WILD OPEN HEARTS: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy Page 2

  He stood up, still holding Jack. “I, uh… I don’t know, I thought he’d sleep in the bed with me unless you think that’s weird.”

  “Not weird,” I said, hiding a smile.

  “Well, all right then.” Buzz coughed and took the leash Jem presented him. But he didn’t let Jack go. “I guess I’ll be off.”

  I stepped forward, passing my hand once more over Jack’s tan fur. He’d put Elián and Jem through their paces when it came to training—and there was a moment where I thought he might not be rehabilitated. Jack had been a risk we’d all been nervous taking.

  But it was worth it for this moment.

  Every adoption day made me think about Willow—the sight of her tail wagging as she walked off with her new family.

  “Nice work,” I said, nodding at Jem. She was twenty-six and had spent a decent amount of her days in juvie as a teenager, just like me. And she’d gone through the same dog-training program, which was how we’d met—at an event where I was mentoring former juvie kids. Her lime-green mohawk had caught my eye.

  That and she had a grit I’d also recognized in myself. Never again, it said.

  “This was a great one, boss,” Jem said, letting out a big sigh. “I’m going to miss that little yappy monster.”

  I pointed to the parking lot where Buzz was sliding into a large red pickup truck. Jack Sparrow was sitting on Buzz’s lap, tongue lolling. The raw, honest smile on the man’s face could have been seen from a mile away.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “That was a great one.”

  3

  Beck

  Wes and Jem went back to work—Wes to the shitty trailer we called our office and Jem off to train a bulldog named Princess.

  I yanked open the door to the trailer to find Elián flipping through a stack of mail. Elián was Cuban-American with a true understanding of animals and a love for motorcycles that matched my own. He was also Lucky Dog’s program director and my best friend.

  We started this place together. Though why I ended up in charge, I still wasn’t sure. And neither was he, I knew it. That was clear enough given the anxious look on his face right now.

  “Jack?” he asked, avoiding whatever bad news was in that pile of mail.

  I nodded. “Went great. Buzz will be dressing Jack up in a sailor costume in no time.”

  Elián grinned. “I can’t wait to see it.” He hesitated, then handed me a thin envelope, growing serious. “It’s from the Miami-Dade Community Foundation.”

  They were our biggest funder. One of our only funders. At barely four years old, Lucky Dog was as grassroots as you could get, and their two-year grant had kept us open while Elián and I learned the ropes of running a nonprofit.

  I tore it open—revealed a short letter telling me that although Lucky Dog was a very competitive candidate, they would not be funding us at this time.

  “Fuck me,” I muttered. Leaned against the wall of the trailer and crossed my arms. “We’re out all that cash.”

  “That was more than half of our income for this fiscal year,” he said grimly.

  “We’ll figure it out,” I said, not knowing if I was lying.

  “Did you go speak at their annual dinner?” he asked.

  “Nope,” I replied.

  Elián gave me a look.

  “That was the night Beatrix came in. It was all hands on deck,” I said.

  Beatrix was a snarling, 125-pound bull mastiff that had been found near a well-known dog-fighting ring in the city. Deep down, she was a sweetheart—which we were finding out—but that first night, dealing with her had been like trying to lasso a wild horse.

  “I’m pretty sure we had her covered,” he said simply. “I think you should have gone. I think they would have appreciated, you know, some schmoozing.”

  I’d rather have been tossed in the ring with Beatrix than have to put on a suit and schmooze. I’d never been good at impressing people—scaring them, sure. With the Mason last name, certain types of people in Miami knew better than to test me. But for a man who’d spent more years in juvie than actual school, those events made me feel dumb.

  “Beck,” Elián said.

  “I know,” I growled. “You don’t have to say it.”

  “If I wasn’t your best friend, I might try and punch you right now.”

  “I probably deserve to be punched.” I sighed.

  I sank into my office chair—financial reports and grant applications littered the space. I knew I needed to pay attention to them. But it was too easy to get distracted by real work. The financial reports made my eyes cross and the grant applications I had to have board members help me write. It all felt like a secret language I was never going to learn.

