Forbidden Single Dad Protector: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Boss Romance, page 1
FORBIDDEN SINGLE DAD PROTECTOR
AN ENEMIES TO LOVERS BILLIONAIRE BOSS ROMANCE
MACI ROWAN
Copyright © 2024 by Maci Rowan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
1. Chapter One (Summer)
2. Chapter Two (Christoph)
3. Chapter Three (Summer)
4. Chapter Four (Christoph)
5. Chapter Five (Summer)
6. Chapter Six (Christoph)
7. Chapter Seven (Summer)
8. Chapter Eight (Christoph)
9. Chapter Nine (Summer)
10. Chapter Ten (Christoph)
11. Chapter Eleven (Summer)
12. Chapter Twelve (Christoph)
13. Chapter Thirteen (Summer)
14. Chapter Fourteen (Christoph)
15. Chapter Fifteen (Summer)
16. Chapter Sixteen (Christoph)
17. Chapter Seventeen (Summer)
18. Chapter Eighteen (Christoph)
19. Chapter Nineteen (Summer)
20. Chapter Twenty (Christoph)
CHAPTER ONE (SUMMER)
“Y
our point is invalid,” Trinity says as she holds up a sequined dress worth about three times our rent and looks at herself in the floor-length mirror.
I’m honestly surprised that we’re even allowed inside this boutique. It feels like they should be able to see just by looking at us that we can’t afford to buy anything in here. I’ve heard stories about how the truly wealthy sometimes walk around New York City in jeans and a T-shirt since they aren’t out to impress anyone. I’ve yet to run into any billionaires here, not even in fancy schmancy shops like this one.
I catch sight of the woman behind the cash register shooting me a sharp look when I go to pick up one of the handbags and look at it.
“It’s like she thinks that I’m depreciating the value of the bag just by touching it,” I bemoan to my best friend. “This is exactly the kind of thing that I’m talking about.”
Trinity rolls her eyes at me. “Yeah, I know—eat the rich, right? But once again, let me point out the critical flaw in your righteous indignation. You fail to do anything about it. You talk about how much you admire champions for the poor, just because you’ve had your nose stuck inside the pages of a fairytale, and you turn up your nose in disgust at how the wealthy class lives. But then you don’t do anything to validate your outrage by trying to fix it.”
“Okay, first of all,” I say as I shove the strap of the designer bag over my arms so that I can use my hands to talk. My talking tends to get animated when I get fired up. “Robin Hood is not a fairytale. It’s more of a literary societal condemnation of greed between classes. And secondly, what the hell do you expect me to be able to do to fix it? Unlike the days of Robin Hood, it’s not like taxes are being carted around in a carriage for me to try and turn over. Things are much more complicated in modern times.”
“I disagree,” she says as she sticks the dress back on the rack and crosses her arms at me. If Trinity wasn’t my best friend and roommate, I would probably get upset at her desire to always be right.
“With Robin Hood not being a fairytale?” I ask.
“No, with the notion that it’s that much different now. I mean, there were corrupted people in positions of power back then and there are corrupted people in positions of power now. There were thieves back then and there are thieves now. Honestly, the whole concept of stealing from the rich to give to the poor is a timeless construct. If you wanted to do something about it, instead of just preaching about how wrong it is, then you could.”
I frown at her. “I don’t see you doing anything about it either.”
“True,” Trinity smiles. “But I’m not the one going around complaining about how unfair it all is. Don’t get me wrong, I do agree with you. It is unfair. But unless you’re going to back up your words with actions then I don’t see what the point in complaining is.”
“Back up my words with what actions?” I ask. “You think I should start stealing from the rich and tossing the money out onto the streets of New York City for the homeless to scoop up?”
“You’re the one with the Robin Hood complex, not me,” she shrugs. “I’m betting that designer bag on your arm is worth enough to feed a person for a few months.”
I look down at the purse, forgetting that I even still had it on my shoulder. The price tag is dangling off the side of the strap, and when I go to lift it up and read the price, I notice that even the tag itself feels like it’s made out of expensive leather.
Sure enough, it’s worth a few grand. Definitely enough to feed and house someone for a while. Injustice makes my stomach turn, and I feel upset that Trinity is calling me out on my inability to make a dent in the inequities of this city.
Here we are on the elite streets of Soho, and I know full well that right outside our shared apartment in the Bronx, there’s a homeless woman and her cat who sleep on the cold concrete every night. It’s not right. And it makes me so furious, not at Trinity but at the whole entire fucking class system.
So, without really even meaning to, I lash out.
“You’re right,” I say as I throw my hands up in the air theatrically, garnering even more attention from the woman at the cash register. “I should just go ahead and steal this luxury bag. It’s so posh that I can’t even pronounce the name of the designer on the tag, and I bet whoever owns this boutique is an absolute, selfish bitch.” I walk toward the front door of the shop, still keeping the bag on my shoulder as I try to make yet another failed point.
