Everything He Needs, page 1
Everything He Needs
Jagger Cole
Contents
A Special Present
Synopsis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Afterword
Also by Jagger Cole
About the Author
Everything He Needs
Jagger Cole © 2020
All rights reserved.
Cover by Plan 9 Book Design | Editing by MJ Edits
This is a literary work of fiction. Any names, places, or incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Similarities or resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events or establishments, are solely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The unauthorized reproduction, transmission, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal and a violation of US copyright law.
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A Special Present
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Synopsis
Elise:
I’ve been living a lie. To climb the ranks of the boys club of finance, I pretended to be something I’m not. I’ve avoided men for years, but there’s no avoiding Sam Hemmings. Rich, gorgeous, cocky, and wild, he’s like a caveman cowboy. He’s also the very last thing I think I need.
A freak blizzard has us trapped together in the same hotel. But a freak twist of fate may have us trapped together for a heck of a lot longer than that. See, Sam needs a wife, or he’ll lose half his fortune.
He’s out of options; I’m out of excuses. What could possibly go wrong?
Sam:
Stubborn mule. Horse-headed. A jack—well, you get it. I’ve been called all sorts of things. But not a single person’s ever called me out on my own BS as much as Elise James.
The woman confounds me, and infuriates me. But she also has me curled around her damn pinky finger, if I’m being honest. I know I’m barking up the wrong tree with her. But stubborn is as stubborn does, as they say.
My witch of an ex-wife and my equally miserable brother are after the fortune I’ve built with my bare, rough hands. I’m about to have my empire cut off at the knees, unless I find a bride.
I’ve sworn off women for years, but I might be out of options.
But I also might have the only option I really want standing right in front of me…
This OTT romance is packed with instalove, no cliffhanger, and a perfect happy ever after.
1
Sam
I pace the bar back and forth, like a caged animal. My teeth grind, and my pulse pounds like a drum in my ear. What the fuck, am I nervous? Maybe not. Maybe it’s more excitement. I growl and turn back to the bar to pick up my bourbon. It’s a little early, even for me, but it’s needed. The whiskey burns, and I sigh contentedly. Good, I need the burn. I need the fire.
It’s ridiculous that I’m nervous. Or “not” nervous, or whatever lie I’m telling myself. I glance at my own reflection in the mirror behind the bottles of whiskey on the other side of the bar. I grin, allowing myself some vanity. A man like me shouldn’t ever be nervous for a date, even for a relatively blind one. Or one where both people are pretty damn aware of the casual nature of why we’re meeting up.
We’ve chatted on Tinder, and then on my private phone through texts. I’ve even seen pictures of her, at least from the mouth down, or else with big movie star shades on. But whatever, I’ll be seeing her without those shades soon. I’ll be seeing her without anything if things go as intended.
I look at myself again before I gesture for another drink. I’m six foot three, with dark blond hair, and blue eyes that I know women get a little gaga over. The beard is a relatively new addition, but it’s en vogue right now, as my stylist says. I look clean cut and moneyed in my tailored suit. But the extra wide shoulders for my muscled frame give away the brawn under the finesse. I’m like a pig dressed in a tux, as my buddy Harlow likes to joke.
Not that deep down, I’m a country boy. I’m east Texas born and raised, and a farm boy through and through. Then I got rich, and life turned upside down. That’s another reason I should have no reason in the world to be nervous. I won the genetic lottery ticket, I’ve got a body carved from years mucking stalls and breaking in horses. It’s been joked that I’m, uh, equipped like one of ‘em, too. And on top of that, I’m worth about four-hundred-and-eighty million dollars; give or take.
Other guys like me, at my age, with my looks and wealth? They’re out there taking anything that so much as smiles at them to bed. But that ain’t for me. Maybe when I first got my money, I went a little wild. But it soured quickly. I’m not interested in women who only want me for my anatomy or my money. I want more than that, and so I learned to respect myself and not be that guy. Sure, I like to party, and my place back in New York is pretty much a constant rock concert of booze, topless girls, and drugs. But these days, I’m pretty much just partaking of the first one.
Except, the pressures hit a boiling point. It’s been close to a damn year and a half since I’ve been with a woman, and I’m starting to lose my cool. I’m losing my edge, and that’s the real problem. The edge and my sharpness are how I’ve done so well investing. So that’s why I’m here, pacing the bar and waiting for her.
I really can’t believe I’m doing this though. But, I’m a thousand miles from New York here in Telluride, Colorado on business for an investment conference. That makes me one-hundred-percent unavailable for more than a one-night fling. I am not a fan of one-night stands. But Harlow’s convinced me to just “clean the pipes” as he says. Plus, it should clear my head with all the bullshit coming down on me right now. And my date is well aware that I won’t be here past tomorrow afternoon.
