Single Dad Billionaire Boss_An Irish Billionaire Romance Read online

  Single Dad, Billionaire Boss

  Holly Rayner

  Contents

  1. Harper

  2. Jason

  3. Harper

  4. Jason

  5. Harper

  6. Harper

  7. Jason

  8. Harper

  9. Harper

  10. Harper

  11. Harper

  12. Jason

  13. Harper

  14. Harper

  15. Harper

  16. Jason

  17. Harper

  18. Harper

  19. Harper

  20. Jason

  21. Harper

  22. Harper

  23. Jason

  24. Harper

  25. Harper

  Epilogue

  Copyright 2018 by Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Harper

  “I’m back!”

  The elderly woman’s voice surprises me. Only moments ago, she’d squeezed past me, with her knitting in hand, to go “stretch her legs” by walking down the airplane aisle. While she was gone, I slid over into her window seat.

  “Oh, goodness… Sorry!” I say, embarrassed to be caught in her place. “I just wanted to peek.”

  I take in one last view out the plane window. The snow-capped Alps pierce the blue sky like meringue peaks on a lemon pie. Then, I shift over, the blue pleather seat cushions squeaking beneath me.

  As I move, she speaks again. “You know what? You stay there, dear. You like the view. I’ll take your spot.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. I’ve had the window shade closed the whole time, and you probably would have loved to be looking out. It gives me vertigo, if you must know—looking out windows from way up here. You stay.” The woman slides past our fellow traveler, a man with a potbelly whose snores occasionally interrupt our conversation.

  “Thank you!”

  I look back out. I’ll be skiing on those mountains soon. I’ve always wanted to and now my dream is becoming a reality.

  Not exactly in a way that I’d ever wanted, but it’s happening, nonetheless. Doesn’t matter why, or how.

  It’s happening.

  I have to stay positive.

  “Is this your first time seeing the Alps?” the woman asks, settling into the seat I had occupied since we departed Boston Logan International Airport.

  “Yes,” I say, drawing my eyes away from the stunning view just long enough to glance at the woman and nod. She’s back to knitting, her fingers working furiously fast though her words are slow.

  “Visiting family?” she asks.

  “No… A vacation.” I look back out the window to try to hide any shame-filled blush that might bleed through my cheeks.

  “All on your own?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “No family? No friend to travel with?”

  “Nope, it’s just me!” My voice sounds more clipped than I intended, but I can’t help it. I’m tired of everyone—from the travel agent to the hotel clerk—noting my solo status as if it was something I should feel bad about.

  “Well… I’m sure you’ll have fun anyways,” she says, reaching out and patting my arm. Then, she returns to her knitting. The needles click against each other, accentuating the drawn-out pause when I don’t respond.

  I try to focus on the view outside the window instead of her pity. The dramatic, rocky peaks are so much sharper and more rugged than the mountains I’ve become used to in New England. The mountain tops stand tall, and I realize they’ve never been bulldozed into submission by moving glaciers, like the rounded peaks I’m used to.

  Looking at the towering, jagged mountains makes me feel a little more unyielding. I refuse to feel sorry for traveling alone.

  “I will,” I say. “Have a good time, I mean. A great time. A fabulous time.” I accentuate the word “fabulous”. It’s not a word I usually use, but as it rolls off my tongue, I decide that I’m going to say it more often. It’s the kind of word a woman who solo-travels to the Swiss Alps would use.

  I continue. “I’ve wanted to ski in Europe for my whole life. And now, I’m going to do it. Cross it off the bucket list. I’m excited.”

  “That’s wonderful, dear,” the woman says. “Why now? You’re so young… Most people think about bucket lists when they’re old and soon-to-expire, like me.” She gives a self-depreciating chuckle.

  “I just… I found myself with a little extra time on my hands, and extra spending money too.”

  I don’t go into exactly why my schedule has opened up, or where the money came from, and thankfully, she doesn’t ask.

  “A good combination,” she says. “Time and money. Good for you.”

  She settles into silence, leaving me time to stew over my own predicament.

  Yes, time and money go well together, and I know that I should be grateful. But it’s hard to feel grateful about losing your job, with six months left of the school year.

  I still can’t believe I was fired.

  “Harper, you’re an excellent teacher,” my principal said. “If it weren’t for these budget cuts, I’d be promoting you. But the school board’s decision is forcing my hand. I have to let you go.”

  “Now?” I remember asking in disbelief. It was just before winter vacation. My students were going to perform their holiday concert for parents that very afternoon. I was wearing my goofiest holiday sweater, and reindeer antlers on my head. After the meeting, I was supposed to return to my classroom and host the celebration, full of holiday cheer.

  “I’m sorry, Harper. We’ll keep you on for another two months, so that you can help to merge your class with Mr. Murphy's.”

  I remember how numb I’d felt. How painful it was to paste a smile on my face and fake my way through the holiday celebration with my students. How the numbness didn’t fade until late that night, when I was alone in my apartment, and I broke down into tears.

