Undeniable Bachelor (Bachelor Tower Series Book 3) Read online

  Undeniable Bachelor

  Bachelor Tower Series

  Book Three

  RUTH CARDELLO

  Author Contact

  website: RuthCardello.com

  email: [email protected]

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  Twitter: RuthieCardello

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  Copyright

  Kindle Edition

  An original work of Ruth Cardello, 2019.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To the greatest husband any woman could ask for!!!!!

  And all the bachelors who will not be denied.

  (My husband may have written this dedication. I love him enough to let it ride.)

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Savannah

  Boston.

  It’s even bigger than I imagined.

  The joke, that’s what she said, flashes through my mind and I fight a smirk. It’s childish. I’m sure no one in the business section of this city would laugh at something so juvenile. I shrug. They don’t know what they’re missing. I’m considered one of the most hilarious people in my hometown of Coppertop, Maine. There isn’t much competition with a population of twelve hundred and sixty-seven. Actually, Clara Bell had her baby. Twelve hundred and sixty-eight.

  I shouldn’t brag, but Annie’s Seaside Shack voted me Most Likely to Cause Someone to Laugh So Hard They’ll Choke to Death on a Lobster Roll—two years in a row. The category was created just for me after I whispered a crude joke to the captain of my high school football team and nearly sent him to the hospital. Thankfully, I’m also good with the Heimlich maneuver. So, not only hilarious, but heroic as well. That’s what the plaque on the wall of Annie’s restaurant says. Yeah, in my hometown, I’m kind of a big deal.

  Everyone knows my name, but very few know me. The real me.

  It’s for their own good. I started hiding the truth because it was too much for anyone to handle, even me. I’ve pretended to be something for so long that, since my situation has changed, if I could go back to simply being me, I wouldn’t know how.

  I put my life on hold because I had to.

  I laughed because there are only so many nights a person can cry before they just give up. Before your eyes stay red and blotchy and people start to notice.

  I’m a fighter, like my father was. I’m proud to be like him.

  Some might not think that’s a good thing, but it has gotten me this far. Look at me now. I didn’t let fear stop me from buying a one-way bus ticket to Boston. And here I am—me, in one of the most sophisticated cities in the world. No one’s kicked me out yet.

  I may not look like I belong, but I will. I’ll fight until I do.

  People hustle down the concrete sidewalks of the city and dodge traffic as they move with intention. I can only imagine where they are going and what exciting lives they’re leading. The sun is beginning to dip behind the tall buildings. Two men dressed in similarly styled suits meet and begin to walk together. Their matching conservative hairstyles make them difficult to tell apart from the back, but there is a bounce to their steps. They know who they are. What they want.

  Are they work associates?

  Best friends?

  Lovers?

  Anything is possible in the city. Here people don’t live by small-town rules. They break free from the oppression of what everyone thinks they know about them. Boston is where my transformation needs to take place because no one here knows my history.

  I can be anyone. The endless possibilities make me tingle.

  One bus ticket and the money my grandmother left me will change everything. And everything needs to be changed about me.

  More people pass as if I’m invisible, and I don’t mind. I love them simply because they exist as proof that life can be so much more than I’ve known.

  A cluster of well-dressed women huddle as if deciding where they’ll go next. Blonde, brunette, tall, short, all different but they all have a similar style. Each looks as if they might have just left a job at some high-powered office. Are they about to rush home then off to some exclusive nightclub?

  They’re confident.

  Sexy.

  I bet they even smell good.

  Men probably fall at their feet—in a city, they could choose a new man each week. I’ve seen the television shows. Laughing. Comparing notes. Horror stories and happy endings. Girl talk. I wish I could move closer to catch a part of their conversation. One throws her head back and laughs. Her blonde curls fall over her shoulder like a commercial for shampoo. The only way my hair falls is if the elastic band snaps while I’m at work.

  The group breaks off. Two pass me. One pauses, gives me a long look. I take the moment to appreciate the perfection of her makeup. She has blue eyes like mine. Will my eyes look the same when done up that way? Smokey eye shadow with a perfect sweep of eyeliner. Will highlights give my dark blonde hair the same glow?

  She frowns, digs into her oversized designer purse, and holds out a five-dollar bill to me.

  I automatically accept it even though I don’t know why she’s offering it. But the newness of this experience has me obedient. Like a puppy told to sit. Is this my treat?

  She turns to her friend, “I know I shouldn’t, but I’m softhearted.” She flashes a smile at me. “Buy yourself a coffee, hon. Or a brush.”

  My mouth drops open, full-on cartoon style, and stays there as they walk away.

