Jacob Read online

  Jacob: A Clean Billionaire Romance

  Christina Benjamin

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Also by Christina Benjamin

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Copyright © 2019 by Christina Benjamin

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crown Atlantic Publishing

  Version 1.1

  July 2019

  Chapter 1

  Jake

  Rain showers down overhead as I dive through the fogged glass of the apartment building’s double doors. The lobby of the luxe uptown flat has plush but currently sodden crimson rugs lining the long hall with ornate golden baseboards. It’s a bit garish for my taste, but the security team the building offers to its select occupants makes up for it.

  I trot over the soggy rugs to pristine marble, two fingers pressing against the base of my neck to make sure my pulse is still high enough. My lungs burn in the best way, a satisfied grin tugging at my cheeks.

  Feet squeaking across the slick tile, I plunge a silver key into the mailbox labeled Jacob Eckhart and hastily rip a short stack of envelopes from within, thrusting them under my arm.

  I don’t look at them right away, focusing on counting my footsteps instead. I’d jogged all the way back to the apartment once football practice ended, opting to cram a bit more conditioning in despite the rain.

  Working out is my escape.

  In the midst of sweat, a pounding heart and burning muscles, I can forget everything—and there’s a lot I want to forget.

  Football and the raw dedication I put toward it is what keeps my mind from creeping down into those dark alleys I want to avoid. Plus, my entire livelihood hinges on my body being in a state of peak physical perfection at all times.

  Whenever I have a free second, I drop into a quick set of crunches or stretches or sit-ups. Even during the offseason when some of my teammates take vacations or some time off to relax and soften up around the middle, I only train harder.

  I have to keep fit if I'm going to stay the most valuable tight end in NFL history.

  There’s a certain amount of pride I have in my football rankings every year, not to mention that there’s always someone younger and more energetic than I am nipping at my heels and trying to displace me.

  Unfortunately for them, they don’t have the drive or the internal longing to succeed that I do.

  Those rookies haven’t experienced the harsh realities of this cold world like I have. They also don’t have someone depending on them like I do.

  I have to succeed.

  There’s no notion inside my mind of simply trying to do my best. I don’t subscribe to the c’est la vie attitude. I have to come out on top so that I can maintain a stable career. There’s just no other option. Ryan needs me too much.

  A pang of sudden grief stabs through my heart as I stare down at the letter on top of the stack in my hands. I suck in a deep breath, feet slowing to a halt underneath me. I blink hard, willing the addressee on the envelope to vanish, but the stamped name remains clear as day.

  Instead of jogging up the six flights of stairs to my apartment—our apartment—I push a hard finger against the elevator’s button and wait.

  I don’t remember the last time I took the lift to my penthouse suite, but my feet feel like they’re frozen in concrete blocks. I can’t move. I don’t need this today. I need to keep moving, keep pressing forward, but my chest feels like it’s caving in as I try to catch my breath.

  The letter is addressed to Jenny Eckhart. A red stamp across the front of the envelope reads, You’ve been selected for a one-of-a-kind deal!

  My fingers ache to crush the spam letter into a crumpled ball, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Not while staring at my older sister’s name embossed on the front.

  Junk mail. It’s always the random grocery store coupons or unsolicited credit cards that still come for her. I canceled everything else when I forwarded Jenny’s mailing address to my own after her abrupt passing last year.

  Has it really already been a year since our lives were turned upside down?

  It feels like mere days and endless centuries all at once. I still can’t imagine life without her, but it feels like she’s been gone so long that she was never even here to begin with.

  Sometimes I catch Ryan staring at her photo and I wonder how the little man is taking it. He was only five then, but now he’s six and reminds me so much of Jenny that it’s hard to look at him at times. He’s a good kid, nothing like myself when I was that age. He’s smarter than I was. Probably because he had Jenny as a mother, and she’s the smartest person I ever knew.

  She was a lot of things to a lot of people, and all those things were good.

  She was good—an angel in human form.

  And now she’s gone and I'm the legal guardian of her son, my nephew.

  Together, Ryan and I moved some of the things from their old apartment into my penthouse. At the time, I swore up and down it was only because I wanted Ryan to feel as comfortable in his new home as possible, but it was also because it’s nice to feel close to Jenny, like some part of her still lives on in her belongings.

  Her framed photos are now tacked on my walls, pictures Ryan drew on the fridge, and Jenny’s favorite photo of me in my football gear as a sweaty ten-year-old beaming after practice on the desk.

