Love that for me, p.1
Love That For Me, page 1
Copyright © 2023 by Abby Knox
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is coincidental.
Edited by Aquila Editing
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LOVE THAT FOR ME
Small-Town Gossip
Book 3
ABBY KNOX
Contents
Love That For Me
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
About the Author
More by Abby Knox
Love That For Me
A SMALL-TOWN GOSSIP ROMANCE
Alex
No reporter has ever busted my balls quite like Jessica at the Darling Creek Daily News. As a tech billionaire who takes calls from CNN regularly, that’s saying something. She makes me sweat. I can’t stop thinking about her, and I don’t know how to walk the fine line between professional and personal. so I’m just going to go all in and be clear about what I want. All my money and success mean nothing to me if I can’t share it with her.
Jessica
A tech titan is taking over my town, and I don’t like it. Perfect angle for a news story, right? There’s just one problem. Despite relishing the idea of holding a powerful man’s feet to the fire, I find myself drawn to by his smile, dreamy eyes and overwhelming presence. I know better than to cross that line. Besides, the entire town is watching every move he makes. If I step over that line, it could be the end of my career. His sneaky generosity is testing my resolve, however. I might just have to kiss the bejeezus out of him, and let people say what they will about me.
Chapter One
Jessica
Yesterday’s interview left me in a sour mood.
Then, the overdue notice on my apartment door turned my mood from sour to downright ornery. I know my rent’s late. Also, my car is in the shop, and my student loan payment is in default. As my grandmother would say, I have to rob Peter to pay Paul, but Peter’s pockets are emptier than my cheese drawer.
I’m always grumpiest in the days leading up to payday.
At least the sun is shining in the big Montana sky, and I’m caffeinated thanks to a free coffee from Nate, the barista who’s dating my coworker. And I may not be able to drive to work due to a bum transmission, but I’m walking to the office with my favorite people. We all have our moments.
“So let me get this straight,” I say as my coworkers and I stop and stare yet again at the dilapidated downtown movie theater. “A billionaire tech geek can get permission to build an enormous, soulless hub here that he’ll probably abandon in twenty years, yet the coolest building in town is left to rot because there’s no money to fix it up. Make it make sense.”
“Sounds like a juicy angle for your story.” Meredith steps off the sidewalk and into the shade of the marquee advertising Jurassic Park.
More accurately, the marquee advertised Jurassic Park over 30 years ago. Since then, the letters have been comically rearranged by unknown pranksters. According to locals, the mysterious miscreants ran out of ideas about a decade back, and the sad marquee has spent the last ten years urging folks to come in and see something called “Arss Pick.”
Weird that the town just left it like that.
I sigh. “Sure. The perfect story angle to give Donna hives.”
I know I’m behaving like a baby. My first interview with tech guru Alex Martin left me irked.
The oh-so-precious genius agreed to speak to me after his handlers put me through more hoops than the people who approved my one-time White House press pass.
When I’d finally gotten Alex Martin on the horn, he spoke to me for all of three minutes.
First, he’d wasted thirty seconds of the interview apologizing for not being good at interviews, even though he’s given dozens, if not hundreds of them. That aw-shucks-ness might work with the average female T.V. reporter. But not this bitch.
Then, he’d wasted even more time flirting with me. This may be out of line, but you have a very soothing phone voice, Jessica.
Please.
I’d popped off one question from my list of nineteen.
What sort of incentives did you get to build here?
Mr. Martin then spent what remained of the interview babbling in tech-speak about servers and things no one understands. By the time he took a breath, one of his crew had cut me off, saying he was needed elsewhere.
Clueless. Tacky. Out of touch.
Though, Mr. Martin did have a sultry phone voice, one he cut out that phony awkward shit. I’ll give him that.
Doesn’t matter. It was a terrible interview, and the bottom line is I blew it, and I might never get that chance again. Martin FutureTech will build its servers and satellite campus on the outskirts of town, but the man himself would never deign to show up here. Certainly not for a cheesy small-town groundbreaking ceremony.
Franny, our crime reporter, sniffs. “Donna’s old-school,” she says, stepping past the barricade and toying with the flimsy one-by-two boarding up the front entrance to the theater building. “She should be all over our butts to find out what the mayor promised ol’ Alex Martin to seal the deal.”
Franny’s not wrong. Donna should be all over this angle, yes. Our editor loves us to dig up dirt on the rich and famous.
However, Alex Martin, billionaire that he is, is single-handedly keeping the Darling Creek Daily News afloat. Donna might have a problem with a story that could put an advertiser in a negative light.
