Loves Billionaires and Puppies: A Feel-Good Romance Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Gina Robinson

  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.

  Gina Robinson

  http://www.ginarobinson.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Jeff Robinson

  Cover Lettering: The County Flair

  Dog Artwork: Art by Larka

  Loves Billionaires and Puppies/Gina Robinson. — 1st ed.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Prologue the Second

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Prologue

  An Old-Fashioned Love Song (Gone Wrong)

  One I know they couldn't have written for you and me…

  Shelby Hudson (Wedding singer fan girl souring on the idea of marrying a music man, not a happy picker-upper of panties thrown at her fiancé in his aspiring indie rock singer, alternative rock, post-hardcore screamo guise. Have I missed a genre? Definitely tired of sitting alone at his gigs like an introverted lovesick groupie with sticky beer on her shoe…)

  Three and a Half Years Earlier

  I fell in love at first sight at a wedding, of all places, with a clean-cut crooner with a swoon-worthy voice to die for. Too many adjectives? Too much hyperbole? You obviously haven't heard him. To this day I still wasn't sure whether it was love at first sight or love at first hear, to coin a new phrase. It was his voice that won me over and made me seriously consider having his babies, that much was certain. If only I could guarantee they'd inherit his voice.

  He was a heart-melting singer of love ballads dressed in a classically cut designer suit with hints of forties glamour. Baggy slacks and broad shoulders. A gold signet ring on his pinkie. A fitted shirt that tugged at his broad shoulders.

  That he had charisma and stage presence, there was no doubt. Women were fanning themselves in the comfortably cool venue as he ran through the classic wedding reception playlist—love songs and ballads chosen to showcase true love in its highest form. Achy-breaky breakup songs were strictly forbidden. Somehow, someway, he made the covers his own and turned even the cheesiest ballad into something beautiful and soul-moving. He had a talent for convincing anyone in the audience, male or female, that he was singing directly to them. Singing his emotions, pouring his heart out in the poetry of music. Confessing his undying love.

  I was a pushover already, easy prey. Give me an old-fashioned crooner with a sexy, soulful voice, a throwback to the greats like Sinatra and Crosby, any day of the week. I'd heard my share of corny, clearly-cover-band, almost-karaoke wedding singers. But this guy was making love to me with his voice. If only I could be certain it was only me.

  He was a guy with dancing, laughing eyes and a voice that could melt the ice around the most cynical of hearts. A guy who brought mothers of the brides to joyful tears. Who sang about love in a way that made it seem like finding true love should be

  life's ultimate goal, maybe its only goal. Alexander Wellston Krater could break your heart with his voice or send your pulse racing with a glance and the slightest hint of his sexy grin coming out.

  Wrapped around his music was the sound of him promising he'd never leave me…

  Wrapped around his touring schedule was the promise he'd never be home more than five nights a year. Leaving me to manage our life, our home, the children we wanted, pretty much as if I was a widow with none of the perks. Always wondering whether he was getting into any of those panties so casually tossed his way.

  I called him Alex. Everyone else, including his mom, called him Krater, pronounced like crater, crater of the moon. Crater in my heart. He'd made a big one.

  Back to the day we met. We were both working a wedding. It was a big gig for me, an important one with a particularly particular bride. No screw-ups allowed. My hand-lettering business was just taking off. I'd been hired to letter the signs, place cards, and invitations of a high-profile couple. New money. A startup king and queen. They were the kind of Seattle love story that was becoming increasingly common—join one of the many startups, work insanely long hours under crushing pressure, get to know your coworkers very well, almost to the point of considering them family, fall in love with one, and marry them, doubling your stock options and fortunes. See? Easy plan. Simple, anyway. Easy? There was always the chance the IPO would fail, and the finger of blame pointed around indiscriminately. But this couple, and their IPO, had succeeded. For now, anyway.

  As part of the package, the bride insisted I attend to make any last-minute place cards for guests who couldn't be bothered to RSVP or changes to the menu board—temperamental caterer—and signage that she wanted. It wasn't my usual method of working. Generally, I made the signs ahead of time and delivered them to either the bride or the wedding planner or the venue. Sometimes I set them up at the venue, for which I charged extra.

  This time I stayed, a woman in the twilight area—not quite guest, not part of the usual wedding crew. Before the wedding and during the ceremony, I hung out with hair and makeup. But after the bride was touched up for the reception, I was on my own, wondering how long I'd be required to linger. I hid at a table in a dim corner, dressed like a guest, by bridal request, to blend in, brush pen at the ready, watching while others imbibed the freely flowing alcohol and danced. Trying to avoid the awkwardness of being asked to dance by a genuine guest. I was only the help, after all.

  I had a good view of the stage and the singer, name unknown to me at the time, as he sang with a voice that was certain to launch a thousand love affairs. A dozen of them tonight, at least. Our eyes met and it was like he was singing love songs just to me. Though by the looks of rapture around the room, a dozen other women felt the same.

