Love That For Me by Abby Knox
ChapterThree
Jessica
Donna ison her way out the door when we arrive. “Don’t bother going inside, crew; we’re all going to the groundbreaking.”
I let out a quiet groan of displeasure. I really dislike covering these orchestrated events.
“We are? Why?” Franny asks.
Donna gestures to the other side of the street to the stretch SUV. “Because if Alex Martin insists on sending a limo for a reporter and me, I’m taking everyone with us.”
Holmes declines and heads into the office to work, probably looking forward to an hour of silence.
My reporter’s notebook comes out of my messenger bag, and I write down a few thoughts. After all, it’s me who’s been saddled with the Alex Martin coverage for whatever reason.
I scribble: The billionaire businessman decided it would be a good idea to hire a limo from the city to come all the way to Darling Creek to transport this reporter one mile out of town to watch him turn over one golden shovelful of dirt. Doesn’t sound like good business to me.
Not going to lie, though. The inside of this ride is pretty sweet.
Franny presses all the buttons and looks through every nook and cranny like a child in a candy store. Meredith raids the built-in snack cooler like a raccoon. Donna sits in the front seat and chats up the driver because she wants everyone’s life story. As for me? I’m sinking into the buttery leather seats and pasting on a calm face while my stomach cartwheels.
Why the anxiety? Because as much as I don’t like him, I’m anxious to meet the man Alex Martin. Who wouldn’t be? The man has more money than Bill Gates. On top of that, he’s not just the handsome man he appears to be on CNN. The anonymous people on Reddit who claim to have dated Alex Martin readily report that in person, the billionaire is “so hot it hurts to be around him, like staring into the sun.”
When the limo pulls up to the site of the new satellite campus, Caterpillars and earth movers dotting the landscape, it looks like the entire town has turned out to watch. Despite this, I immediately spot Alex Martin. From twenty yards away, it’s easy to see who he is, even if I wasn’t following him on Instagram and knew his appearance. All the town leaders are there in their best pressed denims. The mayor, Violetta, wears the same practical navy pantsuit she always wears, topped with a yellow hard hat. She’s opted out of her usual high heels in favor of steel-toe boots. A little over the top for the photo shoot, but that’s our mayor.
And in the middle of the group is a man who looms at least six inches over everyone else, his broad body clad in an exquisitely tailored, buttoned-up gray suit, his face calmly amused as the mayor excitedly bends his ear.
He’s the only man not wearing a cowboy hat. Woof.
I don’t mind cowboys, or their giant belt buckles, Wranglers, and Ariats. It’s just that most of them never give me a second glance because I might as well have “high maintenance” stamped on my forehead. It’s apparent that I am not built for hard outdoor labor or domesticity. Dating dry spell aside, it doesn’t hurt to ogle Alex Martin. Seeing a man in a suit—any suit, at any price tag, and one he wears because he clearly likes it and not because he’s on the way to a funeral—is incredibly refreshing these days.
As we pile out of the limo, Alex smiles warmly at Violetta, politely excuses himself, and makes a beeline for our group.
My heart jumps.
That suit is Brioni, or I’ll throw my pawn-shop Jimmy Choos into a fire. Now that I think about it, designer heels might have been a poor choice for standing in a field.
I am what my grandmother liked to call “champagne taste on a beer budget.” She was right about me. I love fashion. I devour it.
My talents lie in writing, though, and not in sewing or drawing. So, as I studied journalism, I worked my way through college at a men’s formalwear shop. That experience whetted my appetite for finer things, which is some kind of masochism for a girl whose only talent is scribbling words in exchange for wages that barely pay rent.
“This must be the esteemed press. So glad you could make it,” Alex Martin says, flashing a laid-back grin on a clean-shaven face. Nice teeth, I note. Good haircut and impeccably trimmed sideburns and nape lines.
Remember he tried to sweet talk you on the phone, Jessica. Don’t trust him.
My eyes travel down his body, taking in the sheer acreage of virgin wool it took to cover this man’s nakedness. A strong, veiny hand unbuttons his jacket, pulls it aside, and then fiddles with the bottom of his silk tie. I spot the cufflinks. Subtle. Not flashy, but expensive. That hand goes up to self-consciously rub the side of his neck, and I recognize that shy look he gives the pretty anchor on CNN whenever his company is in the news.
