Wild Love (Rose Hill Book 1)

“Dude. Forbes named you the World’s Hottest Billionaire.” My best friend, Weston Belmont, announces the title with extra flair to mock me. He makes it sound like I’m a stripper about to take the stage.

I ignore him and focus on unpacking the box of cleaning supplies at my feet.

“Ford.” He shakes the glossy magazine at me. “This is crazy.”

My eyes slice toward West, and I give him the blankest look I can muster. He lounges in the high-backed chair with his boots kicked up on my desk. Dirt crumbles off the bottoms, making this place an even bigger mess than it already is.

“It’s crazy all right.” Propping my hands on my hips, I turn to survey the old barn that will be the head office for my new recording studio and production company. I’m calling it a barn, but it’s more of an empty, dusty outbuilding. Rust-colored holes in the floor lead me to believe there were stalls in it once upon a time. Now, it’s mostly a big, messy open space with a small kitchenette area near the front door that’s separated by a long narrow hallway.

Either way, it sits just a short walk from the main farmhouse on a massive plot of sloped land, right on the edge of Rose Hill.

And when you open the old barn doors, the view is nothing short of spectacular.

The lake butts against the bottom property line, pine trees frame either side making it feel like a private oasis. The edge of the small mountain town is a mere five minutes down the road. Beyond that, it’s all jagged mountains that stretch back into miles upon miles of pristine Canadian wilderness.

The spot is beautiful. But everything on the property has fallen into disrepair. It all has so much potential though. I can see it clear as day. Guesthouses for the artists. Antique furniture. Spotty Wi-Fi. No paparazzi.

Rose Hill Records. Named after the town I’ve come to love.

I’ve produced one successful album, and now I’ve got the itch. I want to do it again and lucky for me, an influx of artists want a turn too. I’m excited to be creative every day. Listen to music every day. Make songs come to life every day.

Especially here.

Rose Hill is the perfect place to make a home and start the business I’ve always wanted.

A personal haven where I don’t have to wear a stuffy suit or report to shareholders who don’t care about anything but the bottom line or get hounded by the press about being “the World’s Hottest Billionaire,” like it’s some sort of crowning achievement.

“It says here you declined to comment.”

If they named West the World’s Hottest Billionaire, he’d milk the hell out of it.

Me? I decline to comment and take off to a small town where I can start a brand-new business venture by myself. I hate the attention.

“Actually, I gave them one comment before saying I officially refused to comment.”

West snorts. “Oh, this ought to be good.”

My cheek twitches. He knows. He knows me better than almost anyone.

“I told them I’m barely a billionaire and just happen to be more attractive than the 2,500 other people on the list. They want to write an article about the least interesting aspect of my life. So, no comment, because this accomplishment doesn’t deserve one. Conventionally handsome, rich guy says no fucking thank you.”

“So weird they didn’t want to publish that charming one-liner from you, Ford. A real head-scratcher.”

I shrug and ignore the jab. Talking about money makes me uncomfortable. I’ve had an abundance of it my entire life and have now spent an awful lot of time around people who make my childhood look meager. I have never found it to be an especially impressive trait about any one person I’ve met. In fact, it’s kind of the opposite. When you have a lot of money, people act differently around you, and if you let yourself get too obsessed with your own money, you can turn into a real piece of shit.

Why would anyone want to read an article about how rich some guy is?

I’ve also never flourished in the spotlight. The attention makes me snappy and sarcastic, and what I’ve been told is rude or out of touch with social cues. Though I’m not sure I’d take it that far. I’d call it direct and say other people get offended too easily.

Unlike West, I don’t come off as likable. I’m aware of the perception, but I’m not particularly bothered about changing it. Anyone who knows me knows better. And I’m not losing sleep over the opinions of those who don’t.

I bend down, scoop up the hand-held duster, and make my way across the room. My lace-up boots thud on the scuffed hardwood floor as I trudge over to the vintage cast iron stove in the corner. Cobwebs and partially burnt logs fill the space beneath it, and I wonder how long they’ve been there, who put them there, what story they might tell. If they weren’t such an eyesore, I’d leave them. To be frank, I feel a bit like a yuppie intruder barging in to make everything all shiny and new.

I could pay a person to do this grunt work, but hiring someone I can trust feels like a mountain too steep to climb. Plus, there’s a certain allure to building something with my own hands. Yeah, I’ve got the money, but I don’t need to spend the money when I’m perfectly capable. When I’ve got the ambition and the dedication.

