Bachelor soul, p.1
Bachelor Soul, page 1
Bachelor Soul
A Rich Indulgence Novel
Regina Morris
Silkhaven Publishing, LLC
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* * *
Billionaire Scott Holister’s ambition is to become a senior partner at his law firm. His track record is good and he has seniority at the firm, but he doesn’t have the appropriate corporate image. He needs a house, an attitude adjustment, and, most importantly, a wife.
* * *
He finds a woman interested in dating him—not his wallet—but the woman he is falling in love with is a waitress at a local diner, who has mistaken him for being a homeless man after he has a mishap wile jobbing in the park.
* * *
When the restaurant she works at caters the Christmas party held by Scott’s law firm, passions explode as they discover who they are and what truly matters.
Silkhaven Publishing, LLC
ISBN: 978–1–948997–56–0 (EPub Ebook)
ISBN: 978–1–948997–57–7 (MOBI Ebook)
ISBN: 978–1–948997–58–4 (Paperback)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021915031
Copyright (c) 2021 Regina Morris
(V1) – July 22, 2021
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. All of the characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are fictitiously used. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author Regina Morris and the publisher Silkhaven Publishing, LLC with the exception in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Printed in the United States of America.
Silkhaven Publishing, LLC does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third–party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of Silkhaven Publishing, LLC or Regina Morris is illegal and punishable by law. To obtain a copy of this novel, please purchase only through authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Created with Vellum
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
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Also by Regina Morris
1
Monday—again. Just like clockwork. Same office, same coworkers, same everything. Scott gazed through the picture window at the adjacent skyscraper facing him. It’d be a beautiful view if the building wasn’t in the way.
Something or someone was always in the way.
A soft knock sounded on the door and then Beverly, his assistant, entered. She closed the office door and walked to a coat rack where she placed her bag and coat.
He needed a distraction, so he asked, “You like your birthday present?” He eyed the handbag she now placed under the rack.
“Quality and good taste.” She beamed a beautiful smile at him. “Thanks so much for the gift.”
The bag, and a spa day, were the least he could do. She had eyed that bag for weeks, and had even hinted on at least one occasion how much she loved it. It was their usual gift-giving routine, especially on Mother’s Day, her birthday, Christmas, and even Secretary’s Day. Beverly always acted surprised when she’d open the gift, even though she always knew what it would be.
Beverly leaned heavily on her cane—which always made him remember that she was older than his own mother—and she walked to the window and stood next to him. He studied her wisdom-creased face, the one that had always been there for him since he was a child, and knew that one day she’d retire. Probably one day soon.
“You’ve seemed distracted lately.” She removed her glasses and glared at him in a way that always made him self-conscious.
He could never get anything past her. “It’s nothing.” He crossed the room and made his way around his desk where he plopped his bottom into the cushy, leather chair. It squeaked in protest as he turned and faced her. Raising his arms, he stretched his lean body and felt his spine pop in an incredibly pleasing way. His head shifted from side to side, popping his neck and causing some tension to leave his body.
His latest case file stared back at him from the computer screen. It was a small intellectual property case, one too small for a lawyer of his caliber, but an important client nonetheless. He only wished the man wasn’t guilty as hell. He thumbed his fingers on the wood desk and let out a slow sigh.
Beverly’s footsteps shuffled along the carpet. “I picked up your dry cleaning this morning.” She glanced at the coat rack where she had placed the items. Her gaze focused on the plastic wrap of the garments with a skeptical eye. “The ink stain didn’t come out of your light gray suit.”
Wasn’t that the purpose of dry cleaning? To clean your clothes? Scott waved his hand dismissively, knowing it was useless to get upset. “Write up a complaint.” His gaze traveled to the ceiling and he closed his eyes while the tension began building once again. “And find me another dry cleaner.”
She made her way to the couch and put on her glasses. Before she took a seat, she sniffed the air. “Italian?”
He opened his eyes to see her grab the tablet on the coffee table. “I ordered in.”
She picked up an empty food container and walked it to the coffee bar, placing the plate in the tiny sink. Before returning and taking her seat, she bent down and picked up something from the couch. “I know I’m not your mother…”
There was a ‘but’ coming. Nothing good ever came from that sentence, but the woman did raise him and was closer to him than his own mother. His expression soured and he stared at her. “But…”
With a raised eyebrow, she held up an earring and gave him an all-knowing smirk that didn’t hold an ounce of amusement.
