Worth Billions (Worth It 1)

“We can start by making a list of all the items we need to retrieve,” Michelle said.

“Can we do this while I’m cooking dinner?” I asked. “I’m suddenly really hungry.”

“Or a very good procrastinator.”

She looked up at me from underneath that brow of hers, and suddenly cooking dinner sounded like a fantastic idea. Anything to put a little space between us. I got up from the chair and she sighed, ‘tsking’ me like I was a small boy to be chastised for my actions.

“Okay, look. If you’re serious about dinner, then I’m going to make it,” Michelle said.

I turned around from the pantry and found she was standing directly behind me. Accidently, I barreled into her, dropping the things out of my hands. She stumbled back and my body reacted, catching her around her waist so she didn’t fall on her ass.

Her eyes widened and stared back at me as I slowly settled her back on her feet.

“You good?” I asked.

Her eyes flickered down to my lips momentarily before she closed her eyes.

“Yep. Good,” she said, as she wiggled from my grasp. “But you cooked dinner last night, so it’s my turn to cook tonight.”

“That’s not necessary. I can—”

“Nope! Shoo. Get out. Now. Go. Bye. Peace! Sayonara.”

Her warm hands were planted on my back as she shoved me out of the kitchen. I sure as hell wasn’t going to turn down a home-cooked meal, but having her in my arms was at the forefront of my mind. I spun around and watched her walk back into the kitchen, her thick hips swaying with each step she took. Her eyes. The way they’d looked at my lips was stuck in my mind.

My cock hardened against my pants and I groaned.

I really needed to have a fucking talk with him.

Wandering around the house, I decided to make myself useful. I did need to outline who all of Anton’s things were going to, so I started making a mental catalogue of the items I could remember him wanting to hand out. I had a copy of that list in my room from my first meeting with the estate lawyer. But putting names to the artifacts within the man’s home was something I felt I needed to do.

Or rather, something I felt he would have wanted me to do.

I made my way outside and walked over to Anton’s garage. Dust kicked up around me as I kicked rocks, coming to terms with his passing. I missed him, and I felt guilty for not coming by to see him more. His generosity was astounding, especially in a town I hated so badly. My eyes grazed along a tarp-covered object in the garage and I recognized the shape.

Holy shit.

W

as that what I thought it was?

I held my breath before I grabbed the edge of the tarp. I picked it up as memories blasted my mind. Holy shit. It was what I thought it was. Anton’s 1957 Chevy Bel Air. Candy apple red. Chrome accents. Whitewall tires.

At least, they had been whitewall tires. Before the accident that popped all four of them and rolled the damn thing.

I closed my eyes and was dragged back into the slats of my memory. I remembered that accident like it was yesterday. A fucking joyride gone wrong because I had been an angry little brat as a teenager. I stole it without his permission, wanting to impress some fucking chatty girls. I wanted a little pussy that night, so I took it from his garage and got myself into trouble. Andy challenged me to a race that night. A race the girls all wanted to watch. We sped down one of the back roads and I took a curve way too quickly, trying to impress the girls who were so ready to take their panties off for us. But that curve sent the tires skidding. Sent the car out of control. I tried to gain control of it. I tried to keep it upright. The girls had been screaming and the car rolled, crushing the roof as I tumbled into a meadow with Andy speeding after me to make sure I was okay.

The tires busted from the friction of the rubber against the road, and I landed on my head without a fucking scratch.

The engine had been damaged in the accident, and for the first time I learned about that car. About Anton’s restoration project and how it was the talk of the town. How he sank his own personal time and energy into making it look the way it had.

It was the first and only time he’d ever expressed blatant disappointment in me.

That car had been his baby, and I’d stolen it from him. And judging by the flat tires and the beat-up fender, the old man had never fixed the car back up. Tears sprang to my eyes. Tears I didn’t want to acknowledge. I took it from him and he’d never had the heart to fix it again.

I killed his pride and joy.

What a fucking tragedy.