I hope not, though. I am curious about what perks the town leaders dangled in front of Alex Martin. This man is putting our tiny ranching town on the map, and I want to know why he picked it.
“I’ll just bet he’s got ideas to build a crypto mine in the mountains or something worse,” Franny says, testing out how much of her torso can fit in the gap.
“God, I hope not,” I say, wincing. I love this town, love the scenery, the peace and quiet. It’s been good for me. If Alex Martin starts fucking around with our serenity, I’ll scream. However, that’s just Franny postulating with nothing to base that on.
Meredith touches a hand to her stomach and looks wary. She’s doing that absentminded stomach-touching thing a lot now that she’s beginning to show. “The wood is there for a reason, Franny,” Meredith warns. “Let’s not mess with it.”
I agree. “The building is a hazard,” I say.
“Then it needs better security,” Franny counters, jiggling the board.
Holmes, our sports reporter, usually doesn’t tag along on our morning coffee runs, but today he’s here for…some reason. From the looks of it, his mission is to glare at Franny.
I can’t blame Franny for her curiosity. It’s a beautiful old building.
“I don’t think I can fit,” Franny says. “Meredith, come on over here. You’re teeny.”
I scoff. “Sure, send the pregnant lady into the dangerous, abandoned building,” I say sarcastically.
Meredith laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m not going in there.”
At least we’re all here together in case Franny gets herself into trouble.
The three of us watch Franny as she gives up on the boarded-up doors and instead wipes the grime off the glass-windowed ticket booth with the elbow of her coat. “Maybe there’s something in there we could use to pry it open.”
“Hey, crime junkie, that’s called breaking and entering.”
Meredith and I suffer whiplash from turning to look at Holmes so fast, both of us surprised to hear actual words come out of the reticent lone male reporter.
“He’s right,” I say to Franny.
“You guys are no fun,” she grumbles.
I sigh. It would be nice to see this place cleaned up at some point. “The paper has archival photos of this theater packed to the gills back in the 1940s. Can you imagine? The velvet seats…the old romantic movies….”
Franny mutters and dusts off her coat. “Guys, there could be a drug den or dead bodies in there. Do the cops even check on it?”
I draw my lips into my mouth, stifling a snort. A subtle elbow to my side tells me Meredith is also on the verge of laughing.
“Drug dens and serial killers are probably not the threat here as much as black mold and mice infestations. But go on and get hantavirus if you want,” I say.
“Lead. Asbestos.” Holmes is back to blurting out nouns while not-so-subtly going around Franny to block the entrance with his body. Good man.
Despite the lack of verbs, I know what he’s getting at. “And you wanted the pregnant lady to go in there?” I ask.
Franny shakes her head. “No, not an ymore.”
“Good,” I say.
“I’ll come back later with my favorite crowbar to get my story.”
“Have to work. Can we go now?” Holmes mutters. Does he not realize he can leave us behind whenever he wants?
Meredith and I glance at each other. “Favorite crowbar?” Meredith mouths as we make our way back to the office.
“That implies she has multiple crowbars,” I whisper as we walk side by side.
Meredith snickers.
When we arrive at the newspaper office, a stretch SUV limousine is parked out front along the street.
My stomach lurches. That’s an unusual site for our sleepy little town. It couldn’t be Alex Martin, could it?
Chapter Two
Alex
Did I ever fuck up an interview this bad before?
Talking to journalists doesn’t usually make my armpits sweat, but Jessica from Montana made me forget what year it is.
What was my motive for building in this particular tiny town in Montana?
No, the word she’d used was incentive. I know she’s talking about tax breaks.
What immediately came to my mind was nothing about my bottom line. The motivation was personal.
And I’m the only person who knows my motivation. If I’d spoken my reasons out loud? Hell. My advisors, publicist, and board of directors would have me committed.
But I know I’m right.
As a person of science and business, I rely on data and market research. We don’t make decisions based on our emotions.
Yet that’s what I did, and then let my feelings run amok in that phone interview.
I’d made some idiotic comment about how I find her phone voice soothing.
The reporter had played that off, then asked a straightforward question, and I rambled on about how our servers work. She doesn’t care about any of that.
Why couldn’t I have just said something in plain English? As in, I’ve known for a while I needed to build a server in that region of the country. That’s it. That’s all I needed to say. Instead, I spewed out a bunch of tech gibberish. All true, but still nonsense to the average person.
Okay, that’s all a half-truth.
When I’d had my team scout locations, I also did my own research. As brilliant as everyone says I am, doing my own research was not the best idea.
I was vulnerable after spending too much time alone in my office. Writing new code, practicing speeches, and writing a book. I haven’t had a minute of fun in years. So considering how starved I am for companionship, I should not have done what I did.