That is, unless this snow gets worse. I thank the bartender for my new whiskey and glance out the window. Fuck me, it’s getting a little wild out there. I shoot a text to my pilot asking what he thinks. He gets back to me quick saying he thinks it’s supposed to pass right over. I look skeptically out the window: his prediction seems dubious.
Another text comes through—Harlow this time. I just call him back instead of typing.
“You in bed yet?” He drawls.
I roll my eyes. “How the fuck did I let you talk me into this?”
“Because you’re a twenty-eight-year-old multi-millionaire and you haven’t been laid in like, what, a year?”
“Fifteen months.”
He laughs heartily. “That’s why. Jesus Christ, Sam. It doesn’t have to be a religious experience. Just have fun and clear your head.”
“That’s the plan,” I grumble. But I’m not happy about it.
“Well shit man, don’t get too excited,” he sighs. Harlow’s another Texas boy like me, and I’ve known him since we were twelve, mucking out stalls together. These days, Harlow has his own ranch and about four-hundred acres, thanks to me investing his cash the right way.
“Look, you need this. Considering all the shit with—”
“Don’t say her name, she might appear in a cloud of smoke and brimstone,” I grunt, unsmilingly.
“Her” is Crystal, my ex-wife as of ten damn years ago, and the biggest mistake of my life. I married way too young, at eighteen, and divorced just shy of four months later. That was before I got rich, thank God. But it’s coming back like a bad hangover to knock me on my ass.
“She hot? Your date, I mean.”
I roll my eyes at Harlow. “Chill.”
“It’s a legit question! Y’all aren’t meeting up to talk politics or have a book club, buddy. And hey, you never know. She could be the answer to your troubles.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” My voice drips with sarcasm. My one-night Tinder date. Definitely wife material.
The shit with Crystal is a goddamn one-line little clause in our divorce papers. We split with what we each had back then, which wasn’t much. But the clause stipulated that within ten years, if she ended up having a baby with me, she’d get half, as settlement. I don’t know what lawyer of hers added that, but the guy is probably creaming himself now, seeing as what I’m worth.
It shouldn’t be an issue, which is why I willingly signed it almost ten years ago. I mean I obviously wasn’t going to have a baby with my goddamn horrible cheating ex-wife. But right now, at the eleventh fucking hour before the ten-year stipulation is out, Crystal is pregnant. And any paternity test in the world is going to say it’s mine.
Except, it damn well isn’t. That genetics fuckery would be thanks to my scumbag of a brother. Rick never left east Texas, just like Crystal. Now he’s a mid-level meth dealer. I’ve reached out; I mean I tried for years. But the guy is an all or nothing type. And he feels that my wealth is “rightfully” partly his, by factor of us unfortunately sharing the same parents.
So I know what he Crystal are up to. I know her pregnancy is from him—I don’t honestly give a shit if it was in vitro or the old-fashioned way. But the shakedown is coming. It’s within ten years, which means she’s trying to take half of my em
Well, unless I can somehow play the one get out of jail free card that comes with that damn clause. The one stipulation where Crystal wouldn’t be able to take a dime from me is if I were already married. Obviously, I’m not. And this presents a pretty fucking big problem.
“So, is she hot or not?”
I smile. “Fine, Jesus. She’s hot.”
My mystery date is not the answer to my problems. She’s a distraction, and a much needed one. I’ve denied myself women for almost a year and a half. Maybe Harlow is right, I do need this.
“Dude, you know you can just fucking marry her and be done with this, right?”
“No,” I growl. We’ve had this talk before, and I’m done having it. Yes, the obvious solution here is to just get married to anyone and be done with the whole thing. But I won’t do that again. I married for the wrong reasons, and when I wasn’t really in love once before. My parents did the same thing. I won’t do that with another woman.
Harlow sighs. “You’re a stubborn bastard, you know.”
“Why change now.”
He chuckles. “So, blonde? Brunette?’
“I feel like you’re living vicariously through me with this date of mine.”
He laughs. “Nah, buddy. Well, a little. “
“Brunette and that’s your last question.”
“Oh I’m not even close to done.”
I shake my head and turn. Suddenly though, I stop short. She’s here, flashing a polite but thin smile at the host at the front entrance of the hotel bar. She’s wearing her movie-star sunglasses, and her wavy dark hair is piled up on her head. She looks good. She looks really, really good, and my hunger for her grows.
Well, maybe this won’t be such a bad idea after all.
“Gotta go.”
“She there?”
I hang up on Harlow and stare at my date across the bar intensely. She shrugs her coat off, and I growl. Fit and athletic with curves in all the right places. This is my kinda woman. She’s got her shades on when she walks towards the bar, and I turn to order her a martini. After all, I’m three bourbons in; she’s got some catching up to do. I hear the footsteps, and then the cleared throat.