Hard work—that’s how I ended up owning one of the busiest bars and premier live music venues in Calgary. That’s how I ended up founding a music streaming app that catapulted my bank account into an obnoxious stratosphere. My dad had plenty of money, plenty of connections, and he could have set me up easily—but he didn’t. He was hell-bent on my sister and me learning the value of money.

But what will all my successes from here on out be chalked up to?

Money. Connections. Luck. And I don’t believe in luck.

“What even is this picture of you?” West holds the magazine up from across the room. “You look like you’re hiding behind the popped collar of your jacket.”

“I was.”

“Why?”

Bless him. His furrowed brow and tilted head betray his genuine confusion. To someone like him, it makes no sense why I wouldn’t bask in the notice. He’s larger-than-life, fun, a big fucking showboat—and I love all of that about him. West also has a good heart and is trustworthy as all get-out. He’s genuine in a world of so many people who aren’t. He found me reading by the lake as a kid and started talking to me like he knew me. Hasn’t stopped since then, unlikely of friends as we might be. There’s something about us that has just… stuck.

For twenty years we’ve stuck.

“Because I didn’t want my picture taken. Don’t like it.”

“Why? Do you need me to tell you how handsome you are?”

I scoff. “Because I was walking down the street to meet my sister for coffee, not at a photo shoot.”

He chuckles. “I mean, would it have killed you to smile?”

“Yes.” I stare at the fireplace, duster in hand, trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to do everything on my list.

“You’re gonna need a shovel for that oven. Not a duster.”

“Thank you, West. I’m so glad you’re nearby to lend your opinion.”

He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “It’s gonna be like the old days. Just you and me getting into trouble.”

“You got into trouble. I watched.”

“I remember Rosie tagging along, just fucking shit-talking you the entire time. God, nothing made me prouder of her.” My body stills at the mention of his sister. Rosalie. I haven’t laid eyes on her in a decade, but my shoulders get tense all the same.

I turn to face West. “Doesn’t she have her master’s and some fancy job in Vancouver now?”

I already know she does. I look her up from time to time—just to make sure she’s happy, of course. West mentions her when we talk, but never in detail. It’s all generalities, surface-level updates. But then, why would he tell his best friend anything more in-depth about his baby sister, who took off to live in the city?

It’s better I don’t ask.

He waves a hand, like Rosie slinging jabs as a teenager is the most impressive feat to him. “Those were the best summers. I was always such a sad fucking panda when you went back to the city for school.”

I hated it too. Back to the city, back to school with kids who—unlike West—treated me like I was different from them. Back to the pressure of being the son of one of the world’s most recognizable guitarists. Rose Hill was my favorite escape as a child, and it would seem nothing has changed for me as a thirty-two-year-old man. It’s like time stands still here. No one here treats you like you’re rich or famous or even particularly special. Everyone just goes about their business. That fresh mountain air must give everyone the perspective that city people seem to lack.

But my attachment to this area is more than just that. I’m drawn back to this place on a much deeper level. To the memories it holds.

“Well, this year you won’t have to cry about it, West. You’re officially stuck with me.”

I toss the duster back into the box, coming to terms with the fact I might need to hire someone to help get this place up and running if I want to record here anytime soon. The main house is now livable—fully updated it myself over the winter—but this building is so much worse.

“Fuck yeah. I’m going to get you on my bowling team.”

“No. Absolutely not. You told me it’s dads’ night out, and I’m not a dad.” I kick my toe at what I thought was a dead bug but am now certain is mouse droppings. “Except to maybe an entire herd of mice.”

“I don’t think mice roam in herds.”

“Whatever they are, I don’t think they qualify me as a dad.”

“That’s fine. It’s really just Sebastian and me, assuming he’s in town, and then we’ve got you⁠—”

“You haven’t got me⁠—”

“And then we’ve got Crazy Clyde.”

“Who’s Crazy Clyde? I don’t think you can just roll around calling people crazy anymore.”

“He’s the dude who lives on the other side of the mountain—pretty much a hermit—because he believes in every conspiracy theory known to man. His stories are my favorite. And he’ll introduce himself as Crazy Clyde, so I’ll let you be the one to correct him.”

I blink at my friend. This sounds like my nightmare.

“I’m not fucking bowling with you, West.”