  Ryan moved his secondhand racing bed and soft as silk pillows into what used to be my office. I’ve done what I can to make it feel like a little boy’s room, but the walls are still white and boring. They don’t quite fit Ryan’s personality, but if he minds, he hasn’t mentioned it.

  I’m sure he has more pressing things on his mind—like missing his mom.

  While Jenny was alive she rarely let me help her with bills, even after I made it big in the world of professional football. She was always determined to make it on her own. The one thing she did allow me to pay was the tuition to some fancy school in Manhattan for Ryan. While she would never accept cash or expensive presents on her own behalf, nothing was too good for her little boy.

  I was glad to do anything to help her and Ryan. It was the least I could do after everything she did for me when we were kids . . .

  The ding of the approaching elevator disrupts my swirling thoughts.

  I finally collect myself enough to move safely into the gold-plated lift. Once inside, I turn to press the button to my floor while absently thumbing through the rest of the stack of mail. The rain-streaked world floats by as the elevator climbs the glass channel to the penthouse. I gaze out the windows to the streets below as an eerie feeling settles over me.

  The rain is still coming down in sheets, making the windows fog.

  A shiver curls u
p my spine, just like it always does every time it pours like this.

  The weather was just like this that day—the day that changed everything.

  I remember it like it was yesterday . . . I was in the middle of running drills when we stopped for a water break. I don’t remember the specific conversations I’d been having, but I remember laughing with the guys and Coach. I remember being so proud of myself for how I was performing. It’d only just begun to rain, water and sweat soaking me through.

  Then I saw I had over a dozen missed calls from numbers I didn't have saved. I was used to the odd fan calls or messages, but there was something about the sheer number that made my entire body go cold. My stomach was in knots before I even picked up the phone, Coach’s whistle fading into numb emptiness behind me. I didn't hear him shouting my name to get back on the field as I listened to voicemail after voicemail. At some point I sank down to my knees, all energy zapped from my body.

  The unknown calls were all from reporters asking what I would do now that my sister was dead and my nephew was orphaned.

  That’s how I found out my best friend, my sister, the woman who raised me, was gone forever.

  Jerked back to reality by the memory, I wheeze slightly and grab hold of the elevator rail to keep myself standing.

  It’s been almost a year and that wound is as fresh as the day it ripped through my heart.

  I can tell Ryan is still struggling too. He’s just a little guy but he’s already been through so much.

  The elevator finally rises high enough that the windows disappear, replaced with solid walls that block out the rain. I return my attention to the mail. I come to a stiff envelope within the small pile. It feels like it was starched at a laundry mat, but the swirling handwriting on the front is surprisingly delicate. I don’t realize it’s from Ryan’s hoity-toity school, where he’s recently started first grade, until I rip open the envelope and see the familiar St. James emblem embossed across the top of the letterhead.

  Good afternoon, Mr. Eckhart, the letter begins in that same warm scrawl. I'm writing this because I’ve attempted to leave a message with you a few times, but your voice mailbox is full.

  Fair point. I stopped allowing messages after the horrific day when I found out about Jenny.

  I’ve also sent home a few notes with Ryan that were meant to be signed but I have a feeling you haven’t seen them.

  That was also true. I didn't nag Ryan. I liked to let him feel like he had control over some things in his hectic life.

  I urgently need to speak with you regarding Ryan. If you could call St. James Academy at your earliest convenience, I would deeply appreciate the chance to speak with you. Thank you, Miss Davis.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I finish reading the first-grade teacher’s letter.

  No kid is perfect, especially a six-year-old who’s gone through what Ryan has, but I know I have to at least try to take this letter seriously. Jenny would want that.

  She was the kind of person who would give anything and do everything to make sure the people she loved succeeded. That’s what made her such an amazing parent—something I am not.

  It’s just that becoming a father was never something I’d even considered before now.

  My focus was football, women, parties and my bachelor lifestyle. I loved and cherished Jenny and Ryan too, but that was a separate kind of love.

  Now, I'm completely lost, adrift in a sea of parenthood I never could’ve seen coming.

  Jenny and I don’t have any other family. Growing up we only had each other to depend on, and with her being six years older than me, she raised me with a hand way more delicate than our mother’s ever was. While alive, our parents wanted little to do with us. When they died while I was still fairly young, I barely noticed the transition to my sister becoming my fulltime guardian.

  It’s strange to think that I’m now following in her footsteps. Did she feel this ill prepared? She was younger than me when she had to step up and raise me, but somehow I doubt she ever felt lost, like I do now. I close my eyes and Jenny’s fierce dark eyes sear my memory. Ryan has those same eyes.

  God, Jenny, I don’t want to fail you, but I need some help here.