“Summer, you know I was just speaking theoretically, right? I don’t actually expect you to steal something. And if you were going to steal something then I really wouldn’t recommend stealing it from a place like this.”
“Why not?” I ask as I look around, glaring at the saleswoman, who stays stuck to the register like she thinks I’m going to try to pry it from her hands.
I keep sauntering closer to the front door to prove that I’m not a coward. Obviously, I have no intention of stealing this purse. But for a second or two, I can at least pretend that I’m as brave as a vigilante.
Trinity’s face goes a bit pale as she steps quickly toward me. She reaches out her hand as she talks, trying to yank the purse from me and put it back on the display shelf while also keeping me from getting any closer to the door.
Unfortunately, she isn’t quite fast enough to stop me though.
“Because stores like this have—” Trinity doesn’t even get to finish her sentence before the store alarm starts to go off. I must have gotten too close to the anti-theft sensors at the door. The very same sensors that she had just been trying to warn me about. “Summer, run!”
I look at her in a panic as chaos ensues. Never in a million years did I expect this little designer boutique to be the equivalent of Fort Knox. Not only are there red lights flashing from the corners of the ceiling, and an obnoxious alarm making my eardrums vibrate, but a second set of automatic doors seems to grow out of the walls and get ready to shut us inside.
Summer runs past me, grabbing my hand to pull me along as she tries to leave the shop before we get locked in. And I hesitate, like a deer in headlights.
For a moment, it all seems so silly. I wasn’t actually going to steal the bag. So, maybe if I just explain to the saleslady that I was simply and innocently proving a point to my friend—
I stop that ridiculous train of thought as soon as I remember that the saleslady has been glaring at me ever since I stepped foot in this shop. She had me marked as not being “worthy” or rich enough to even be in this store in the first place. There isn’t a chance in hell that she’s going to listen to me.
But by the time my brain and feet catch up with each other, it’s too late. Because the undercover security guard at the store reaches out and grabs my other arm, the same arm with the bag still hooked over my shoulder.
Trinity’s grip on my wrists slides off and she manages to make it through the doors a mere second before they lock me in. All I can do is look at her in a frightened panic as she stands on the other side of the door for a moment, peering through the glass at me with pity, before taking off.
I want to be mad at her for leaving me here all alone. But I would have, admittedly, probably done the same thing. At least now there is one of us on the outside.
“I’ll take the purse now,” the security guard says.
His grip on my arm is tight enough to pinch, but he doesn’t dare try to pull the strap of the designer bag. Apparently even he thinks that the purse is worth more than I am.
I jerk my arm away from him, then yank the bag off my shoulder and toss it to the ground. His reflexes are better than mine because he manages to catch it before it touches the floor. The saleswoman finally leaves her position at the counter and rushes over to scoop the purse into her arms and place it carefully back on the shelf. I can hear her muttering profanities at me between her pristinely lined lips.
Great, now I’m trapped inside this store pending the arrival of the police. Maybe a
t least they will listen to my side of the story. Doubtful, but I’m trying to stay positive so that I don’t start to cry. Someone like Robin Hood definitely wouldn’t cry when he got caught. Not that I was actually stealing to begin with.
“Just you wait until he gets here,” the saleslady scorns as she shakes her head at me.
“You know, it’s just like some stuffy rich woman to assume that all cops are men,” I retort. “There are plenty of females on the NYPD, you know.”
The security guard looks at me with his mouth hanging open as if he can’t believe I’m pointing something like gender inequity out in the middle of the mess that I’m in.
“I wasn’t talking about the police,” the woman snips at me. "I was talking about the owner of this shop. He was notified as soon as the alarms went off. He’ll be here shortly, and you can talk to him about your grievances with the world—assuming that the cops haven’t hauled you off to jail first.”
For some reason, it strikes me as odd that the owner of this designer boutique, which sells mostly dresses, handbags, and jewelry, would be a man. He probably doesn’t even appreciate any of the things in his store. He’s probably just another one of those billionaires who is all about the money and nothing else.
The security guard motions for me to follow him to some back room of the store where I’m to be held as I wait for both the cops and apparently the owner of this place to arrive and determine my fate.
“I’d like to make a phone call,” I say as I slump down into one of the chairs in the room.
“Lady, this isn’t jail. And besides, don’t you own a cell phone?” the guard asks before shaking his head and leaving.
It sure feels like I’m being locked up.
There’s not really much inside the room except for a few chairs, a small desk, and several stacks of boxes. I wonder if there are more designer goods in those boxes.
I get up to take a peek inside one of them, musing about how slow the police are in getting here. They probably already know that this place has a more expensive security system than the county jail and are likely not at all worried about me going anywhere.
That said, it seems silly to put a thief inside a room full of designer goods.
The boxes are all taped up and addressed to someone named “Vince Camudo”. But even without seeing what’s inside, I can read the details on the label and the attached invoice. For a second, I have trouble discerning whether the numbers written on the front of the box are a dollar amount or a zip code.