“Mike?” She says in a soft, feminine voice with just a little huskiness to it. Fuck, that’s the kind of voice that does things to a man.
I grin. So I used a fake name. Sue me. I’m worth half a billion dollars, I don’t need random potential Tinder dates to see “Sam Hemmings” on the app and start seeing dollar signs and a shake down. Plus, I’m at least ninety-five-percent sure that “Paris” is a bullshit name for her, too. Especially since she wasn’t going to share face pics without huge sunglasses on before we met. Hey, whatever. I didn’t either, so this works for me.
I think about her texts back at my shirtless pics, expressing her own hunger and eagerness to “put her mouth all over me.” I smile. Tonight, is going to be a great night.
“Paris,” I growl and turn, just as she pulls her shades off. And everything stops cold, like a record scratch.
“Oh, fuck,” I grunt, literally out loud.
“Motherfucker!” she hisses. Her face pales, and her eyes widen in shock. Then they narrow angrily.
“You?!” She spits.
“You,” I snarl back. What in the hell is going on? The petite and curvy woman standing in front of me in the bar, Hollywood shades in hand, is not Paris. Her name is Elise James, and we’ve met before.
It didn’t go well.
For one, she’s my good friend Evan’s Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor. As in, she’s obviously sober, and when we met, I was drinking heavily. I was also shamelessly hitting on her, even after I learned that she exclusively dates women. Or, maybe not so exclusively, because here she is ready to jump “Mike’s” bones.
We’ve met, and she categorically, for a bunch of reasons, very much dislikes me. And now here we are, face to face again.
I wanted her back then, badly. The only problem is, that hasn’t changed.
At all.
2
Elise
“Motherfucker,” I hiss. My whole plan is ruined. Fucked, actually. I close my eyes tightly and take a heavy breath. I knew this was a bad idea. I mean I knew it. Somehow, I let my friend Savannah talk me into this dumb plan, and I’m regretting every damn second of it now.
“It’ll be fine,” she said. “You know you need this, and no one will know you there,” she said. And I listened to her, like an idiot.
In fairness, I played it incredibly safe. After all, I’m not anywhere near home in New York City. I’m in Telluride, Colorado for a conference on sustainable “impact” investments. I was talking to Savannah about how long it’s been, and her joking about me “getting some” turned into me finally saying screw it and getting a dumb Tinder account. I mean, she was right. No one knows me out here. And on the app, I filtered out for guys who work in finance or anyone older than twenty-nine. That would take care of anyone I might possibly know, I figured. Even other New York investors here for either of the two conferences happening over the weekend.
That’s how I came across “Mike.” Tall, built, and with a hot as hell body. He said he was a local, and he was charming and sexy in his texts. Flirty and exciting, and intriguing. So I said yes. After all, it’s been a very, very long time since I’ve been with a guy. And mostly, that has to do with my… I suppose the only word is “lie.” It’s a big lie, too, even if started innocently enough.
When I was twenty and graduating early and magna cum laude from an accelerated Master’s degree in Financial Analytics from Columbia University, every hedge fund in town wanted me. It was exciting, except for the fun little fact that I’m a girl in finance, which is totally still a “boy’s club.”
I saw what happened to women in my industry. If they were strong-minded, they were “cold bitches.” If they gave an inch though, they were run right over. Then there’s the sex issue. Finance being the boy’s club it is, when women enter the pool, it’s like throwing chum to sharks. And it happened to me, too. In my first junior analyst job out of Columbia, every guy in the office swarmed me, asking me out, or more crudely if I wanted a “good time.” I got it all. When I turned them down as being “not interested” or “not looking to mix personal and business,” I was an “uptight ice queen.”
So, I came up with a lie. Instead of telling them I wasn’t interested, I just started to casually say that I was a lesbian to avoid the annoyance of men trying to hit on me. I know it’s shitty, and a little amoral. But I had to do what I had to do in this industry. And it damn well worked.
I rose high, and fast. A huge part of it was my drive, ambition, and ability to get shit done better than anyone else. But I know damn well it was only possible because other male execs or traders weren’t trying to get in my pants.
I got to the top by twenty-two. I ran one of the biggest hedge funds in New York, and I ran it like a well-oiled machine. Except that oil was a constant supply of booze and cocaine to keep me going. It worked great, until it didn’t.
I never spun out, but I knew I was going to any day. So, when I was twenty-four, I stopped the party before the party stopped me. I checked out, checked myself into a program, and I got clean. Because I knew if I didn’t, I’d be dead by thirty.
Now, two years later, I’m doing great. All of Wall Street still wants me to come work for them, but I’m not interested. I’ve made my enormous pile of cash, and I’m not interested in the lifetime that finance demands. I do still invest, but these days, I’m more into impact investing—green sustainable stocks and that sort of thing. Hence the impact summit conference here in Telluride.