  And the deeper in debt we became—and the less money I raised—the more ashamed I felt.

  “We could start producing that shirtless men of Lucky Dog calendar I’ve always talked about,” Elián said. “I’d call it Puppies and Pecs.”

  I scrubbed a hand down my face, smiling in spite of how horrible I felt. “No one wants to see this face on a calendar. Or my pecs. I’d prefer selling off a kidney. And I’ve got two.”

  “No need to brag,” he said. “And I think organ-selling should be low on our priorities list.”

  “We’ve had it worse, you and me,” I countered. “Financially, I mean.”

  “Having it worse doesn’t mean this current situation isn’t messed up,” he said, looking serious again. He tapped his fingers on the desk, sighed. “Listen. We’ve got bills to pay and not much money left to pay ’em. The board wants us to take out a loan.”

  “Okay,” I said. Sounded like we didn’t have a choice. But I didn’t like being in debt—to anyone or any bank.

  “You need to get out there. Raise the alarm. There are people in Miami who love this place and don’t want to see its doors close. With the new dumping grounds springing up, we’re pretty vital.”

  “Our doors won’t actually close,” I said. “Money always comes in.” That had been true so far—between board members and the occasional grant I was able to get help with, Elián and I were patching together our budget. Which actually felt better than the alternative—going out there and begging for money.

  “Thirty days,” he said. “That’s what Christina told me. Thirty days or we close.”

  Wes walked in—like Jem, he’d been through the same juvie program I mentored in these days. Wes Tran was Vietnamese and covered in tattoos from his feet up to his neck. He was thin as a rail and never without a baseball cap.

  And his heart was so big I actually worried about him. During our first mentoring session, I’d recognized a look I often saw in dogs—an eagerness to please that could be used against you by the wrong type of person. So I hired him. He’d been a non-violent offender—Wes had a penchant for stealing fancy cars but was as gentle as they come.

  Guess I never got tired of taking in strays.

  “Just saw an email come through from the Foundation,” Wes said, bobbing his head. “That letter from them too?”

  I nodded. Grimaced.

  “That blows, dude.” He sighed.

  “It does blow,” I agreed. “A shit-ton.”

  “What are we gonna do, boss?” Wes asked.

  I looked outside, watching Jem place Princess in a sit with a smile on her face.

  “Hope for a miracle,” I said.

  Elián grumbled but I ignored it.

  “Coolio,” Wes said. “And in the meantime, let me know who you need me to stab.”

  4

  Luna

  I sat with my bare feet in the infinity pool on my back patio, waiting for my best friends to arrive. This was usually my favorite place in my entire mansion—the emerald-colored pool with floating tea-candles, twinkle lights and colorful lanterns strung overhead. Flowering pink hibiscus climbed the walls and palm trees swayed in the ocean-scented breeze.

  But there was no peace here for me now.

  Tonight I was mindlessly glued to my Instagram feed l
ike those people who rubberneck at car accidents on the highway. Because contrary to my own earlier, naïve opinion, it was not only up from here.

  The very last thing I’d posted, before the Ferris Mark news broke, was a video talking about Wild Heart’s new body glitter—a fun, shimmery, summer-time product I’d showed off by rubbing it onto my shoulders and letting the sun sparkle off my skin. In the video, I was laughing, light-hearted, silly.

  And at the end of the video I flashed a peace sign and said, “And remember, Wild Heart fans, we are always vegan. Always cruelty-free. That’s my promise.”

  For whatever reason, I’d really emphasized the words my promise.

  The comments and direct messages were bad.

  Really, really bad.

  I peeled open a bag of corn chips from my emergency stash. Shoved a handful into my mouth.

  It wasn’t that my online life had been free of trolls and bullying—I was a woman, Hispanic, biracial, a woman in the spotlight, a vegan, a billionaire—the list went on and on. Online hate wasn’t new.