“Holy shit,” I whisper to myself when I realize that it’s the sales cost.
I picture this owner as a bald, stout, old white man with a gluttonous belly from indulging in hundred-dollar steaks and top-notch cocktails every night.
I pull down the sleeve of my shirt to try to cover up the lotus flower tattoo on the inside of my wrist. I’m sure people as rich as this guy don’t appreciate ink as an art form.
I walk over and look at my reflection in the window. The city outside is gray and rainy, a frequent aesthetic for New York, and I smooth my hair down with my fingers. It got a bit mussed up in the calamity and there are long, dark pieces wildly hanging everywhere.
As much as I’d like to think that people don’t judge others by appearances, we all do it. And since I’m already in hot water, I figure that I might as well try to look like a well-put-together store patron, than a twenty-six-year-old shoplifter.
If I do wind up getting sent to jail though, I am sure as hell calling Trinity to tell her to bail me out. I hope she feels guilty about having partially caused this entire fiasco.
As I stand there staring at the pale reflection of my green eyes against the backdrop of the city outside the window, I can see who is really at fault for this mess though. I can’t believe that I was this dumb. I should never have let my emotions get the better of me.
I go sit back down in the chair, sinking against the back of it and mentally reading myself the riot act. This is literally the last thing that I need right now. I just got fired from my last job—through no fault of my own at least since the bookstore that I had been working at closed its doors. I’m already financially struggling and in desperate need of finding a replacement job. Which isn’t going to be at all easy if I have an arrest on my permanent record.
God, how could I have been so stupid?
My parents practically disowned me at the age of eighteen when I told them I was going to college in pursuit of an English Literature degree instead of going into a business field or something “more sensible” as they constantly lectured me about. I haven’t spoken to them in years but my father’s words still ring in my ears now.
“Be smarter,” he used to say at nauseum. “Stupid decisions will get you nowhere.”
I absolutely hate the fact that I feel like I’m proving him right with stunts like this. I honestly don’t even know what got into me. Trinity is usually the more reckless between the two of us. She’s the wild one and I’m supposed to be the responsible one.
“I should have known better,” I scold myself aloud.
“Yes, you should have.”
The voice comes from the now-open door, and I turn around quickly to see who it belongs to.
There, standing in the doorway, is the most breathtakingly handsome man I have ever seen. The only indication that I get at all that he is the owner of this place is that he looks angry. Aside from that, he is nothing at all like the fat, indulgent, and possibly balding character I envisioned him to be.
This man is gorgeous.
His muscular physique fills the doorway with the commanding presence of a Greek god. He looks to be about in his mid-thirties, and the five o’clock-shadow on his face is sexy in a casually unkempt sort of way. He’s the kind of billionaire who would rock jeans and a T-shirt on the city streets. Hell, with that dark hair and piercing blue eyes, he could rock anything.
I can’t even collect my thoughts enough to respond to him. Instead, I find myself staring in awe.
But my delirium is quickly remedied as he pushes angrily through the door and comes to stand squarely in front of the chair that I am sitting in. He’s obviously bold, too, because where he stops, the crotch of his pants lines up right at my eye level, and it doesn’t seem to bother him in the least. I almost want to stand up from my seat—almost.
“Do you have a name?” he asks, his voice smooth and deep. "Or should I just refer to you as a run-of-the-mill burglar?”
I manage to string a few words together enough to answer him.
“My name is Summer,” I eek out. “Summer Davidson.”
“Well, Summer Davidson, you’ve chosen the wrong day to test my temper. Coming into my flagship store and trying to steal a handbag that doesn’t belong to you isn’t going to go unpunished.”
“Your flagship store?” I ask, getting hung up on that distinction. “You mean that you have more of these boutiques?”
“Yes, all around the city,” he answers with a raised brow. “Why? Are you intending to try to steal from them all? I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“No, no, of course not. I wasn’t even trying to steal from this one.” Blurting out my honest answer seems to stun him a bit as if he was expecting it to sound less believable to his ears.
I guess it makes sense why he would own this store now, if this is only one of his boutiques, and if they all have stacks of boxes with invoices in the five-digit figures, then this guy is a very good businessman.
I glance over at the stacks of boxes again.
“Don’t look at those. Look right here at me, Ms. Davidson,” he says as he leans over my chair and puts his hands on either side of the armrests. “I’m the thing that you need to be worried about now because I’m the one who’s going to decide whether or not to press charges against you.”
I swallow hard as I stare up at him. He’s so close to me that I can smell his cologne and it makes me dizzy—either that or the mere fact that I can feel his breath on my forehead when he speaks. One of those things is making my thoughts swirl around in my head.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asks.
I know that if I don’t explain my way out of this I will run the risk of going to jail, or even worse, staying stuck in this room with a man that makes it hard for me to breathe.
