Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)
Elsie Silver
CHAPTER ONE
FORD
“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.