  But that was troll-shit—the dregs of humanity spewing their racism or sexism or whatever because I was there and they felt protected by their anonymity.

  These comments were from my fans.

  “What did we say about looking at your phone?”

  I turned around—Emily Stanton, Cameron Whitbury and Daisy Carter-Kincaid stood together like the Charlie’s Angels of Friendship, holding vodka and wine.

  “I know what you said. But it’s just that I’m the actual worst,” I said. Then I was actually crying, tears clawing their way up from a deep well of emotion I didn’t want to tap into. But these women could accept me for who I was, and in the blink of an eye, I was being wrapped in a tight hug.

  Emily, Cameron, Daisy and I were best friends, billionaires and lived in an exclusive community we’d built six years ago called Bluewater. What had started as a way for four best friends to build houses next to each other had become a lush, tropical paradise for the wealthy and the eccentric. The enclave was filled with waterfront mansions, luxury condos, a marina, a private airfield and a tiny village of shops. Bike paths and walking trails wound through the palm trees and along the water. I could most often be found forcing Daisy to practice yoga with me in our state-of-the-art gym. She’d do it—reluctantly—but only while wearing her unicorn romper. And only with her water bottle half-filled with vodka.

  From tech executives to funky artists, Bluewater had become its own neighborhood of wacky rich people. I had never lived anyplace so bizarre and beautiful, all at once.

  We’d built our four houses on the same street, so it was easier to make time for each other in our jam-packed schedules. The four of us had connected easily over being young, wealthy and constantly in the public eye. Navigating a literal boys club where we’d been frequently dismissed, harassed, discriminated against; lauded constantly for our new hairstyles and never for our business acumen. Without these women, my life would have been painfully lonely.

  And they understood intimately the situation I found myself in.

  There was no way you could do what we did every single day and not make mistakes.

  “What’s that digging into my side?” I whispered, sniffling through tears.

  “Vodka,” Cameron said. “Shhh. It’s organic.”

  “This might be an awkward time to introduce my idea for how you’re going to redeem yourself,” Daisy said.

  “What is it?” I asked, sniffling.

  “A sex tape.”

  I laughed for real.

  “Consider this,” she continued, tossing her long silver hair. “You accidentally release it. Bam. Your adoring public loves you again.”

  “Or we take you to Bali,” Cameron said, hands on my shoulders.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this: I think your sex tape would be perfectly authentic and delightfully trendy, all at the same time,” Emily added.

  “I’m not making a sex tape,” I said, popping open the bottle of wine and sinking back down by the pool. “I am going to eat every last one of these corn chips though.”

  “How many bags have you had already?” Emily asked, with narrowed eyes.

  “I don’t know… like thirteen?”

  Daisy patted my head and sat next to me. “Good girl.”

  Daisy was as wildly uninhibited as they came, dragging workaholic Emily, serious Cameron and me to dance headlong into every opportunity for fun that came our way. She was the kind of friend that called you at four in the morning, tossed a beach towel at your face and informed you that she needed a road trip buddy on her way to Tijuana. She was our resident It Girl and her family owned half of Miami, Manhattan and Atlanta. Her massive experience running the Carter-Kincaid real estate holdings was the reason why we were able to transform these 2,500 acres of swampland into Bluewater.

  Emily Stanton was our cool, level-headed genius with a brain that had created a revolutionary scar treatment that was going to change lives. Although the past few months, she had been mired in scandal and corporate espionage that required the help of an extremely charming reputation-fixer named Derek—who was now her swoon-worthy boyfriend.

  Cameron Whitbury ran a Fortune 500 company that literally built rockets. Her recent need for tighter personal security had brought Jude into her life: her giant—and very handsome—bodyguard. Jude was also now her giant—and very handsome—fiancé.

  “How are Derek and Jude?” I asked, giving a pointed look to Emily and Cameron. The two shared a secret smile I interpreted to mean: we’re so lucky we’re having bonkers-hot sex every day.

