coming after you.

I don’t know. The taxicab driver knew his family, and the maid said he buys books for her son. I don’t think he’s much of a creeper.

I think you should ask how many people he has hidden in the basement of the building, but if you really think he’s somehow honest despite this rose fiasco, work up a price for the services your father used then divide it by minimum wage per hour and tell him you’re only working so many hours to pay off your father’s debt.

Yeah. I should. Anyway, how are you?

Bored since my best friend found a new home and is off in the city doing who knows what. She chuckled.

I’m not doing anything. Mnf. A guy at the airport asked me to go to Pride with him.

Oh, yeah? Was he cute?

Not really. Plus, I’m not sure how long I’m staying, and I don’t feel comfortable wandering around an unfamiliar city at night. I considered getting a hotel, but I guess after the taxi driver knew his family, I decided to take the chance.

Hm. You could still go to Pride. Ask Mr. Possessive-over-plants to go with you.

Pride is a gay thing.

I know.

I haven’t met the guy. I don’t know if he’s even gay.

So? He can be a supportive straight ally.

Bello whistled through his teeth. Yeah, I don’t think he’s going to want to go to Pride with me, ally or not. Straight guys don’t make a habit of going to Pride events for obvious reasons.

You don’t know if he’s straight, though.

I don’t, but I can assume.

"Assuming makes an ass out of you and me."

Bello chuckled. Okay, well. I need to call my dad and let him know I’m here. Then I think I’m going to take a tour of this place. I mean, this could be a stepping stone. I could find an apartment and go to school here, maybe.

You could, but it’s so far away from me, Diana croned. So very far away from your best friend.

I can come visit, or you can come visit me.

Promise?

Three-hundred-percent promise.

Good. Find a cute place for us to have the full independent-girl-in-the-city experience.

So we can get drunk, make out with strangers, and soak it all up with pizza and fried chicken?

Yup.

Bello snorted. Maybe not the drinking.

I can drink enough for the both of us, no worries.

I bet you can. Bello slipped off his canvas sneakers and tucked them under the bed. He moved out of his bedroom, closing the door, and out of the attached sitting room. He left the door ajar. There are so many rooms in this place.

Is it a mansion?

I’m not sure if I would be able to identify a mansion if I was in one. It could be a mansion? It has three floors, and at least, like, ten rooms. Each room has an attached room to sit in.

What’s the difference between a mansion and a really nice house?

Bello peeled the curtains away from a window. A private balcony and pool?

I was going to say moat.

No, I mean. This place has a private second-floor balcony and a private pool.

It sounds suspiciously like a mansion.

I didn’t bring anything to swim in.

Swim naked. It’s a private pool, and maybe there’s a cabana boy hidden somewhere you can have a little fun with.

You’re entirely too invested in my sex life.

Only because you don’t actually have one.

I have one. I’m in a dry spell at the moment, and I’m completely okay with it. I don’t want a relationship influencing my decisions right now.

You’re not making any decisions.

I made the decision to come here.

True. I’ll give you one point there.

Thank you, Bello preened as he strolled down the main staircase back to the foyer. Okay, so I’ll talk to you later?

Promise you’ll call me back when you meet him.

Of course. Bello ended the call and turned right at the base of the stairs. He walked through the dining room into the kitchen, slipping his cell phone into his back pocket. Combing his fingers through his hair, he circled the center island and opened the refrigerator.

Everyone always finds the kitchen first. Mrs. Potts chuckled heartily.

Bello glimpsed over his shoulder. His grey-blue eyes brightened with a smile. Sorry. Y-yeah. I’m a little hungry after traveling.

Dinner will be in a couple hours, but if you look in the bottom drawers, there are fruits and vegetables. Marcus has always preferred his raw fruits and vegetables cold and pre-sliced. Let me get you a bowl. She shuffled around the kitchen, grabbing a white lace-patterned bowl.

Thanks.

Now, what would you like? To stay full before dinner, a spread of vegetables with ranch dressing flavored yogurt would be very satiating. Mrs. Potts plopped a dollop of yogurt in the center of the bowl and tucked vegetables around it. Sliced carrots, white cauliflower, and colorful sweet peppers decorated the bowl.

Bello nodded. Okay. Thanks. Where can I eat?

Anywhere you like.

Even on the couch?

If you want. She handed him the bowl. Think of this place like home and make yourself comfortable.

I’ll try. He inhaled a deep breath, studying the vegetables before looking back up at the woman. Thanks. I think I’ll sit at the table. Bello moved from the kitchen to the breakfast table, sitting in one of the three available chairs.