  Even just thinking about it now makes my heart feel heavy. I loved my classroom. I loved my students. Losing that job was the worst thing that had happened to me in my twenty-six years of life so far.

  “Ladies and gentlemen…” The pilot’s voice floats over the intercom, interrupting my pity party of one. “In just a few moments, we’re going to be beginning our descent into Zurich. Please fasten your seat belts and put your seats in the upright position.”

  “I was fired,” I blurt out, as I search the cracks of the seat for the blue ribbon of the belt. “That’s why I have extra time on my hands.” It feels good to say it out loud. My elderly seatmate is caught off guard.

  “Oh!” she says. She’s also searching for her belt, and I realize it’s tangled in mine. I unravel them and hand her the missing half she’s searching for. “What happened?” she asks.

  “I was a teacher. Our district slashed the budget midway through the year. Four of us were let go, all at once, and class sizes doubled.”

  “Oh, that’s awful! Students need more attention these days, not less!” She shakes her head, and then places a bony hand on my forearm
. “Well, dear, you’ll find something else. And in the meantime, you’re on the right track. Have some fun!” She winks at me.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I really do plan on it.” My voice is filled with determination.

  I carry that sense of determination with me like a shield as we deplane, and I make my way through the airport. I feel vulnerable and out of my comfort zone as the foreign language swirls around me, and I see signs filled with odd letter combinations and currency I’m not familiar with. Am I completely out of my league? I traveled a good deal with my parents when I was a girl, but I’ve never been the one in charge of figuring out the logistics or keeping myself safe.

  I push away this nagging sense of unease and refocus my thoughts: I am going to have fun on this trip. Fun. Adventure. The time of my life.

  I keep up this internal monologue all the way through my first purchase (a ham and Swiss sandwich—an appropriate choice if you ask me), airport navigation, and boarding the hotel shuttle.

  Two hours after landing in Zurich, I find myself peering out of a window in awe yet again. This time, I’m not looking at the Alps from above, but rather from the bottom.

  The hotel shuttle, a luxurious silver van, slows to a stop, and I crane my neck so that I can peer upwards. My eyes are fixed on the place where the peaks disappear just out of sight. Compared to the van’s roomy interior, the windows are rather small. I inch closer to the window and smoosh my face to the glass so that I can see farther up.

  “The view’s better from out here,” a heavily accented voice says.

  “Oh!” I yank my head away from the window and turn to see the driver, standing just beyond the van’s open door. Somehow, we’ve parked and the handful of other passengers have gotten out of the shuttle while I was gawking out the window. “Yes, right. Thanks.” I gather my purse and shuffle across the seats.

  As soon as I step out, a view just as awe-inspiring as the Alps across the street greets me. I’ve been so enthralled by the mountains that, somehow, the town we’ve been weaving through has escaped my notice. Yet now, the man-made wonder before me takes my breath away just as dramatically as nature’s masterpieces.

  “Is this…? This is the…the Roussillon?” I ask, my voice shaky.

  “Yes ma’am,” the driver says, shooting me a funny look.

  “Good. Great.”

  I peer up at the building. It towers over me just as the Alps do, with as much grandeur. The grey stonework of the facade is the same color as the towering peaks that surround us, as if the masons chipped blocks out of the mountains themselves. The castle-like architecture is blended with signs of new renovations, like shining glass windows and showroom quality brass accents.

  The driver’s loaded suitcases onto a dolly, and I see now that he’s moving toward the hotel’s grand entryway. I stay rooted on the spot.

  He turns. “You are staying at the Roussillon?” he prompts me.

  “Yes. Yes, that’s…right.” I’m so flustered, I can barely form a sentence. I move away from the van, taking a few quick steps to catch up with him. A second hotel employee swoops in behind me and slides the van door shut. Hearing the movement, I swirl around and say thank you. As I turn, I catch sight of the Alps across the way.

  The chauffeur was right: the view is better from out here.

  My jaw drops. These are the most beautiful mountains I have ever laid eyes on. And they are so close. I’m here!

  I complete my circle, like a dog chasing her tail. I’m facing the hotel again, and my mind is spinning. The chauffeur is now at the front doors, but I can’t seem to move to catch up to him. I’m overwhelmed by the grandeur that surrounds me.

  I knew I was pushing my limits when I booked my room. I remember that I had to grit my teeth and push past the little voice in my head that said “no, it’s too nice” when the room popped up in my hotel search online.

  It had been discounted because it was so late in the ski season, but it was still way past the amount that I was used to spending on accommodations.

  But I’d desperately needed a pick-me-up, and the extravagant hotel seemed to be a once-in-a-lifetime splurge that I needed to go for.

  Now, standing before the mammoth of a hotel, I feel almost nauseous. The voice that had whispered in my ear as I sat, poised with my credit card and ready to spend a good chunk of my severance package, is no longer soft and quiet. It’s yelling: “No! It’s too nice!”