  “Yeah, give your two single besties the gory details,” Daisy chimed in, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “And when I say gory, I mean I want to know their dick sizes.”

  “To the inch,” I added. “And if they know the Kama Sutra, tell me all the poses you’ve done.”

  “My fiancé’s massive dick aside and Kama Sutra expertise aside”—Cameron smirked, waving us off—“why don’t you tell us what happened today, Moon?”

  “Of course,” I said, with forced perkiness. “But first, can I have Roxanne make you guys a green salad or a smoothie? I also brewed a special ginger kombucha mix that’s really great for digestion and spiritual—”

  “Luna.” Daisy laid a stern hand on my shoulder. “You can’t distract us with your hippie fairy dust. Give us the damn dirt, girl.”

  I tucked the edges of my skirt beneath my knees. My stacked gold rings clicked on the cool concrete—they were made to look cheap, yet they’d actually cost me more than a year’s worth of rent on my old apartment. The one I’d lived in before I won the Turner VC Award.

  “Ferris Mark lied to us,” I said, launching into the day’s shocking news. I recounted everything—the utter despair at realizing I’d employed and paid a company that force-fed cosmetic ingredients to mice to test fatal reactions, among other things. The news story. The online bullying. The document.

  “You signed off on it?” Emily asked.

  “I sure did. And gladly too, it would appear,” I said.

  “Oh, Moon,” Daisy said.

  “Been there,” Cameron said. “It sucks.”

  “And you know I have too,” Emily said. “You’d like to think the opinions of strangers about your morality won’t affect you. But you’d have to be superhuman to not be hurt by it.”

  “That’s true, I guess,” I said.

  I felt almost sick with guilt and embarrassment and a full-body shame that had me achy and uncomfortable. I pressed my forehead to my knees, listened to the sound of crashing waves, a sound I’d lived with since childhood. My gold rings glittered in the pale moonlight. I felt a pinch of… something. More guilt, maybe?

  “Thank you for not calling me a big fat fraud like the entire internet,” I said.

  “The internet can suck it,” Cameron said. “It’s impossible to avoid this stuff, Moon. I think things will get better after you apologize. That’s what Jasmine’s going
to have you do, right?”

  “Yep. That’s the first step,” I said, feeling a jolt of nerves.

  “And what’s the rest of the cleanup plan?” Emily asked. “And may I remind you that I happen to know a professional fixer?”

  I blew out a breath. “Apologize. Fix all of the errors. Pull the products. Work on a message of transparency. Find a new, reputable supplier. Get everyone to like me again.”

  “Easy-peasy.” Daisy winked.

  “You know,” Cameron said, tapping her glass, “when we all first met you, the only reason you wanted to make this much money was to give it all away. You were our little bohemian philanthropist.”

  “That’s right,” Emily said. “I actually thought you were going to join the Peace Corps.”

  Once upon a time, I was going to join the Peace Corps—but the inspiration for Wild Heart had struck and I’d shifted to majoring in business instead.

  “I give money away all the time,” I said. “I just don’t have time to volunteer like I used to. You know how intense running an enormous business is. My time is all booked up now.”

  My best friends tilted their heads at me like a trio of judgmental owls.

  “What?” I asked. “I have.” I traced my history of philanthropy back a few years. I had a handful of favorite nonprofits I used to make large, monthly gifts to. Holding on to that much money when I was newly wealthy had never felt quite right. Surely I’d been giving it away since becoming a billionaire.

  Right?

  “Tomorrow I’ll have Jasmine pull some numbers,” I finally choked out.

  Then I stuffed a handful of chips into my mouth.

  “Moon.” Daisy nudged my foot with her own. My rings mocked me in the starlight. “Not giving money away doesn’t make you a bad person. It is interesting though, don’t you think? Given what your values are?”

  “I’ve been busy,” I said.

  Busy becoming the face of Wild Heart, I would have said, had I been feeling more courageous. But until I’d learned the makeup products that my company sold came from an evil company, I had felt like I was helping change the world every day. Words were powerful.