He wasn’t the wistful type.
His finger drew a line to what he needed to do. Cook! Ah, nice. That he could manage. A mess of meatballs and pasta and the guys would be full and appreciative. He made the same damn meal every time and no one ever complained. And that was part of the reason he couldn’t leave just yet. When he knew exactly how to act, how others would react, and exactly what to do, it was so easy to check his feelings at the door and just deliver on life’s fixed expectations.
What he and Mike and Laura had, though? Totally uncharted territory. You couldn’t blame a guy for hanging on to the familiar when so much was uncertain, no matter how wonderful it promised to be.
He heard the television droning on, some morning show with two female and one male co-host creating reasons to open their mouths. He needed to get started for lunch. Whatever he made needed to be dropped on the spot if an alarm went off and he needed to go on a call, so he reached for the crock pot and started a routine he could almost do in his sleep.
The bustle of the other guys working the same shift coming in, the outgoing shift leaving, the flash of freshly-showered guys toweling their hair dry as they came out of the locker room, hungry for bagels and cream cheese and whatever they could find— he knew it well. Ten years here and he knew it all.
Until silence descended, like someone shook a blanket and settled it across the room, smothering the sound and turning it into a muffle. “Hey, Stanwyck! You’re on TV again!” someone shouted. He turned, puzzled. On TV?
The morning show co-hosts were showing a clip of his appearance in a charity bachelor auction a couple of years ago, shirtless and wearing a fireman’s uniform, a red bow tie around his neck. The guys hooted. “Did you oil your pecs? Holy shit!” someone crowed. Ah, geez. What now? he wondered. Wiping his hands, he abandoned the cooking and walked over to the television to join the curious crowd.
The clip ended and the camera focused on one of the women, a blonde in her 40s with a perfect, sharp bob and a symmetrical face that looked like a surgeon had crafted it. “Boston’s most eligible bachelor just got a whole lot more eligible! 1.1 billion times more eligible, in fact.”
The guys laughed and shot him looks. His legs went numb. Oh, fuck. He tried to turn away and walk but he couldn’t, rooted by horror. Mike had been right. Oh, how Mike had been right and oh holy fuck how he wished Mike had been wrong.#p#分页标题#e#
Laura.
“Records show that Dylan Stanwyck, firefighter extraordinaire, former model, and one of Boston’s hottest bachelors, is the heir to shipping tycoon Richard Matthews’ daughter’s estate. Matthews’ daughter, Jillian, died in 2010 and left Stanwyck, her longtime lover, a trust fund of $1.1 billion, with an annual income of more than $50 million.”
If the room could have turned into a black hole it would have saved him the agony of living millisecond by millisecond through this. Half the guys were fixated on the television, but the guys he knew best stared openly at him, their faces morphing slowly from shock to disbelief and, unfortunately, to anger in some.
“Sources confirm that her $2.2 billion estate was split between Stanwyck and Mike Pine, a local ski instructor who recently used his inheritance to purchase the struggling Cedar Mountain Ski Resort. Here’s to the lucky lady who finds her way to either man as the billionaire bachelors become the hottest dates in town and Stanwyck can buy himself many times over now in whatever charity auction he pleases.”
Someone cut the power to the television, everyone turning and gawking openly. Murphy’s eyebrows were in his hairline and he shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and left the room.
Finally, the chief took two steps toward him, inhaled slowly, then planted his hands on his hips, shifting his weight to one leg. His jaw flexing with tension, he said, “Stanwyck, you got something you wanna tell us?”
“I thought you’d been promoted. Not that you’re the new owner!” Shelly stormed into Mike’s office with spit and vinegar, looking like a younger version of Madge. It was unnerving. Being yelled at by a teenager wasn’t on his list of expected experiences this morning, so his response was stunned silence.
“Hello? Going to say something?”
“What are you talking about?” Shit. Had someone in the CFO’s office finally leaked the truth? He reached for his travel mug and took a long sip of coffee, buying time.
“The television show. All about you and some hot firefighter bachelor auction dude being billionaires. It’s all over the morning talk shows and even on the radio.”