Mrs. Potts stayed in the kitchen, pinging from counter to counter as she started dinner preparations. Bello retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and tapped on it as he dipped vegetables and brought them to his lips. He texted his father, his two older brothers, and his two sisters, sending them brief updates before browsing his social media profiles.

Chapter 3

MARCUS

It was too muggy for a streetcar ride and too busy for a taxicab, so Marcus found himself walking alongside his best friend with a briefcase tucked under his arm and loafers squeaking against broken concrete. His full lips pursed together as he ducked under hanging tree branches and veered past bikers, skateboarders, and dog walkers.

We should have taken the taxi, his deep voice rumbled, annoyance coloring simple words.

If we had waited for the taxi, we’d be sitting in near-standstill traffic right now, and you can’t be late for dinner. The woman beside him chuckled, pushing thick dreadlocks behind her shoulders. Full hips swayed as she strutted alongside him, taking long strides over the concrete.

I can miss dinner.

Can you? If you’re late, Mrs. Potts will lecture you until morning.

She wants to make sure I’m fed.

My point exactly. Hell, sometimes I even want to make sure you’re fed. You work yourself too hard, keeping up with everything your father dumped on you.

He did not dump it on me.

Is there a different name for abandoning failing franchises after naming your son as the heir to them?

He lost interest.

And ruined your credit at the same time.

It does not matter anymore. It was years ago, and I fixed it. I checked the numbers today, and this year’s profits alone will probably hit a million dollars.

Probably as in you’re hoping so, or probably as in we’re already two-thirds of the way there?

The second one.

And in four years. Not bad, little grasshopper. She smiled.

Mm. I have been thinking about what we should do with the extra money. I’ve been cutting back on advertising since word-of-mouth is sending us more business than billboard placements.

What did you have in mind?

We could invest in another hotel.

How much would we need?

Altogether or the initial fee?

Both.

Marcus flicked his eyes up ahead, ducking under another tree as the leaves brushed the top of his short-kept curls. Well. The initial fees are around two million, but we would not have to pay it all upfront. The application and legal agreement will take a few months, then finding a location, and then building. We may have to throw a little savings at it, but we have already made the name, it’s a sure-fire win, Tiffany.

We just got out of the weeds, and you want to jump right back in?

No risk, no reward.

Tiffany groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. Let me think about it, okay? Write up a twelve-month plan and email it to me.

It will take a few days to get done.

No worries, we don’t have two million dollars to invest right now, anyway.

We can always get a loan, you know. Or take out a loan against the property we already have. Or my house.

Seems risky. She wrinkled the bridge of her nose.

It is what everyone does. No one has two million dollars lying around.

Just because everyone does it isn’t a reason for us to do it. Write your business plan, and let me look at it. You’re not going to convince me until I see some numbers, dude.

Yes, okay, fine. He cruised to a stop in front of his yellow house, leaning against the metal gate. This is my stop. Would you like me to walk you home, or you got it?

I’m not a little girl anymore. I can walk myself home.

I know you can, but it’s getting dark, and there are little boys running around thinking they’re men.

Tiffany eyed Marcus and shook her head, chuckling. If you want to spend more time with me, you could invite me in for dinner. She winked.

Marcus continued past his place, bumping shoulders with Tiffany and grinning from ear to ear. Oh, but then your man may get the wrong idea. It’s already taken him three years to get over his initial reservations. Let’s not screw it up while things are working.

Ugh, I know, right? I don’t know how many more times I have to tell him there’s nothing between us for him to understand.

You haven’t told him, have you?

About you? I mean, he knows you and I co-own a franchise.

About you-know-what.

Oh. Nope. You said you wanted to keep it a secret. Your secret is safe with me.

Good. Thanks.

You know, it’s nothing to be ashamed about, right?

I know, but I don’t want people to look at me differently. Especially my mother.

I get it. It sucks, though. I want you to find someone and be happy, but it’s impossible to find someone if you’re going to hide who you are.

Marcus shrugged. It will happen when it happens. Let’s talk about something different. How is the pregnancy thing going?

It’s not going. We’re visiting a fertility specialist later this month. He’s going to get his junk checked out. It’s much easier to check the man first, they say.

It makes sense, but damn. You two are rather committed to this baby thing.

I’m fine to adopt, but he really wants a biological baby, so fertility specialist here we come. Tiffany’s warm laugh touched his ears. Are you going to be Uncle Marcus?

Of course I am. I will spoil them, too. Anything they want, they can have it.

Oh, great. Love it. Another