Her Two Billionaires and a Baby (12 page)

As he sauntered into the fire station and unlocked his locker, he shot Joe, the chief, a look that must have been pretty wild, because Joe frowned and said, "You been hit by the dumb love stick, Stanwyck? Why you smiling like a lovesick dumbass?"

"Because I am a lovesick dumbass?" Dylan stripped off his Howard Jones t-shirt (
man, his brother must have had a lapse in judgment in 1989
) and slipped his arms into his freshly-pressed uniform shirt.

Joe smirked back. "That explains it. The lovestruck part. You've always been a dumbass, and no woman will change that." A couple of guys nearby chuckled and Dylan just rolled his eyes. The banter was part of the job. Joe motioned for him to follow into the chief's office.

The station looked like the set of Barney Miller, frozen in 1977 with the exception of Internet service and the computers. Scratched metal desks with cheap, fake-wood tops, battered filing and storage cabinets that were Army green and probably army-issued in the 1940s, or castoffs from the war. The floor was Army-green tile streaked with an off-white marble-like pattern that fooled no one; it was linoleum, cheap, and the second the custodians finished the annual stripping and waxing it was scuffed all over again, making Dylan wonder why on earth they bothered.

The place was clean as a whistle, though. When there was nothing to do the paramedics and fire fighters all had chore rotation, and Joe kept a tight ship. A veteran of Vietnam and the first Gulf War, he ran the place like a military officer and it showed. Response time was lightning fast, employee retention was nearly 100 percent, and they hadn't had a new hire in four years. The waiting list to work there was dozens deep.

Joe closed the door, but didn't sit down. He pulled out a manilla envelope and said quietly, "Murphy just found out his wife has breast cancer."

Cold descended over him. "Oh, shit." His heart rate shot up. No man should have to go through this. He and Mike had, though, and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, imagining what Murphy was going through.

"You know how hard it is, Stanwyck. And Murphy's dad has Alzheimer's. His wife's been taking care of him. They need to hire some kind of caregiver to help with his dad now, and they have the kids... If she gets the right treatment they think they caught it nice and early. We're taking up a collection, though." He handed Dylan the envelope and reached for the doorknob. "It's none of my business what you put in – just give what you can manage. No amount's too small."

You have no idea. "Of course."

"Put the envelope in my top drawer when you're done." He slipped out, face impassive. Dylan stared at the envelope in his hand, full of 5s and 10s. He'd just been to the money machine that morning and had taken out $300. Reaching into his back pocket he pulled out his wallet and threw it all in there, mixing it in with the 5s and 10s to reduce suspicion. Not that it would help; it was pretty obvious.

He wondered if there was a way to ask the trust guy to send a bunch of money anonymously to Murphy's family. How many other guys like Murphy were out there, though? He had fifty million a year coming in, and the station was trying to get a few hundred to help with parking, meals, and babysitting for this poor family struggling with cancer and so much more. The weight of the money rested heavily on his shoulders, a new burden to carry. How could he help people with it?

Eh. $300 was a good start. He slipped the envelope in Joe's desk and walked out. What a great place to work. At least Murphy wouldn't have to worry about health insurance; their coverage was solid. Thank goodness; one less burden for the family.

It was the perfect job, really. Yet Dylan was thinking about quitting lately. He'd hung on for months after getting the first payment from the trust, not wanting to let go of his life. His old life. That's what it was rapidly becoming, when he was honest with himself. Unfolding before him was a new life, one filled with more money than he could spend in 200 years, two amazing partners, and a sense of hope and renewal that made him think long and hard about how he wanted to spend his time. Coming to work now had become an exercise in habit, following his schedule and hanging out, working rescues and just doing what he'd done for most of his adult life because, well, that's what he had done.

Had.
Had
done.

He stopped picking up extra shifts – didn't need the money. Some of the other guys were thrilled to pick up the extra, making Dylan strongly doubt why he was there. Was he hogging a job someone else could really use? Desperately needed? In this economy, it was no small matter to find decent pay, good work hours, great benefits and a well-oiled machine like the station run by Joe. Another guy (
or woman, he reminded himself
) who really wanted the job and who needed to earn a living would appreciate what Dylan now considered tossing aside.

He didn't need it any more. What had once seemed so valuable was now only important because of the social and emotional ties he had to his fellow coworkers. But even there, he was changing. Never before had he realized how much conversation revolved around money. Specifically, the lack of it. People seemed to bond over it, complaining about high prices (especially gas!), student loans, hard-to-get mortgages, spouses and girlfriends who wanted to spend more, and how expensive kids were to raise. He'd once easily joined them, shouldering a crazy-high car payment and his own credit card bills that testified to his spending stupidity.

All debt was washed away a few months ago with a check bigger than his ego. Ah, Jill. Only Jill could orchestrate something like that.

Jill. As his eyes scanned the assignment chart and found his name, he realized he hadn't thought much about Jill these past few weeks. He wondered what the smile that elicited looked like, for it twisted his cheeks and lips into something unhappily nostalgic, not really pleased but marginally amused. Wistful.

He wasn't the wistful type.

His finger drew a line to what he needed to do. Cook! Ah, nice. That he could manage. A mess of meatballs and pasta and the guys would be full and appreciative. He made the same damn meal every time and no one ever complained. And that was part of the reason he couldn't leave just yet. When he knew exactly how to act, how others would react, and exactly what to do, it was so easy to check his feelings at the door and just deliver on life's fixed expectations.

What he and Mike and Laura had, though? Totally uncharted territory. You couldn't blame a guy for hanging on to the familiar when so much was uncertain, no matter how wonderful it promised to be.