While pulling up articles about the mountainous areas of western Montana, I came across Darling Creek, population 2,000. That led me to The Darling Creek Daily News. That led me to articles by someone named Jessica.
And then, I clicked on her name, which took me to the staff bio page.
When those brown eyes looked back at me, I’d dropped my bubble tea and ruined a pair of brand-new Italian shoes.
When I read her bio, I knew all bets were off.
“Jessica Miller came to the Daily News from Phoenix Sun. She likes writing general news but hopes to write a fashion column for the New York Times one day. She spends her spare time looking at clothes she can’t afford, thrifting for the designer pieces she can, and drinking box wine with her cat, Sophie. That wasn’t a misplaced modifier; the thieving, freeloading Sophie gets into the merlot every chance she gets.”
That was it. I was done looking.
I had to build in Darling Creek, and I needed to meet Jessica.
At first, I thought it might be fun to fish, snowboard and ride horses with some of my L.A. friends at their Montana vacation homes.
But now things have changed. I’m not just building a hub here; I might be building a life here. If I don’t mess it up.
Chapter Three
Jessica
Donna is on her way out the door when we arrive. “Don’t bother going inside, crew; we’re all going to the groundbreaking.”
I let out a quiet groan of displeasure. I really dislike covering these orchestrated events.
“We are? Why?” Franny asks.
Donna gestures to the other side of the street to the stretch SUV. “Because if Alex Martin insists on sending a limo for a reporter and me, I’m taking everyone with us.”
Holmes declines and heads into the office to work, probably looking forward to an hour of silence.
My reporter’s notebook comes out of my messenger bag, and I write down a few thoughts. After all, it’s me who’s been saddled with the Alex Martin coverage for whatever reason.
I scribble: The billionaire businessman decided it would be a good idea to hire a limo from the city to come all the way to Darling Creek to transport this reporter one mile out of town to watch him turn over one golden shovelful of dirt. Doesn’t sound like good business to me.
Not going to lie, though. The inside of this ride is pretty sweet.
Franny presses all the buttons and looks through every nook and cranny like a child in a candy store. Meredith raids the built-in snack cooler like a raccoon. Donna sits in the front seat and chats up the driver because she wants everyone’s life story. As for me? I’m sinking into the buttery leather seats and pasting on a calm face while my stomach cartwheels.
Why the anxiety? Because as much as I don’t like him, I’m anxious to meet the man Alex Martin. Who wouldn’t be? The man has more money than Bill Gates. On top of that, he’s not just the handsome man he appears to be on CNN. The anonymous people on Reddit who claim to have dated Alex Martin readily report that in person, the billionaire is “so hot it hurts to be around him, like staring into the sun.”
When the limo pulls up to the site of the new satellite campus, Caterpillars and earth movers dotting the landscape, it looks like the entire town has turned out to watch. Despite this, I immediately spot Alex Martin. From twenty yards away, it’s easy to see who he is, even if I wasn’t following him on Instagram and knew his appearance. All the town leaders are there in their best pressed denims. The mayor, Violetta, wears the same practical navy pantsuit she always wears, topped with a yellow hard hat. She’s opted out of her usual high heels in favor of steel-toe boots. A little over the top for the photo shoot, but that’s our mayor.
And in the middle of the group is a man who looms at least six inches over everyone else, his broad body clad in an exquisitely tailored, buttoned-up gray suit, his face calmly amused as the mayor excitedly bends his ear.
He’s the only man not wearing a cowboy hat. Woof.
I don’t mind cowboys, or their giant belt buckles, Wranglers, and Ariats. It’s just that most of them never give me a second glance because I might as well have “high maintenance” stamped on my forehead. It’s apparent that I am not built for hard outdoor labor or domesticity. Dating dry spell aside, it doesn’t hurt to ogle Alex Martin. Seeing a man in a suit—any suit, at any price tag, and one he wears because he clearly likes it and not because he’s on the way to a funeral—is incredibly refreshing these days.
As we pile out of the limo, Alex smiles warmly at Violetta, politely excuses himself, and makes a beeline for our group.
My heart jumps.
That suit is Brioni, or I’ll throw my pawn-shop Jimmy Choos into a fire. Now that I think about it, designer heels might have been a poor choice for standing in a field.
I am what my grandmother liked to call “champagne taste on a beer budget.” She was right about me. I love fashion. I devour it.
My talents lie in writing, though, and not in sewing or drawing. So, as I studied journalism, I worked my way through college at a men’s formalwear shop. That experience whetted my appetite for finer things, which is some kind of masochism for a girl whose only talent is scribbling words in exchange for wages that barely pay rent.