  I shove it down. Despite the fact that I’ve been born and raised on budget-traveling, and have abided by middle-class standards my whole life, I square my shoulders.

  Even though I might not feel like it at this moment, I deserve to be here just as much as every other guest.

  I do my best rich-lady walk (chin and chest high, hips sashaying) and cross the threshold into the hotel.

  A third hotel worker greets me as I enter. He’s dressed just like all of the others, in a white polo shirt and black pants. He says welcome in several different languages, offers me a chilled bottle of water, and then points the way to the front desk.

  As I cross the vast lobby, I see several more people in white and black uniforms. In fact, there seem to be more staff members than guests—which explains why I got such a good deal on the rates online.

  The few guests that I do see are walking casually through the lobby without spinning in circles or gawking at their surroundings, as I was just doing outside. I rein in my desire to perform my puppy-chasing-tail show again, and instead let my eyes scan the room rather than spinning my whole body.

  Everywhere, I’m greeted with more displays of wealth and beauty. The high ceiling is finished in dark wood. Chandeliers hang down, spreading golden light which bounces off of every polished surface, including the creamy marble walls. Thick white fur rugs soften the dark hardwood floors, and the room is filled with inviting white couches and beautiful circular glass tables, each with a mini fire pit in the middle.

  I almost bump into the front desk. Apparently, walking and roving eyes don’t go well together.

  Embarrassed, but doing my best to hide it, I push my shoulder-length auburn hair behind an ear and smile as if checking into the Roussillon is no big deal.

  “Hello,” I say. “I’d like to check in?” I speak slowly, in case the attendant isn’t fluent in English.

  To my relief, she responds easily. “Welcome to the Roussillon, Ms. Kelly!”

  At first, her use of my surname seems like a magic trick, but then I realize that the chauffeur must have informed her of the guest’s names. It’s a nice gesture, and I feel like a VIP as the attendant taps away at her keyboard.

  “You’ll be in room 117 for the week,” she informs me after a moment. “We have you in the Queen Suite, facing the mountains. You’ll have quite the view! Our heated pools, steam room and sauna are open until 10 p.m.” She hands me a key card, and I accept it gratefully. This is my access pass to adventure, fun, relaxation and recovery.

  The attendant points me toward a sweeping staircase to our left. “Go up those stairs, and then to your left. Your room is the third one down, on the right side of the hallway.”

  Up the stairs. Turn left. Third door on the right. I repeat her directions mentally as I head away from the desk, but then I come to a halt. Looking at the stairs has reminded me of something… I’m only carrying my purse. I know that lugging my suitcase up the stairs would have been a hassle, but… Where in the world has my suitcase gotten off to? Was I supposed to pick it up somewhere?

  A little jolt of panic courses through me as I realize that my passport is tucked into a hidden compartment in my luggage. Being separated from it now strikes me as a violation of international travel 101: always keep your passport safe.

  Oh, crap.

  “Oh! Ma’am?” I realize I’m shouting and I lower my voice. Flustered, I return to the desk, my outward appearance of composure obviously gone.

  “Yes?”

  “My luggage! I had it in the shuttle, but the driver got ahead of me and I
lost track of him and—”

  “It will be waiting for you in your room,” the attendant says. She gives me my second funny look of the day. I guess I’m not the kind of tourist they’re used to seeing at this hotel. I’m clearly out of my league.

  It’s too late to regain my cool with this woman, but I remind myself to get it together from here on out. I don’t want to stick out like a sore thumb in this luxurious setting. Tourists who stay here are used to this level of service and wealth, and if I want to blend in, I have to pretend that I am, too.

  As I work my way across the lobby, toward the staircase, I spot several white-haired, well-dressed couples. This makes sense to me. It’s midweek, and I’m sure many of the world’s wealthy are hustling up their next million, not lounging around with time on their hands. Well, there goes my cover. I can pretend to be wealthy, but I can’t pretend to be a retired eighty-year-old. I guess I’ll have to stick out here after all.

  Wait a minute!

  Hope returns. I see a man who looks about my age. Well, perhaps a few years older, but at least in the same range. He’s on the phone, and while he talks, he removes his bright red ski parka, and then drapes it over the back of the white couch as if he owns the place. A young boy with him, who looks to be about five or six, does the same. My attention is drawn in further when I see the man hang up the phone and say something to the boy in sign language.

  I read the signs easily: “Time for some dinner, champ?” the man suggests.

  The boy nods enthusiastically.

  I have to pass right by the two on my way to the staircase, and as I get closer I can’t help but notice that the man is distractingly attractive. Of course, I learned at a young age that it’s not polite to stare at strangers, so I try to avert my gaze and focus on the staircase.

  It’s useless.

  I mean, the man has celebrity-status good looks, and I can’t stop myself from glancing over for a second delicious peek.

  To my utter surprise, he looks up and catches my eye.