  A group of bridesmaids gathered around him, trying to catch his eye. But when he took his break, he pushed through them and sought me out in the corner. "What manner of species are you? Hiding in a corner. Not dancing? Immune to the siren song of my voice. I've been trying to coax you out of the shadows all night."

  "Like a good little Odysseus, I'm tied to the mast." I couldn't resist flirting, just a little. "I'm on the clock."

  He grinned. "A fellow working stiff. So am I. Fifteen-minute break." He fell into the chair next to me. His gaze traveled over me. "Hot. Alone. Dressed for the wedding. What's your gig here? No. Wait. Let me guess. Hair and makeup left. Not catering. Not facilities. I've met the wedding planner. Her assistant?"

  "Good guess. But no." I pointed to some of my signage. "I did those. I'm here in case there's a lettering emergency."

  He cocked his head, showing off his crown of golden hair. "Lettering emergencies exist?"

  "Don't look so skeptical. Would I be here if they didn't?"

  "You tell me. You never can tell with brides. They'll demand anything."

  I could
n't help laughing. I put a hand over my mouth, trying to stifle it. He clearly had wedding experience.

  He opened a bottle of water he'd snagged on his way toward me. "Making a living with good penmanship—awesome. Industrious. Totally new concept to me. I never made more than Cs myself."

  "Calligraphy is good penmanship. Hand lettering is art."

  His water bottle was condensing and dripping all over that gorgeous suit. I handed him a stiff paper napkin stamped with the bridal couple's names in silver. "Making a living with what you learned in elementary school music class—fabulous. I was never able to sing on pitch. Which earned me a pass with reservations on a pass/fail scale."

  "Children's souls are shaped and educated through the music they listen to. The foundational education for the soul is music. Plato." There was that sexy grin again.

  "A philosopher. And educated, too." I liked it. Not just a musician, a thinking man. "Plato understood music as any art, any creation of the muses. That includes lettering, I presume."

  "Touché. An honest point." He laughed. "The two of us can go on shaping souls, romantic souls in particular. Do many weddings?"

  "I make a living."

  "Why haven't I seen you before? Or I could say—where have you been all my life?"

  I laughed. "My presence isn't generally required at the ceremony or reception itself. I'm more along the lines of the florist—drop off and dash."

  "Due to an odd quirk of nature, my presence is always required." He shrugged, a devilish twinkle in his eye. "I've offered to turn in a customized recording many times, but they always want a live show. Go figure."

  "It's your adorable, charismatic self they want. Your voice underscores their love affairs…"

  "I should put that on my business cards."

  "For a small fee, it's yours."

  He laughed. "I'm Krater."

  "Your sign says Alex," I said.

  "That's just for tips. My staid wedding singer persona. My rock god name is Krater. I'm opening for the Hs tomorrow night at Seattle Center. Come see me."

  My turn to raise an eyebrow. I had no idea who the Hs were. "Soliciting ticket sales? Are you that desperate for an audience?"

  He sputtered, nearly spitting out his water. "You're kidding? The Hs don't need any help from me. It will be standing room only, a sold-out crowd. But I love a sassy woman who's quick with a comeback. Agree to come and I'll leave you a ticket at will-call. Free. Gratis. Front-row seat. So close I'll sweat on you. If you're lucky."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Sweat on me? Wow. Now you're really selling me on it."

  "Any way I can tempt you." He shrugged. "Just being realistic. It's a raucous show. A real workout for me and the guys. The sweat is free. We don't charge extra."

  I shrugged, noncommittal.

  "And if I sweeten the pot and promise to toss you my guitar pick?"

  "Can I sell it on eBay later and come out ahead after shipping?"

  He laughed. "It's a custom pick, emblazoned with our band name. You decide."

  I mulled it over. Flirting with him this way was easy. "You don't even know my name."

  "Not yet. I will when my charmingly clumsy way of getting your name and number works. If you want the ticket, I'm going to need a name to leave it under."

  "Girl in the corner."

  "Is that on your ID?" How he managed to grin so sexily, I'll never know. He had an entertainer's charm. "They won't hand over the ticket without it."

  "So incognito is out, then?" I made a snap decision to live dangerously. Dating someone who worked in the wedding industry too could end disastrously. No one wanted a bad romance as part of their portfolio. But he was so cute… "Shelby. Shelby Hudson."

  "Shelby Hudson, you won't regret it." He glanced at his watch. "I have another five minutes." He stood and held his hand out to me. "I can't leave such a beautiful girl in the corner all night."

  "Nobody puts Shelby in the corner?"

  He laughed again. "Dance with me."

  I laughed, suddenly nervous. "I'm not sure it's allowed—"

  "Sure it is. Even the help gets a chance on the floor."

  "In case you haven't noticed, there's no music. The band is on break. We'll make a spectacle of ourselves—"

  "Not a problem." He pulled me to my feet. "We'll make our own music. Right here. In the corner. Where nobody puts you." He pulled me into his arms and whispered in my ear, "I take requests."