And it’s always in the news.
Is anybody buying this bashful boy-genius act?
What does he have to be bashful about? His Fortune 500 company? His genius brain? His rise from a childhood in subsidized housing into the country’s wealthiest bachelor? His billions of dollars? His stylist? His beefy biceps that could crack walnuts?
Spare me.
Giving Alex Martin a quick once-over while Donna makes introductions, I’d say that’s a 17.5 neck, 35 waist, 36 chest, and 38 inseam. The suspicious bishes on Reddit said he was tall but also had enough meat on his bones to make sex extra fun. That’s the other thing keeping me from swooning—he’s been with enough women to earn him that sort of chatter on Reddit, and I don’t like that much.
Not because it makes me jealous.
I have to admit; his Instagram feed does not do him justice. With most people using filters these days, that’s saying something. Alex is unreasonably good-looking. His clear skin and long lashes are enviously perfect. The cheekbones could slice through a ream of newsprint faster than a machine, and his clean-shaven face shows off a pair of full lips built for sin. A pair of tortoiseshell eyeglasses make him look smart, outlining deep-set gray-green eyes and highlighting dark eyebrows.
Staring at Alex Martin is indeed like staring into the sun, which gives me all the more reason to gawk at that suit instead of his face.
I wonder what it feels like. My eyes travel down and stop at his thighs. Tonight, I will be dreaming about that fit, about the muscle bulge on the outer quad, my brain filling in the question of whether or not his thighs are hairy or smooth.
“Jessica?”
“Huh?” A man’s hand is right in front of me. Oh god, I’ve been staring at Alex’s thighs and tuning Donna out while she was introducing me.
Recovering, I blurt, “Jessica Martin. Miller! Jessica Miller!” My face is on fire because of that flub, and on top of that, I’m shouting. Franny snickers as I slip my hand into Alex Martin’s big mitt. But as soon as that warm skin surrounds mine and his eyes squint at me with amusement and curiosity, I forget to feel embarrassed.
He chuckles, smiling at me, gently squeezing my hand. “So, we’re probably not related after all. What a relief.”
Did he just make a joke to make me feel better? Aw.
Nope, not going to swoon. This is the time to be professional.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Donna tells me, herding the rest of the staff over to the snack table. The chamber of commerce went all out with this event. There’s wine, cheese, fruit, gift bags—the works. The last time the chamber summoned a reporter to anything, they served lukewarm punch and stale store-bought cookies, then spent thirty-seven minutes searching high and low for giant ceremonial scissors.
I can’t help but notice an equally smartly dressed man and woman hovering nearby, watching Alex nervously. His handlers, probably. Also skulking a little farther away are two gigantic men dressed all in black. They look at me like I’m a stalker, even though I’m wearing a press badge and have been previously cleared to meet the man.
“Do you want to go to my trailer?” He points his thumb over his shoulder toward a double-wide trailer parked just off the lane where we’re standing.
“Uh…”
He notices the wary look on my face. “The construction trailer. To do the interview. It’s quiet there, and I wouldn’t want to get mud on your pretty feet. Shoes. Shoes. Last year’s Jimmy Choos, if I’m not mistaken.”
Ouch.
I swallow, building the courage to dismiss his offer.
“Out here is better,” I say, pulling my head out of my ass and moving forward with the hard-hitting questions. Alex Martin may have just propositioned me and insulted my shoes, but I can shake it off for the moment.
Clicking my pen, I ask, “What sort of tax incentives did the city offer you to locate a hub here?”
“Getting right to the point, I see. None,” he says, smiling.
That’s some freeze-dried bullshit. I can verify that easily enough later, though.
“Why did you choose a tiny town in Montana?”
Alex shrugs. “I like to ski, I like to fish, and I wanted a place close to my buddy….” Here he name-drops a wildly famous Hollywood actor who owns land about twenty miles up the road from here.
Figures. The über-rich love pretending the mountain states are their own personal backyard playgrounds.
“So you’ll be living here permanently?”
“No, building a vacation home.”
Thought so.
