Falling for the Billionaire Rancher (Steamy Small Town Romances #9) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Falling for the Billionaire Rancher (Steamy Small Town Romances, #9)

  Falling for the Billionaire Rancher

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  If my life were a romance novel, I'd be Prince Charming's...best friend.

  Five years ago, a viral post changed my life, and I went from broke 21-year-old college undergrad to 26-year-old "girl boss" with almost a million followers on social media. A "legit fan base" as my fellow "influencer" Katya Vlahos describes it, and even better, they're not made up of women who only clicked Follow to hate on me.

  And yes, I do know I've used more "air quotes" than what's appropriate for a single paragraph, but the thing is, that whole air quote thing also perfectly sums up my feelings about the past five years.

  Everything that's happened since the post is like one long air quote: I'm a nobody the whole world has mistaken for somebody, and I feel like it's only a matter of time before everyone wises up to the truth.

  If my life were a romance novel, I'd never be the girl who would end up with Prince Charming, and I don't think you'd even see my name pop up until Chapter Three.

  If my life were a romance novel, I'd just be the hero's token best friend. The kind of girl guys hang out with until they fall in love with someone else.

  If my life were a romance novel, someone as gorgeous as Aidan Blackwood shouldn't even know I exist...so why have I caught him checking me out like I'm his next meal?

  Falling for the Billionaire Rancher

  Book #9 of Steamy Small Town Romances

  by Marian Tee

  Copyright 2021 by Streak Digital Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Doug Powell was living the life. He had a wife he adored, two children whose smiles brightened his days, and a job that he wouldn't trade for anything in the world. As a former soldier, Doug's main desire after being honorably discharged was to be as far away as possible from the horror and violence of war, and one certainly couldn't get any further than the remote mountaintop town of Hartland, Wyoming.

  Everything was peaceful and simple here. Breakfast at Redwood Cafe or McDonald's, maybe borrow a horse from the local stables for an outdoor date with his wife, and there was always the weekend fair to look forward to or a thirty-minute drive to Laramie so he could treat his kids to the latest Marvel flick.

  As for his job...there wasn't much to do, really. Doug was one of the dozen or so police officers who reported directly to the town's police chief, and in the two years he had been working in Hartland, the most "action" he had seen was having to warn residents about a possible avalanche. That was basically it. On paper.

  Off-record, however...

  Like everyone else making up the town's permanent workforce, Doug had one very important "secret" duty, and it was to protect Hartland's biggest secret at all costs. While the whole world might see Hartland as nothing but an inconsequential speck on the map, the town's residents actually consisted of billionaires, sheikhs, and heiresses in disguise.

  Doug's own boss was part of this rarefied group, never mind if the ex-soldier had yet to see Aidan Blackwood act the part. The guy worked hard as the rest of them, and Doug had yet to see the younger man act entitled. Not a once, and come to think of it, he couldn't even remember a single instance that Blackwood had asked any of the staff to make him a cup of coffee.

  Honestly, if Doug's daughter happened to be eighteen rather than eight, he would've happily started matchmaking and prayed to the heavens that his little girl would become his boss's bride.

  Point was, Hartland's police chief was the real deal, no matter what way one looked at it. Blackwood had the smarts and the money, and the man was even ludicrously attractive to boot. But because most girls these days were after money and fame...

  Doug turned his attention back to his boss, who at this moment looked spectacularly handsome...all on his lonesome. Tonight was a rather special night in Hartland, and Doug, along with all the other cops, were stationed discreetly around the small church where the town's young librarian was marrying the local florist.

  Most people would probably think the amount of incognito security on-site was overkill, but those same people likely didn't know the florist was another Blackwood, and thus a billionaire in his own right as well.

  Ethan was the youngest of three brothers, and his bride Anah had only been sixteen when she first fell in love with him. More importantly, Anah had no idea Ethan was a billionaire at the start, and the same could also be said when Thornton Blackwood's now-wife Blake had started working for him as his assistant.

  The odds of Aidan finding himself a woman who would be just as good-hearted as his sisters-in-law were unfavorable at best, and Doug had a feeling it was because of this his boss was looking rather brooding of late. It was more luck than anything else that Ethan and Thornton had found their brides, but what were the chances of the very same lightning striking thrice for the remaining Blackwood bachelor?

  Doug was not the type to pray, but he ended up doing just that as he heard the priest inside the small church ask everyone to bow their heads and offer up their prayers and intentions. It was thanks to the Blackwood family that Doug now had a happy and comfortable life, and he could only hope that one day, Aidan Blackwood would have his turn to experience domestic bliss.

  Doug prayed that the younger man would soon find his match, which he imagined was likely to be some country lass who wouldn't mind Hartland's slow pace of living. Or maybe some kind of shy, bookish introvert and thus likely to find the town's quiet days an inspiration to write poetry or something.