  I whispered my selection.

  "I should have guessed." He began singing softly as we swayed together, his arms around me, our eyes locked.

  It wasn't long before we had an audience. The clamoring bridesmaids frowned. The bride gave us a death glare.

  "We're upstaging the bridal couple." I tried to step out of his arms.

  He held me close. "You have a contract, right?"

  I nodded.

  "Then she can't hurt you."

  "Future business. She has connections. She can hurt my reputation." I curled into him, resting my head on his chest. I was falling in love with him already.

  "Believe me," he crooned into my ear in the tune of the song he was singing. "This will only help your business. Tomorrow night."

  When the dance ended, he released me and headed back to the stage to the applause of the people around us.

  He gave me a nod as he picked up his mic. "What is a wedding but the perfect place to fall in love with a beautiful woman." He found the bride and groom in the crowd. "My inspiration's obvious. The most beautiful woman here tonight is already taken."

  The crowd broke into a round of applause. The bride beamed as her groom pulled her into a passionate kiss.

  Alex began singing a ballad. From the look on the bride's face, it was obvious that the groom had requested it for her. But Alex was singing to me.

  The First Date

  When I got home that night, I looked the Hs up. Oh. Screamo. Not my favorite. But Alex and his band wouldn't be screamo too, necessarily? However, on the other hand, the sensible me argued, a crooner could never open for a screamo band. Two totally different audiences.

  Despite my reservations, nothing could have kept me away from a second, and full-blown, encounter with Alex the hot wedding singer. Good men were thin on the ground in my world. Most of the new guys I met were planning their weddings. Occupational hazard.

  I went to Seattle Center the next night, dressed in tight jeans and heels, full of anticipation.

  Alex hadn't been exaggerating. When I got there way earlier than I thought necessary, the lines were already long, even to get to will-call. Either Krater, his eponymous band, was an opener on its way up and worth seeing on its own, or the Hs were really popular, or both.

  I didn't expect the reception I got at will-call.

  "Oh, you're Krater's girl. He told us to make sure you get the VIP treatment." The guy behind the ticket counter called another guy over. "This is Krater's guest. Show her to his VIP table upfront and give her all the beer she wants."

  All the beer I want. Wow. Spare no expense and give me the VIP treatment.

  I followed the new guy past the crowds, getting some scowls, I'll tell you, down a long hall and into the darkened venue. He grunted and pointed to a table with a reserved sign sitting in the center of it. Not classy, but it did the job. I sat.

  A moment later, a beer and a bowl of popcorn appeared. "Compliments of Krater. He's glad you're here."

  And so, the night, and my stint as a screamo band groupie, began. I nursed the beer as it got dark outside, and the venue filled and grew warm. A few guys came out from backstage and fiddled with the sound system. As usual, they created the obligatory blasts of earsplitting feedback. No one seemed to notice.

  And then a guy in jeans and an Hs T-shirt came out and said a few words announcing the evening's lineup. "I give you Krater!"

  The room erupted in applause as Krater, the band, came out. The drummer took his seat. I hadn't been drunk the night before, so no beer goggles to blame, but I was beginn
ing to worry that I wouldn't recognize Alex. Not in this new, unfamiliar setting. I couldn't imagine the wedding singer I'd met here. Then he strutted out. His stage presence and charisma were unmistakable. Everything else? Well…

  Torn jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt replaced the glamorous suit. He hadn't shaved since last I'd seen him. He'd spiked up his hair, and I was pretty sure he was wearing eyeliner. Gone was my clean-cut crooner, replaced by a screaming bad-boy lead singer.

  When he stepped to the mic, our eyes met. He nodded an acknowledgement. He seemed nervous as he turned to the drummer and began a count. Then he screamed me a love song.

  I was floored. He was just as good at screamo as he was at crooning. Hot on a completely different level. So talented that even I enjoyed his music. He screamed through an entire set, keeping the crowd on its feet. But his gaze kept returning to me, curling my toes with the connection between us every time it fell on me.

  As Krater, Alex was deep and intense. High energy. The lovely, low-key, sensitive, but confident, crooner was gone. But beneath the showmanship I sensed just a touch of insecurity. I know it was crazy, but I got the sense that my presence somehow grounded and reassured him. That I was a lifeline.

  By the end of his gig, he glistened with sweat. When he lifted his shirt to wipe his brow, revealing a rock-hard set of washboard abs, I bit my lip. Someone in the front row handed him a bottle of water. Krater opened it and dumped it over his head. It splashed the fans in the front row. But missed me.

  Promises, promises. Looked like I was missing out on that valuable sweat he'd teased me with.

  Our eyes met. He shook his head like a dog after a bath. I swore he aimed for me. I got my share of watery sweat.

  "Great. Thanks," I mouthed.

  He grinned. My heart flipped over. I was done for.

  The audience loved him. He tossed his pick into the crowd, very deliberately away from me toward a female fan who was clearly trying for his attention.