“And which of your many residences will be your primary residence? What state will you be paying income taxes to?”
He smiles. “Permanent residence, California. Born and raised. State income taxes: several,” Alex says with a rueful laugh.
Of course, he’s resentful over paying his fair share. What else did I expect?
“Do you have plans to buy up properties for mining endeavors? Any plans for NFTs?”
He looks at me as if I’ve lost my damn mind. I might have.
“You know that’s not what I do, right? Like, not even close. I’d hate for you, of all people, to think I’m one of those guys.”
Huh. Okay.
“I’ve heard you plan on hiring three hundred workers for this hub. How do you respond to concerns that the town cannot support hundreds of new residents? Have you considered housing, utilities, emergency services, or entertainment?”
“We’re prepared to address that in the coming months.”
“How so?”
“Can’t disclose that yet.”
“Why not?”
He laughs. “Wow, has anyone told you you’re kinda scary for a news reporter?”
I bristle. “Print folks are built differently than the smiley cable T.V. folks. Moving on…”
Alex’s gaze slips down and back up, quick as hummingbird wings. “I’ll say you are.”
I nervously flip through my notebook as the wind has made me lose the page with questions.
I narrow my eyes. “Back to my question. If you can’t give concrete examples of how you plan to address the burden of hundreds of new residents on the town, how do you entice workers? There’s no housing for them. The nearest entertainment is an hour’s drive away.”
The man replies, “Well, now. You seem like a girl who wouldn’t stay somewhere if there was nothing fun to do, so there must be something keeping you happy.”
“I’m a woman.”
“Very much so.”
“And I don’t do fun things; I work.”
He deadpans, “Then I guess I can cross that huge entertainment complex off my list.”
“So you intend to work your people to the bone with no personal lives until they burn out?”
Alex snaps back with a playful look. “Oh, you mean like you?”
“I have a life,” I shoot back.
“Of course. Boyfriends take up a lot of time.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Why am l letting him bait me? I have a fulfilling life as a single female totally on her own. Apart from my job, I have friends who are…well, my only friends here are my coworkers, but those count, don’t they? It has to count in a town where most people are married or retired. Ugh, whatever. Alex Martin is clearly trying to rattle me.
“Girlfriend, then?”
“No, and I’m the one asking questions here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I glare at him. I don’t like being called ma’am, girl, or anything other than my name. And he’s being far too familiar with me.
I clear my throat. “How do you respond to concerns that half the historic buildings downtown are infested with squirrels, and yet the town leaders handed this parcel of land to you for a song?”
Alex blinks at me. “Squirrels?”
Okay, that’s an exaggeration bordering on a lie. Maybe I saw a squirrel perched on a bench outside the old movie theater.
“Yep! Squirrels.”
“Huh,” he says thoughtfully. “I guess my response is, allow me to fund the humane relocation of all these scallawag rodents you claim to be taking over the town.”
“Good luck with that because they are really settled in there. In the walls and stuff.”
Look at me, getting all strident and defensive over some shit I totally made up. Oh lord, I need a vacation.
But still, this man is turning out to be a royal pain in my ass.
“Do they have swords?”
“What?”
“The squirrels that are taking over your town. I assume some sort of weaponry is involved. Is it teeny tiny swords?”
He’s calling me on my bullshit. My brow furrows. “Machetes.”
“Ah.” He grins. That curve of his mouth unsettles me. I don’t like it. His full, kissable lips slightly purse in amusement, making him look ten years younger. He could be the incorrigible yet irresistible bad boy in a teen rom-com.
“I thought I saw a half-decent coffee place downtown. How about you let me buy you an espresso, and you can return the favor by showing me these bloodthirsty squirrels tearing up the town?”
“I can’t accept gifts from a source. But I can buy you coffee, and you can let me look at your plans and blueprints for our town and your gigantic workhouse in the middle of the mountains.”
I look up from my scribbling and watch Alex’s eyes darken. I know that look; he’s spoken too soon, realizing I plan to print every word he says. His expression changes from flirty and friendly to downright stony. “I shouldn’t have said anything about that. The plans are not complete. Don’t print that.”
I blink up at him innocently. “I think I have everything I need. Enjoy your groundbreaking.”