  My boss is in his thirties, Doug reasoned to God, so he probably wouldn't be choosy at this point. Aidan Blackwood would only likely draw the line on marrying a horrible, gold-digging bitch. Or anyone inexcusably stupid. And lazy. And vain, like those girls that did all sorts of crazy things on that website called...Tic Tac Toe, was it?

  A girl with a taste for simpler living, Doug decided. That should be the perfect match for his boss, and with God's grace, Aidan Blackwood should be getting hitched within the year.

  Chapter One

  OMFG you guys. I just saw #serafinaedison at the airport, and she's just like y'all say she is. Classy AF. For realz!

  ~ Marlene, Twitter

  I almost had a heart attack when I realized #serafinaedison was queueing behind me at Starbucks! I offered to let her go ahead of me, but she said no. She's so kind! So classy!

  ~ Ava, Twitter

  Watch and learn! This is how real ladies yawn! #stayclassy #serafinaedison

  ~ Nancy, Instagram story

  I'm on the same flight as #serafinaedison and you guys just gotta see this for yourself. No makeup. No fancy clothes. Just clear radiantly beautiful skin doing its job. Like, seriously. Do I
need to sell my soul to the devil so I can say I #wokeuplikethis too?

  ~ Carrie, Twitter

  There it is again.

  The C-word.

  Classy, I mean, and not c*nt.

  I scroll through my newsfeed on every social media platform, and six out of ten posts have the C-word. Which is good, I know. I'm flattered females of all ages think I'm classy, but...

  Stop right there, Raffi.

  I need to be grateful about this. People thinking I'm classy is why I have a nice apartment to call home. It's why I can pay the bills and afford a vacation like this. So if people choose to think I'm classy, I just need to...

  Fake it till their words become reality?

  I drop my phone back in my purse in a fit of frustration and take out my squeeze ball.

  Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.

  Everything's such a mess these days, I just don't know what's right anymore. Like that post about me yawning. I don't think covering my mouth when yawning is classy. If I don't have my hand over my mouth when I yawn, I'll be giving the public a clear good look at my tonsils, and who in their right mind would want that?

  What I think is just plain common sense, the Internet sees as classy, and...that shouldn't be a problem. Right?

  No one's going to lose their job or something if people insist on seeing what they want to see and—-

  "Sorry about that."

  The waitress whose eye I've been trying to catch for the past fifteen minutes finally gets to my booth, and the look on her face has me biting back a sigh. Five years of being "Insta-famous" has me meeting all sorts of people, and her type, well...

  "I thought you city girls need about an hour to count your calories or something."

  Let's just say I'm used to them disliking me at first sight, but because I also understand where they're coming from...

  "It's fine." It really is, never mind if my stomach begs to differ. I've only had oats this morning before deciding to book my flight on a whim, and that was ten hours ago. I'm definitely starving, and so I don't waste another moment as I give the waitress (Colette, according to her name pin) my order.

  "One Philly cheesesteak sandwich with fries on the side. One strawberry milkshake, and one side order of cheese sticks please."

  Colette stares at me. "Are you sure you're going to eat all of that?"

  "Um—-"

  "Because we don't like wasting food around here so—-"

  I cut her off, saying politely, "I can. Thanks."

  "Whatever."

  She bristles and rolls her eyes as she makes a show of slashing words into her notepad. But since I have no plans of rising to the bait, Colette eventually flounces off while muttering under her breath. Some of the words sound like 'prissy' and 'stuck-up bitch', but...

  I tell myself I heard her say 'pretty' and 'Netflix and chill' instead.

  Because it's like I said.

  I know where she's coming from. Women like Colette...they're the ones who know the truth. They take one look at me, and like recognizes like. Fine feathers don't always make fine birds, and even though I look like I'm going places...

  Women like Colette never have any problem seeing right through me. They know I'm just faking it. They know I'm not classy. They know I'm nothing special, but because life is unfair and shitty that way, I got lucky with the post, and we're no longer in the same boat...just...like...that.

  COLETTE IS STILL THE waitress from Hell when she rings the cash register for my bill, but I'd like to think I'm growing on her. When I wished her a "Merry Christmas", she could've told me to fuck off. But she didn't. She said 'whatever' instead, and I don't believe that has anything to do with the hundred-dollar bill she saw me dropping in the tip jar.

  The air is dry but insanely cold when I step out of the diner, and I hear the door behind me swing open again while I'm digging in my purse for my winter gloves.

  Another customer, I think right away, and I suddenly find myself curious. I was so hungry earlier I didn't get to take a good look at the people around me, but I'm thinking I might be in for a surprise.

  Back at home, every time I have friends coming over and it's their first time in Florida, they almost always marvel at how everyone everywhere seems dressed in shorts and flip-flops. It's possible Wyomites have something similar going on, and it's my turn to experience a bit of culture shock.

