I Choose You (The Billionaire Brothers Series)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2013 S. Ann Cole

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Cover by S. Ann Cole

I Choose You
is the third book of the Billionaire Brothers Series, but even so, it is a standalone. Therefore, you needn’t read the previous two before reading
I Choose You
.

This book ends the series, so there is a bonus at the end: a Series Epilogue.

If you have not read the previous two books, you may just skip along to the ‘Trev and Krissy’ epilogue — that’s if you don’t want to read about the other couples.

Whether this story works for you or not, I appreciate you taking the time to read it.

And, oh…

Happy reading!

For all the one-woman soldiers out there, treading life’s rocky roads on their own. This is to let you know,
you are not alone
.

Never
stop believing in yourself because others have stopped believing in you. Everyone, that includes
you
, has their season.

Just wait…

~

Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne’er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar

Requires sorest need.

—Emily Dickinson

Angel,

Perfection is thy name.

But, Angel,

Why art thou maim?

Angel,

You were sent to mend.

But, Angel,

Why on I doth thou depend?

Angel,

I await from thee my token.

Wait, Angel,

Art thou wing truly broken?

Angel,

I art a sinner,

I art a mortal,

I art too blemished

For thy perfection

But, Angel,

If thou sayest

Thou art imperfect

I’ll mend thy wing

To thy satisfaction.

And, Angel,

If thou druthers

To stay impaired,

I’ll give thee a smile

For being as guile

Because, Angel,

I stumbled in love

Upon first sight,

With an eye of flaw

With emotions raw.

Angel,

I prithee,

Say thou art imperfect,

So I can free thee,

And make thee
my
perfect…

Mortal.

H
is name was Trevillo Marco-Dean Nelson.

And he was a hellion.

Okay, okay, he wasn’t
really
a hellion. But people tended to refer to him as such; he merely acknowledged it being said.

Rakehell, miscreant, asshole, Devil Boy were just a few of the disparaging names he’d been dubbed. For the life of him, though, he couldn’t understand
why
.

He wasn’t a bad person. Not to himself, at least. He was an extremely wealthy man who provided jobs and opportunities for a decent living for thousands of people around the globe. He governed incalculable charities, fed the poor, clothed the unclothed, and helped the underprivileged. For heaven’s sake, he rebuilt an entire parish after that bitch of a hurricane twirled her destructive little skirt tail across several states and uprooted a vast amount of lives and homes. Talk about ‘home-wrecker’.

So, you see? He wasn’t too bad. Actually, he considered himself as normal as any other human being.

There were just two (2, dos) small (teeny, tiny) defects of his — or unredeemable habits, one could say, that made
truly
normal people deem him rotten:

One, he fucking swore a lot.

Two, he was a proud enabler of adultery and consciously steered clear of any female sector whose ages were below his on the calendar.

Did it make him a hellion because he enjoyed spraying F-bombs on everyone like a swear-word confetti gun? Or because he enjoyed
dating
screwing around with women who were five to ten years his senior, married, engaged, or otherwise entangled?

No? He didn’t think so either.

It’s not like he was strapping goddamn bombs to his chest, robbing banks, blowing up airplanes, hitting on pregnant women, peeping through little boys’ windows with his dick in his hand, or sending naked pictures of himself to underage vaginas …

Guess the world saw him in a different light than he did. To himself, he was just Trevillo Marco-Dean Nelson: a good guy. A
really
good guy.

You’ll see. Then, perhaps, you’ll agree.

At present, he was trapped within the confinements of his office with his gayer of the gayest male assistant, Milo, browsing through potential design plans for one of his new tower loft constructions. And he was scowling with sheer displeasure. The designs were drafted by one of his best designers; yet, they came across as trite and uninspiring.

With a sharp shake of his head, Trevillo leaned back in his comfortable leather chair, “I’m done.”

Milo glanced at him from across his large oak desk, brows raised. “You’re cutting her? Sarah James is your supposedly ‘best’ designer. You’ve been using her on all the top projects for years.”

“Exactly. And now she’s grown comfortable, which has rendered her predictable. She keeps recreating the same thing every time. I need newness. Innovation. Daring designs. Sarah’s just not delivering anymore.”

Milo nodded in agreement.

An exceptional assistant for the last five years, he was about five feet four inches short, with a wiry frame and a gay attitude. He kept his hair trimmed in a spiky blonde Mohawk, had a wide gauge piercing on one ear and a cage piercing on the other.

Trevillo didn’t force him to wear a three-piece suit — he himself detested suits — he permitted Milo to wear whatever he wanted, so Milo was always dressed in his customary steel-toed boots, tight jeans with studded belts, and stretchy rocker T-shirts.

Many times, he was asked why he hired a freak for an assistant. A careless shrug would always be his reply. Why
not
hire a freak for an assistant?

See, Trevillo Nelson was unconventional in every sense of the word, so he was perpetually doing the opposite of whatever was expected. Screw world order. He was rich, he was powerful, he was the boss, and he could do whatever the hell he wanted. Some called it rebellion, but he called it shitting-on-dumb-ass-rules.