He heard the television droning on, some morning show with two female and one male co-host creating reasons to open their mouths. He needed to get started for lunch. Whatever he made needed to be dropped on the spot if an alarm went off and he needed to go on a call, so he reached for the crock pot and started a routine he could almost do in his sleep.

The bustle of the other guys working the same shift coming in, the outgoing shift leaving, the flash of freshly-showered guys toweling their hair dry as they came out of the locker room, hungry for bagels and cream cheese and whatever they could find – he knew it well. Ten years here and he knew it all.

Until silence descended, like someone shook a blanket and settled it across the room, smothering the sound and turning it into a muffle. "Hey, Stanwyck! You're on TV again!" someone shouted. He turned, puzzled. On TV?

The morning show co-hosts were showing a clip of his appearance in a charity bachelor auction a couple of years ago, shirtless and wearing a fireman's uniform, a red bow tie around his neck. The guys hooted. "Did you oil your pecs? Holy shit!" someone crowed. Ah, geez.
What now?
he wondered. Wiping his hands, he abandoned the cooking and walked over to the television to join the curious crowd.

The clip ended and the camera focused on one of the women, a blonde in her 40s with a perfect, sharp bob and a symmetrical face that looked like a surgeon had crafted it. "Boston's most eligible bachelor just got a whole lot more eligible! 1.1 billion times more eligible, in fact."

The guys laughed and shot him looks. His legs went numb.
Oh, fuck.
He tried to turn away and walk but he couldn't, rooted by horror. Mike had been right. Oh, how Mike had been right and
oh holy fuck
how he wished Mike had been wrong.

Laura.

"Records show that Dylan Stanwyck, firefighter extraordinaire, former model, and one of Boston's hottest bachelors, is the heir to shipping tycoon Richard Matthews' daughter's estate. Matthews' daughter, Jillian, died in 2010 and left Stanwyck, her longtime lover, a trust fund of $1.1 billion, with an annual income of more than $50 million."

If the room could have turned into a black hole it would have saved him the agony of living millisecond by millisecond through this. Half the guys were fixated on the television, but the guys he knew best stared openly at him, their faces morphing slowly from shock to disbelief and, unfortunately, to anger in some.

"Sources confirm that her $2.2 billion estate was split between Stanwyck and Mike Pine, a local ski instructor who recently used his inheritance to purchase the struggling Cedar Mountain Ski Resort. Here's to the lucky lady who finds her way to either man as the billionaire bachelors become the hottest dates in town and Stanwyck can buy himself many times over now in whatever charity auction he pleases."

Someone cut the power to the television, everyone turning and gawking openly. Murphy's eyebrows were in his hairline and he shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and left the room.

Finally, the chief took two steps toward him, inhaled slowly, then planted his hands on his hips, shifting his weight to one leg. His jaw flexing with tension, he said, "Stanwyck, you got something you wanna tell us?"

"I thought you'd been promoted. Not that you're the new owner!" Shelly stormed into Mike's office with spit and vinegar, looking like a younger version of Madge. It was unnerving. Being yelled at by a teenager wasn't on his list of expected experiences this morning, so his response was stunned silence.

"Hello? Going to say something?"

"What are you talking about?" Shit. Had someone in the CFO's office finally leaked the truth? He reached for his travel mug and took a long sip of coffee, buying time.

"The television show. All about you and some hot firefighter bachelor auction dude being billionaires. It's all over the morning talk shows and even on the radio."

Spew. He shot drops of coffee all over his desk, choking, the coughs racking his chest as he set down the mug.
Oh, my God. Oh, my fucking God.
Dylan had been so wrong. Why hadn't they told Laura? She was going to kill them.

No. Worse.

She was going to leave them.

He jumped up, tipping the travel mug on its side, a pool of tan coffee inching its way to contaminate the papers, the stapler, the tape dispenser. Shelly grabbed the mug and uprighted it, plucking tissues from a box on the desk to mop up the mess. He was out the door as she shouted, "Where are you going?"

Getting to Laura before she heard the news was his only rational thought. If she heard before they told her...Sprinting to his jeep, he frantically searched his pants pockets for his keys before he realized he'd left them back in the office. By the time he got back there, Shelly was finishing her cleanup of his desk. The words "thank you" were about to exit his mouth as he searched for his keys, eyes methodically cataloging the desk's surface when she tipped her face up with a dismissive expression.

"Looking for these?" The keys dangled from her finger. No words. He grabbed the ring and left as she screamed, "You're welcome!" to his disappearing back.

Unlock car. Climb in. Insert key. Turn. Reverse. Gas. Thank God for autonomous responses, because he was working on muscle memory right now, the jeep racing down the mountain to go to the city, to find Laura, to –

To what? He had no plan. Punching the steering wheel, he flipped the radio to the channel most likely to be chattering about him and Dylan, a stupid DJ show known for caustic comics and nasty, biting commentary on local sports and characters.

Traffic report. Great. Now he knew everything was backed up before exit eighteen eastbound because a tractor-trailer jackknifed. How critical. And now the sports report. Another football player with CTE. Yet another arrested for abusing his wife. And now someone accused of doping. The miles passed as he balanced speeding with getting caught.

Ding!
His phone notified him he had a text. He was guessing it was Dylan. Ignoring it, he just...drove. Wasn't sure where. Just needed to get closer to Laura.

Ring, ring!
If Dylan was using the phone then he must know. Mike reached into his shirt pocket and answered. "Hello?"

"Shit, Mike. Have you watched the morning news shows yet?" He sounded as panicked and sick as Mike felt.

"No, but Shelly just told me everything. Fuck of a day to be there super-early for inventory."

"We need to get to Laura."