  I look at my oversized wool coat, stained jeans, and once-white tennis shoes. She thinks I’m homeless. The familiar scent of fish and boat exhaust hits me like I’m smelling it for the first time. I want to chase after the woman and explain that I smell like a hard day’s work at a fishery. I could have bought a new coat, but I wanted one from here. A trendy peacoat from a boutique.

  I don’t need your money.

  I even have an apartment rented with a view of the Charles River. I haven’t seen it yet, but I know it’s an area where the right people gather.

  Another woman approaches. Tall, with short dark hair.
Her ebony skin is smooth. I bet her makeup is perfect, but it’s hidden behind sunglasses that bling with diamonds on the side. I pocket my hands and the money I’m embarrassed I accepted. She pops wireless earbuds in, and I catch a flash of my reflection in her glasses as she glances my way.

  My hand closes on my own pair of sunglasses in my pocket. I’d hide behind them, but they’re held together with a strip of black electrical tape. I wasn’t about to buy new ones in Coppertop. I’ll have hundreds to pick from in Boston.

  Everything about me will soon be new.

  I’m overhauling every aspect of my life.

  So, don’t pity me, lady. Don’t hand me your spare change. This won’t be me for long. Very soon, Savannah Barre, is going to walk down this street with her head held high. And I’ll be wearing those red-soled shoes or whatever style is in this fall.

  I’ll have stories to tell and they won’t be lies. We might even become friends, and you’ll smile as you ask me about my latest exciting date. I’ll look away and say I don’t kiss and tell, but you’ll push me for details.

  I’ll keep it simple because when life is good you don’t have to elaborate. And we’ll laugh the way women do when they know they can conquer the world.

  I move cautiously over a wobbly metal grate in the sidewalk. My dirty, threadbare tennis shoes won’t get stuck in it, but I’ll have to be careful once I start wearing high heels. The sun fully sets behind the skyscrapers and I pull my woolen coat tighter around me.

  As far as first days go, today was full of unwelcome surprises. A less determined person might have taken them as a sign that I should turn around and go home.

  Not me. I have too much of my father in me. Maybe a dangerous amount, but I can’t change that. I wouldn’t even if I could. He always said, “When a door closes you bust open a window and shimmy your ass right through.” A lot of doors closed on me today. Slammed right in my face. It’s time to shimmy.

  I’d rather die a fighter than live as a coward. That’s what he did.

  My hand closes around the five-dollar bill in my pocket. If I’d had it a few minutes ago I wouldn’t have had to walk the rest of the way to Jana Monroe’s office. I could have maybe taken a cab. I’m already here, though. So close to the woman who will change my life.

  Jana Monroe’s agency is on the fifteenth floor of the highest building I’ve ever been in. I’m late. By over two hours. But the city doesn’t sleep. Unlike where I’m from. In Coppertop the shops all close at sundown and nothing but the bars stay open too long after the early-bird special. I can practically picture Jana behind her large desk, burning the midnight oil. I’ll tell her the predicament I’ve gotten myself into, and she’ll know just how to work it out. She’s got the answers. I’m banking on it.

  I slip through the glass doors of the building as another group of women exit, more interested in their plans than in me. The lobby is deserted. It’s eerily quiet but I take that as a gift—one less person who has to see the old me.

  I’m not alone for long though. The door opens behind me while I’m still taking in the details of the lobby. I break into motion toward the elevator, trying unsuccessfully to look like I belong. I can’t afford to be stopped here, not when I’m so close. Without looking over my shoulder I press the elevator call several times. I can’t help it. I’m excited.

  This is it.

  I’m finally here.

  Is this how a snake feels when it’s about to shed its old skin?

  I can’t wait another moment to shrug off the old me and start over.

  A man comes to stand beside me. I can sense his height, but I don’t look at him. He doesn’t matter. I’m about to hit the reset button on my life. Who cares about the man next to me?

  He shifts away from me. I don’t blame him. Inside the building he can probably smell my coat as well. What he doesn’t get is that I’m not ashamed of who I am or what I’m wearing. Working at the fishery paid my grandmother’s mortgage. Working at the bar paid her medical bills. Just because I want to leave it behind doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it all the same if I had to.

  The elevator chugs slowly toward us and the doors creak open. It’s a tiny thing, barely room for a few people, and I take a moment to appreciate the antique brass. It reminds me of a clock my father gave me. But I sold it along with everything else to ensure my grandmother had the best care until the very end. Things are just things. Life isn’t supposed to be easy. Of course I wish I still had it, but she had what she needed, and I have the comfort of knowing I did all I could.

  The elevator has an authenticity I’m drawn to. Classic. Cultured. It gives me hope that Jana will understand that I’m not looking to shine like a tacky new penny. I want the kind of sophistication that blends in—that looks like it belongs. Seamless.