  Honestly, what little I know about Wyoming can be pretty much summed up with three things: eight months of snow, more cattle than humans, and "Cowboy State". It's not much, obviously, but when the sound of footsteps reaches my ears, I can't help but wait with bated breath for a living and breathing cliché to walk past me. I'm thinking leather jacket, a Stetson, and fringed boots. The whole Old Town Road she-bang, but instead I get...

  Huh?

  Bubble jacket. Jeans. Winter boots.

  Nothing about that screams cowboy, but when the tall, dark-haired man glances my way-—

  Holy cowabunga.

  I suck my breath in as he comes closer, and even though I have this rule of not giving men the time of the day, I just can't help it. I take another look, and whoa.

  I wasn't imagining anything, apparently.

  The guy does resemble Keanu Reeves. The Matrix Keanu to be specific, and not John Wick Keanu. More clean-cut and shaven than scruffy and gritty. And dark eyes that are more piercing and soulful than fierce and violent.

  It's Keanu who's not from the dark side, but...a lot more buffed. Like someone who grew up chopping firewood for fun or whatever it is that men in Wyoming do to have crazy-broad shoulders and muscles that gracefully ripple with every little move.

  Gorgeous, in other words.

  And because he's gorgeous, I know myself well enough to walk away. I don't look back and keep walking to my car even when I feel his gaze following my every move.

  I bend down to unlock my rental, and I can still feel Wyoming Keanu staring at me. It's like he wants me to know he's looking. It's almost like he's checking me out and totally digging what he's seeing, but...

  To borrow Colette's word: whatever.

  I'm not a man-hater or anything, but I just don't see the point in lying to myself.

  I used to be a hopeless romantic. But when every boy you like always ends up liking another girl, it can only happen so many times (five failed almost-relationships to be exact) until you realize you're pointlessly knocking your head against the wall. At the grand old age of nineteen, I've decided to accept the truth: romance just isn't in the books for someone like me, and while I'm not saying I don't see myself ever tying the knot, I also know that if I do walk down the aisle...

  It won't be with someone who's dashing and handsome and makes my heart flutter.

  If I do end up tacking a Mrs. to my name, I'd likely choose a guy whose company I enjoy.

  A guy who'd appreciate me for what I am.

  A guy...who I'm absolutely certain can be nowhere as hot as Keanu's doppelgänger here, which is why when I feel his gaze still piercing my back—-

  Whatever.

  I'm no A-list celebrity, but my face has been on a lot of websites lately. He's probably thinking he's seen me somewhere, and he'd be right. I know that sounds vain, but what would sound even vainer - as well as sillier and crazier - is to let myself think a guy like him has the hots for someone like me.

  Like, seriously.

  The past five years might've made me "famous", but just because my popularity points went up doesn't mean my IQ automatically has to drop. I'm still pragmatic as ever, so when I think about the possibility of Wyoming Keanu actually finding someone like me attractive...

  WHATEVER.

  The very idea is a clear waste of my time, and I shove the thought away as soon as I'm back behind the wheel of my rental.

  With everything's that happened in the past week, my life is complicated as it is, and fantasizing about Wyoming Keanu will only make things worse. I came here for a reason, and—-

  Oh my God, is it snowing?

&n
bsp; I rub my eyes, hoping I'm just imagining things.

  But I'm not.

  Snow is suddenly falling hard and fast outside my window, and I feel my hand getting cold and clammy as I switch the ignition on. I've been driving since I was sixteen, but...

  Don't panic!

  It's just a little snow, and Google Maps did say my destination is just half an hour away. I'm probably just worrying over nothing.

  Right?

  Chapter Two

  Fifteen minutes later, and not only do I now know I'm absolutely wrong...but I'm also absolutely certain I'm this close to freezing to death. My rental is stuck one foot deep in the snow, my cellphone can't catch even the faintest signal to save my life, and...this is all my fault because I thought I could pull an Eat Pray Love move a la Julia Roberts.

  Oh, Raffi, you're smart nine times out of ten, but when you choose to be dumb...

  I take a deep breath in an effort to stay calm. Blaming myself is pointless. My time is better spent figuring things out, and first things first: survival rate.

  The thought has my fingers involuntarily curling around the steering wheel, and I draw another deep breath. Outside, there's the risk of dying of hypothermia, but if I stay inside my car with the heater on, there's also a chance I'd die of carbon monoxide poisoning.

  I know those are worst case scenarios, but I also think—-

  Oh my God, hallelujah, God is good!

  I'm out of my rental as soon as I catch sight of a pick-up through my rearview mirror, and I jump and wave my hands wildly in the air like a cheerleader on championship night. "Hey! Hey! Help please!"

  My heart leaps in relief when the driver pulls up behind my car. Something about the pick-up seems awfully familiar, but things only click when I see the guy stepping out, and of course...it has to be him.

  Wyoming Keanu.

  A shiver runs down my spine, but it has more to do with an almost forbidden sense of excitement rather than the bitingly cold winds currently stinging my cheeks.