He scoffs and dismisses my words with a hand flick. “You say that now. But you always said no to my shenanigans as a kid too. And then you’d be there. Emo hair in your eyes, pushing those oversized glasses up the bridge of your nose.” He grins at me, perfect white teeth flashing bright next to his rough stubble. “Moody scowl on your face. Probably some obscure book of poetry clutched under your arm.”

I can’t help but snort out a laugh at his accurate description as I shake my head. “Get fucked, Belmont.”

“Look at you now⁠—”

My pointer finger aims straight at him. “Don’t even say it.”

As he speaks, his hands make sweeping, dramatic movements through the air. “World’s Hottest Billionaire.”

“I hate you.”

“Nah. You love me. I’m the sunshine to your grumpy.”

My brows pinch together. “What?”

“It’s a thing in romance books⁠—”

A knock at the door cuts him off, and we both turn to look across the barn, toward the rickety front door down a narrow hallway that turns sharply into the kitchenette.

“Who would be here?” West whispers like we’re in trouble.

Maybe we are. I’ve only been in town for a short while, working on the main house, so I have no idea who it could be. My sister Willa would barge in unannounced. My parents would call. My best friend is sitting across from me.

Truth is, I have no one else in my life who cares about me enough to drive all this way.

I keep my circle tight and trust few. The allure of Rose Hill is that the paparazzi don’t want to spend all day driving to maybe get a shot.

“I don’t know.” I shrug and West’s eyes go wide as an owl’s as he shrugs back.

Another knock.

“I can hear you whispering in there,” a feminine voice I don’t recognize calls from the other side of the wooden door.

My head goes to Rosie first, but this voice sounds too young to be hers. So, with a heavy sigh, I stride toward the door and yank it open.

Before me stands a girl. She’s wearing black ripped jeans. Black Chuck Taylors. An oversized Death From Above 1979 T-shirt—one of my favorite bands. The garment boasts a few intentionally distressed holes across it. Her pitch-black hair is tied in two braids, one down each shoulder, complemented with straight bangs in a slash across her forehead. All of this is topped off with an unimpressed expression on her face. The top loop of a JanSport backpack dangles from her fingers.

I don’t know how old she is. Young. Looks like that awkward, confusing age just before you become a teenager—based on her sullen stare and the sizable zit on her chin. She crosses her arms and drags her gaze from my face down to my feet before making her way back up.

“Who are you?” I don’t mean to sound like a dick when I say it. After all, she’s just a kid.

Her lips flatten, and she blinks once, slowly. “Your daughter, dickhead.”

Now it’s my turn to blink slowly. I hear West’s chair roll across the hardwood and his heavy steps as he approaches.

“Pardon me?” I say. I heard the words, but my brain is not processing their meaning.

“You’re my dad,” she says and rolls her eyes. “Biologically speaking.”

But there’s no way. There’s absolutely no way. The mere statement puts me on the defensive. It’s laughable.

One stupid Forbes article about my bank account and the cockroaches crawl out. I know this story all too well. I almost feel bad for the girl. She’s too young to pull this off on her own. Someone must have put her up to it.

“Listen, whatever your name is, I’m not sure what you’re after from me, but I can take a guess. And you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“My name is Cora Holland. Your name is Ford Grant Junior, and you’re my biological dad.”

“Oof, leave the junior off,” West murmurs from behind me. “He hates that.”

I don’t spare my friend a glance. Instead, I stare down at the snarky little kid spouting total bullshit right to my face. She’s got a lot of nerve. I’ll give her that. “That’s impossible. I never fucked Morticia Addams.”

Her head tilts and her eyes roll again. She barely reacts. “Really original, nepo baby. Never heard that joke before.” She rifles through her backpack. Black, of course. With a flourish, she pulls out a sheet of paper emblazoned with a logo I recognize.

The company I submitted DNA to so I could complete a family tree as a gift for my mom.

“What about a paper Dixie cup?” she continues. “A petri dish? A sterile tube? You fuck any of those for a few bucks at any point in your life?”

I feel every drop of blood sink down to my feet as my stomach turns and my head spins.

Because yes, in fact, I did.

West slaps my shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze as he edges past me and out the door. “Right, well, see you at bowling, I guess.”

And then I’m left here.

Alone.

Staring at a young girl who may well be my biological child. And feeling like what I might actually be is the World’s Most Unprepared Dad.