“Like I said, I ordered Italian.”
“This is beneath you,” she said with a sharp tone, tossing the jewelry on the table and scanning for more bling in the cushions. “It’s always been beneath you.” She studied him, sizing him up, and finally said, “I hope you gave that delivery woman one hell of a tip.”
“No harm was done.” He gave Beverly, his childhood nanny-now assistant, a wry smile. She was the mother he’d never really had, one who’d taught him how to ride a bike, took him to the doctor’s when he was sick, and made sure he had someone to talk to when he was down.
His parents had been right. You never let good help go. Thankfully, Bev had adjusted to all of his life changes. Of course, he paid her well, especially after her husband died and left her with little to live on.
“This firm is very distinguished. You’d never catch a senior partner acting like this.”
No. Of course you wouldn’t. “The senior partners are old, married geezers who cling to a title that I want, but can’t have until one of them steps down.” Beverly knew that he wanted to be a senior more than anything else in the world.
“Look at you.” Her face pinched in disgust. “You have everything you need, have led a life of privilege, and doors just open for you. And yet, you always want the next big thing.”
“Some people say that aiming higher in life is a good quality.”
“Your parade of women and living in that condo of yours… it’s like you’re back in college.” Her hand went to her hip in a motherly way. Her eyes narrowed as she studied his hair. “You even need a haircut, which I’ll schedule for next week.”
His hand raked through is long and thick mane of hair. Nothing needed changing except his title at the firm.
“You need to have patience if you’re going to climb the corporate ladder here. Do you know what you are?”
He was sure she’d tell him.
“You’re a snob.”
His gaze darted over and he blurted out, “I am not a snob.”
“You can’t relate to people. You only interact with them, especially clients, since you don’t make any real connections.” She pointed at him in a ‘you need to grow up’ way. “You’d have more patience if you could relate to people. You don’t see them as anything other than inferiors or obstacles in your way. And you know what?”
He let out a sigh and gazed past her. She gave him this speech at least once a year. She should wrap it up and send it to him as a Christmas present.
That one really hurt.
“You’ll find a good woman someday. And when you do,” she pointed at the earring on the table, “you’ll regret these… dalliances.”
Her face hardened, and it was the look she gave him when she meant business, like the time she’d caught him drawing a picture for his mother on the dining room wall in permanent marker while in kindergarten. He hated when Beverly stared at him like this.
“I relate to people all the time,” he said, defiantly. “But, if you remember, my last serious relationship didn’t date me—she dated my wallet.” The air grew stale in the room and he tugged at the knot in his tie. “Fourteen years I’ve given this company.” He stood and made his way around his desk. “Fourteen long and hard years. And for what?” he asked, his voice rising in pitch and giving away his frustration.
“A partnership in a prestigious law firm,” Beverly said. “A windowed office on the eighteenth floor overlooking Chicago. A hefty salary that most people only dream about.” She then shrugged. “Not that the money means that much to you.”
“It’s the title. The prestige.” His heart thumped loudly in his chest that he thought it would explode. “I deserve to be…” he grabbed a sheet of paper from the desk and pointed to the top, “I deserve to have my name on this letterhead.”
Her eyes rolled as though tired of hearing the same rant once again. “Patience is a virtue which you’ve never learned.” She took a deep breath and said in a defeated tone, “That one is on me.”
She took a seat on the couch and activated the tablet. “By the way, I sent Tate flowers for you.” Her voice sounded crisp and professional as she tapped away on the device—as if the mother/son chat were over. “Tate’s wife sounded very appreciative.”
Leonard Tate. Senior partner, cancer patient, and holding onto life by a thread.
Scott returned to his desk and thought of the old man as shame came over him. The man had a family and a wife who needed him. He deserved better than the lousy hand he was given. Scott didn’t want to get promoted because of Tate’s loss, he just wanted to be appreciated for the work he had done. “Thanks for taking care of the flowers. I’ve been preoccupied and had meant to send them earlier.”
“I know you care about Mr. Tate and would have sent flowers eventually.” Her eyes narrowed, and she added, “I understand you’ve contacted other agencies.”
He paused and stared at her. Did she really have eyes in the back of her head? He had been so careful to keep his job search a secret. But, like everything else in his life, Beverly was either one step ahead of him or he’d break down and share everything with her—that is, if she wasn’t plotting for world domination with him. “It’s not a crime to keep my options open.” His jaw tensed and he pushed aside his laptop, its keypad worn from use to the point that the letters ‘e’ and ‘i’ were no longer visible.