  Like a child tempted by the cookie jar, I can’t help it, I have to see if the man beside me looks as good as his shoes imply he does. They’re real leather. Polished. Huge, but not overly trendy. They belong to a man of importance, someone who buys the best without looking at the price tag.

  My gaze slowly roams up his navy pants leg. The material is crisp. Tailored. Just above his knees, things begin to get interesting. Muscled thighs. And a package big enough to bring a sigh to my lips. I should stop there. There’s no way his face could live up to the promise he makes waist down.

  It’s a hop, skip, and jump over his black leather belt to the flat perfection of his abs beneath his buttoned shirt. A little paunch wouldn’t have killed the fantasy, but the more I see of his body, the less I care what’s above his neck. There’s a reason romance novels often leave the head off. The image I have in my mind will absolutely beat whatever the reality of his face is, and that’s okay.

  Who am I to judge at this point? I know exactly how I look.

  All I’m doing is indulging in a harmless motivational fantasy. He’s my—vision board.

  The thought makes me smile, and my eyes slide higher.

  If my nails weren’t chewed to the quick and I didn’t think he’d call security, I’d ask if I could touch his pecs. I mean, holy baloney and mustard sandwich—I bet he makes them dance to impress his conquests. I wouldn’t need him to even speak. Nope, I’d just curl up against that heavenly chest and ask him to flex his biceps for me . . . one at a time . . .

  We wouldn’t have to have sex. I’m pretty sure I could orgasm just from dry humping a body like that. Or I’d at least like to try and find out.

  His red tie is a pop of color I’m positive means he has a wild side.

  No need to go higher, but I do. I’m tempting fate, inching closer to disappointment, but I can’t help myself.

  Damn. I’m shocked to find a square chin. So strong. So right. I want to run my hand over the light scruff on it. In my fantasy, he’s normally notoriously clean cut, but working late tonight on something so important he doesn’t have time to shave.

  Like his tie, it gives him an edginess that makes me wish I had a camera with me. Jana, I want that. Do you have one like him for me?

  His olive complexion is the perfect match for his thick head of hair and near black eyes.

  Whatever he washes his face with must cost more than my car because his skin is flawless. Do people in the city not get zits?

  Not that my skin is bad. I learned to wash my hands with dish soap after touching fish. Also works with stopping poison ivy from spreading. I bet he doesn’t know that handy tip.

  My breath catches in my throat. Mr. Boston is talking to me and his voice is deep and cultured. I could listen to it all day long. Hot whispers in my ear would be perfect.

  I should probably be embarrassed to be staring, but I’m not. When someone is as beautiful as this man is—it’s perfectly normal to take a moment to appreciate them. Museums put chairs in front of certain pieces of art for the same reason I’m standing here drooling up at him.

  He says something else, in a less than pleased tone.

  “What?” I breathe out the word as I blink hard
at him.

  “Are you lost?”

  “No.”

  His brows furrow and his concern makes my cheeks hot. “You didn’t hit a button. What floor are you going to?”

  I sputter out a laugh. “Oh, I didn’t?” Turning to the lit panel I press fifteen, but it doesn’t light up. I press it again—nothing.

  “We’ve passed it.” He gestures with his chin up to the old-style indicator above the door that shows we’re just crossing over the sixteenth floor.

  I try to think of something clever to say. Something that doesn’t make me sound like a small-town girl wearing a coat that smells like smoke and fish. “I guess sometimes you have to go up before you go down.”

  I don’t know why my eyes fall to his crotch. Probably because my natural state is awkward as hell. Part of the reason I’m here is I’ve never put anything exciting in my mouth.

  I raise my eyes to his again and flash him a smile that doesn’t win him over. I don’t look away, although I bet he expects me to. I’m tempted to reassure him that I’m okay with whatever he’s thinking because it’s nothing I’m not already aware of.

  If you see me after I’m done with this journey, you won’t even recognize me. My chin rises. So take a good look. Judge all you want. My transformation has nothing to do with you.

  The second smile I flash is an expression of the giddy excitement bubbling within me simply because I’m here. Fucking here.

  He frowns down at me, looking confused.

  In my fantasy, it’s because he’s fighting a primal attraction to me. Imagine if, after all the money women spend on perfume, the secret to landing such a man is fish oil, smoke, and twenty-four hours without a shower. I wiggle my unplucked eyebrows up and down, sure they are also a selling point.

  I probably shouldn’t enjoy this as much as I am, I wouldn’t be able to if I thought this would always be me. Hell, if he keeps looking at me that way, I might have to flash him a little hairy leg. I normally shave, but I’m expecting I’ll have a wax appointment, and I read it’s good to let it grow out a little. If I’m brave enough I might go hairless in the nether regions as well. Is it painful? Itchy as it grows in?