Not Husband Material (Billionaire's Contract Duet 1)

Her mouth fell open. “Come back here. We haven’t discussed this. We need to have a conversation in private. You make it sound so vulgar. So tasteless.”

I huffed. “I’d love to hear your spin, but I have women to fuck. Thank you, Byron, for your time.”

“I will send a certified copy of the reading of the will to your address, Mr. Hartwell.” His voice remained monotone as if I had inherited a collection of rare books, instead of a command to sire a child.

“I don’t know that I need it. The directive seems pretty clear to me. I don’t get the money until I have a wife and an heir. Got it.”

“It’s my responsibility to make sure you have official copies of all correspondence from the late Mr. Hartwell. It is my duty.”

“Fine.” I didn’t care if I never heard the words again. I knew I wasn’t getting my inheritance. My father had made sure of that. I was a lot of things, but I wasn’t and never would be husband material. And no one wanted me as a father.

I nodded and closed the door behind me.

I ducked into the first taxi I could find in front of the law firm. Uber hadn’t reached Newton Hills yet.

“Airport, sir?” the driver asked.

I looked at my watch. I still had a lot of time to kill before my red eye back to New York.

“No. What bars are still around here?”

I was downtown, but other than a coffee shop and a deli there wasn’t much open on the small street. Newton Hills wasn’t doing well when I was in high school, and the past twelve years hadn’t done the town any favors. Nestled in the hillside of the Georgia mountains, it wasn’t a Mecca for industry. It wasn’t a Mecca for anything.

“Bella’s is open,” he reported.

“The Italian place?”

He nodded. “It’s about five minutes from here. They have the best chicken parm.”

I considered my options. I could feast on vending machine snacks in the small airport until my flight, or I could try a bottle of wine at the old Italian restaurant. I used to know the owner’s daughter.

“Bella’s it is,” I decided.

He pulled away from the curb. “Hey, I know who you are. Didn’t know if I could say anything.”

“Oh really?”

“You’re the Hartwell’s kid. You played Major League Baseball, didn’t you?”

I glanced in the rearview mirror. His eyes were on me. “Yes. For a few years. I was on the Ravens then traded to the Hawks. Then injured.” Three years in the majors was better than most guys did. It was a ticket to my own fortune. But I fucked up. I wiggled my fingers, staring at my palm. I hadn’t been a baseball player in a long time.

“Sorry to hear about your dad. I had a friend who worked at one of his stations. It was a real shock here.”

I gritted my teeth together. “Thanks.”

The sympathy was lost on me, but I had been trained to be a Hartwell. I was gracious even when I was angry as hell.

“I’ve never had anyone famous in my car before,” he sputtered.

I stared out the window as we passed empty storefronts that used to be businesses. Family-owned and run. The Radio Shack was gone. So was the drugstore, and the ice cream parlor. Newton Hills was almost unrecognizable.

A red neon light blinked in the front of Bella’s.

“Here you are,” the driver announced. “Do you think… ” His words drifted. “Could I ask for your autograph? I’d like to show my son I had a real-life pro athlete in my car.”

“Sure thing.”

I waited while he fidgeted for a piece of paper in the glovebox. He handed it to me along with a felt tip pen.