“You’ve been depressed for weeks.” Her gaze traveled across the office at the fine furniture, grand desk, and the view out the window before resting on him and capturing his stare with caring, loving eyes. “What can I do to make things better?”
Gone were the days where she could take him out for ice cream or bake some brownies to make him feel better. His problems lived outside her realm of control, and had for years.
“I’m the best lawyer this firm has. I’ve brought in more clients in the last two years alone than anyone else ever has.” He had given up countless weekends, missed too many holidays, and his vacation time always stacked up to the point where he tended to give some of it away to help others in the firm deal with long-term illnesses. Was it too much to ask that his efforts be recognized?
“You are the best lawyer this company has ever had.” Bev nodded in agreement. Of course, she always believed he was the best at anything he did—even when he was consistently picked last for childhood sports teams or games.
He had left his last company for lack of advancement; he could do so again. “If a change doesn’t happen soon…” he said, reaching deep into what he knew the next move would have to be, “I’ll have to take a position elsewhere.”
Caroline Wenzel entered her efficiency apartment and the smell of last night’s dinner wafted toward her. She glanced at the mile-high stack of dishes near the sink, only to find a fat roach resting on a plate with food residue.
Not now. Not now. Not now.
She removed her shoe and left the outer door open, knowing that if she turned any apartment lights on, the bug would scatter—probably finding her later while she was in bed asleep or in the shower defenseless.
She crept closer to the sink and was happy to find the can of Raid still sitting out after last night’s ant infestation.
Raid, then shoe. She could do this.
She shook the metal can, happy to find the container still contained some juice. “You’re going down, Mr. Cockroach.”
God, the size was big enough to slip a saddle onto.
She took a deep breath and held the can close to the bug.
In a chemical fume cloud resembling a nuclear bomb, she drenched the bug until it lay belly-up in a pool of insecticide, its antennae still twitching.
She took a few steps back when she began coughing, which allowed her to view the devastation surrounding her.
If her apartment were Oscar’s trashcan, the Grouch would be happy to have her as a roommate.
She tossed the empty can and her purse onto the table before turning on her computer. While it hummed to life, she removed her CTA nametag. Picking up the evening shift at the Chicago Transit Authority helped with the bills, but the job stole her evenings and gave her clothing a pungent subway-station stench.
She waved her hand in front of her nose. Subway station, raid can, and dirty dishes. Not pleasant. The door remained open and the apartment was airing out, soon the stench would be gone.
The heater had been turned off to save money while she was away, and the place was freezing, so she turned it back on. She kept her jacket on but rolled up the sleeves as best she could so her coat wouldn’t get dirty as she cleaned.
Work, cleaning, and more work. She needed to make sure to toss in some sleep in the mix somehow.
She barely had time to sit with her grandmother for dinner before her shift had started tonight. And, she wouldn’t be able to visit with her again until after her shift at the diner tomorrow.
She let out a heavy sigh. No. She’d have to visit her grandmother the day after that. She had picked up some tutoring assignments for tomorrow.
A prickling sensation pulled at her eyelids, making her want to close them and go to bed. She had no time.
The trash can stood overflowing, so she synched up the plastic bag and pulled it from the container. She placed the bag by the door before putting a new bag in the can.
The computer beeped, and she knew her third part-time job awaited her—not that she wanted to sift through Algebra questions left by high schoolers on her tutoring board. God, she felt too tired to do math problems tonight.
Her stomach twisted, and she put her hand against her nose. The mix of the trash can smell with the rest of her apartment was enough to make her throw up, even with the front door still open to air the place out. If she didn’t clean up soon, more roaches would camp out on her floor and start demanding wake-up calls and room service.
“Nicely done,” a voice rang in from the hallway. Caroline recognized the voice immediately and cringed. Dealing with the cockroach and math was welcoming compared to a conversation with Vince, her landlord and neighboring Neanderthal man.
In her best frosty, leave me the hell alone voice, she said, “Thanks, but I’m very busy.”
He took a step into the apartment, tracking in mud on her concrete floor. His unshaven face held a seductive smile, his shifty-eyes were half-hidden behind greasy, unwashed bangs, and his jeans were two inches from falling off his hips. “Do you need some help? I could…”