  My sister always knew what to do. She was the one who pushed me to go to football practices even when I didn't want to and she was the one always at my games cheering me on. I owe my entire career and sense of passion for the sport to her.

  So when it came down to Ryan either being forced into foster care or me stepping up to the parenting plate, I had no other choice.

  I took him in, believing that I had enough money to make this whole ‘dad’ thing easy enough. I could buy nannies (who may just happen to be gorgeous) and that would be good enough. Right?

  I stare down at the letter from Miss Davis.

  Apparently not.

  I’m finding out the hard way that to be a dad, you actually have to know a thing or two about kids. I’ve always believed money solves everything, but it hasn’t helped heal the holes in our hearts.

  When the elevator doors glide open, I step out and nudge my cell from out of my pocket. Even after all this time I wince when I look at it, still seeing all those voicemails on my phone even though I’d replaced my old cell with some fancy new high-tech device that tells me where Ryan is at all times.

  For Jenny, I’ll call Miss Davis and I’ll hear her out.

  I dial the number printed on the school’s letterhead. The phone rings in my ear, the hollow sound knotting my stomach.

  I'm amazing at football. That’s just the solid truth. But it’s only because I follow the playbook Coach lays out for me.

  Why can’t being a father be that simple? Where’s my playbook now?

  Chapter 2

  Stacy

  Even though my back is turned toward the flock of six to seven-year-olds while I scribble away on the white board, I can hear their giggles and the flick of paper notes being tossed from one corner to the other, whispers quietly rippling in their wake.

  I bite back a laugh of my own, continuing to write simple math equations across the board. I remember what it was like to be that young; more interested in chatting with my friends than in what the teacher was trying to demonstrate. But I'm determined to connect with these young minds and help them learn a thing or two while they’re part of my class.

  This is my life now. I can hardly believe my dream has finally come true.

  I’ve spent many long hours studying and working as hard as I could to get here, and now I'm a teacher at one of the most exclusive private schools in the state of New York.

  My family thought I was insane when I went back to school for my master’s in education, claiming that I could get a job that was ‘just fine’ with a regular bachelor’s degree.

  But I knew I wanted more than ‘just fine’.

  I wanted to go beyond public school. I wanted to be part of an education system like this one. Not to mention that the paycheck is better.

  It’d better be if I plan to ever pay off my endless student loans!

  It’s not like the St. James job has me rolling in cash, but at least I can finally contribute my fair share toward rent for the apartment I share with my model roommate Morgan and her rockstar boyfriend, Eric.

  Most days it feels more like I live alone since Morgan and Eric are constantly traveling across the country for his gigs and her modeling jobs. They’ve even had a few international tours, sending me photos of them in Ibiza or the beautiful Italian countryside.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little jealous of their success both in life and in love, but I'm also really happy for them, as well as our other roommate, Chloe, who moved out a while ago to live with the billionaire love of her life.

  I sigh as I write equations on the board that make me start to tally up how much I owe my roommates. It’s not like Eric cares about covering the rent for our apartment. He’s probably making as much as Chloe’s boyfriend does with how well his ban
d is doing . . . but that’s not the point. I don’t want someone else to have to pay my way, even if it’s not a big deal to them.

  Growing up as one of eight children to a set of very overworked and budget-conscious parents, I learned to provide for myself early on. I grew to love that self-reliance. I'm proud of it. And now that I finally have the means to do so, I intended to pay Eric back for all the months of my rent he covered over the last summer.

  Setting down my marker, I turn back to the children. They all straighten in their seats as angelic smiles light most of their faces. They’re hardly innocent, but I’ve got to admit they’re pretty adorable and good at playing the part.

  Most of them, anyway—except for Ryan Eckhart.

  He sticks out like a sore thumb, his mop of dark hair turned toward the window, his chin in his palm. He noisily taps his pencil against the wood of his desk, the point already worn down. A few irritated glances are thrown his way by the other students. His school uniform, supposed to be pressed and clean, is wrinkled and smudged with dirt from where I saw him playing in the grass before school.

  I watch his deep brown eyes follow the trail of raindrops slithering across the glass window panes.

  “Ryan,” I say gently, waiting for him to blink and come back to reality, but he just keeps tapping his pencil and staring out the window.

  The other kids watch my interactions with Ryan like a hawk, eager to see if there’s any sort of weakness in my methods of discipline. Growing up surrounded by nannies and pampering, the students at St. James Academy are used to manipulating those around them, but I refuse to let them see a chink in my armor. If I'm going to connect with them, they can’t see me as someone they can walk all over.