My New Year Fling: A Sexy Christmas Billionaire Romance (Love Comes Later Book 2) Read online

  My New Year Fling

  Love Comes Later Book Two

  by Serenity Woods

  *

  Copyright 2016 Serenity Woods

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is coincidental.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  More by Serenity Woods

  Chapter One

  Rich

  My middle name is Scrooge.

  Well, it’s not, it’s Tamati, but the point I’m trying to make is that Christmas is not my favorite time of year.

  If I could, I’d go away on the first of December somewhere they don’t celebrate the festive season and stay there until a week into January when all the New Year hoo-hah is over. But I can’t just take six weeks off work when I feel like it—even if it is my own company.

  When I was younger, if I’d wanted to leave, I’d have left, just walked out of the door. I wouldn’t have cared what people thought of me. But now I’m older and a director of Katoa, I feel some responsibility to set an example to my employees.

  Jeez, I sound dull. I’m all grown up and boring as fuck. What the hell happened to me?

  I muse on this all Christmas Eve, when I’m still in the office, working. We’re knee deep into developing a new computer game that I think is going to be even bigger than Dark Robot—the game that gave us our breakthrough—and although the firm shuts down for the Christmas break, I want to set everyone projects to complete over the holiday. Nobody complains. I know that all the guys in the gaming design pod will want to leave their families to their paper hats and Charades to work as soon as they’re able.

  Even though I love my job, I should have left earlier. I walk back to my office around four p.m. As always at this time of year, the building is vibrant with color and glitter, music and laughter. I have a headache, and my face hurts from the smile I’ve forced on it since walking in this morning. I can’t wait to get out.

  I call in and say goodbye to Meg, our PA, then stop and see Stratton, one of my partners, in his office. Meg and Stratton are walking out, as my grandmother used to say. I’m pleased for them, because they’ve both had a tough time ridding themselves of unwanted exes, and they deserve some happiness.

  I am incredibly envious, though, I can’t deny that. Watching them together has been hard the last few days. They’ve done their best to be professional since they returned from their trip to Wellington where they quite obviously slept together for the first time, but they can’t hide the way they feel about each other. It’s obvious in their secret smiles, the private glances when they think nobody’s watching. They can’t wait to get home and get each other into bed.

  I’m so green I’m almost sick with it.

  Over the past few years, Stratton, his sister, Teddi, and I have shared a dislike of the festive season, and even though I’ve felt the need to escape, it’s comforted me that they’ve struggled as much as I have after the event that shook us up so much three years ago. Wait, no. We keep saying it’s been three years, but it’ll be four the day after Christmas Day. Four years since Will died. Where has the time gone? It feels like yesterday.

  Leaving a distracted, happy Stratton in his office who’s obviously caught up in his feelings for Meg, it occurs to me that my best friend is finally moving on with his life, whereas I’m as stuck in the past as if I’m standing in cement. I suppose it isn’t surprising. Will might have been Stratton’s good friend and a founding member of Katoa, but he was Teddi’s partner and my twin brother, so it seems natural that we’d find it harder to get over his sudden, shocking death.

  I stop at the door to Teddi’s office and lean against the doorjamb. She’s standing by the window, lost in thought, but I know she’s not looking at the view of Auckland harbor. Teddi’s blind and has been since the age of two, when she contracted bilateral retinoblastoma and lost both her eyes. Her ever-present guide dog, Bella, is lying by her desk.

  I hesitate, and for a moment I debate leaving without saying anything, but Bella looks up, sees me, and stands, and Teddi turns toward the door. “Hello?”

  “It’s me.” I come into the room and join her by the window. “How are you doing?”

  She shrugs and turns back to the view. “It’s going to be a nice Christmas. The sun’s hot.” She lifts her face to it, her lids lowering over her artificial eyes. “Are you leaving now?”

  “In a minute, yeah.”

  “Matauri Bay again?”

  “Yeah.” It’s a four-hour drive, but I’m looking forward to the journey, and to getting there and being alone at last.

  “Well, stay safe,” she says. “Don’t do anything stupid like going swimming when you’re drunk or anything.”

  “I doubt I’ll get out of the chair,” I say honestly. I’m staying in a family bach—a Kiwi beach house—and I have every intention of sitting on the deck in a sun lounger with a bottle of whisky and not moving until after New Year.

  She turns to me then, and her beautiful, unseeing eyes study me. The irises are a gorgeous light-green color, and you’d never know they weren’t real, except for the fact that the pupils don’t react to light.

  Although obviously Teddi was devastated when Will died, eventually she buried her grief, and on a day-to-day basis she’s cheerful and fun-loving. I suppose deep down I knew it was only superficial, but I’m shocked by her haunted expression.

  “When will it stop?” she whispers. “The pain, I mean.”

  I swallow hard. “I don’t know.” I look out at the seagulls dipping and diving above the water, the sun glinting off the windows of the numerous boats heading out to sea. “Maybe never.”

  She slides her arms around my waist and rests her cheek on my chest.

  I stand rigid for a moment. Then I put my arms around her.

  I rest my lips on her hair. It smells of strawberries.

  When Will died, part of me wondered whether it would be hard for her to be around me. But of course, although Teddi knows that Will and I were identical twins, she never saw us, so she never had any trouble telling us apart. Other people, including Stratton, our friends and colleagues, and even my parents, sometimes found it uncomfortable to look at me in those first few months after Will passed, but I never had that trouble with Teddi.

  “I miss him,” she whispers
.

  “I know. Me too.”

  Six months after Will died, a friend asked me whether I was going to date Teddi, as if now that Will was out of the picture she’d automatically fall in love with me. That wasn’t the case, of course. Teddi has never felt any romantic attraction to me. I fell for her the day I saw her, but—ironically—she only ever had eyes for my brother. And that’s not changed just because he’s gone.

  I came to accept that years ago, but, like a piece of shrapnel embedded deep inside me, it still hurts.

  I drop my arms and move back a little. “What are you up to this Christmas?” I attempt to inject some joviality in my voice.

  “Traveling up with Stratton and Meg to our parents,” she says. “There’s a party tonight.”

  “That’ll be fun.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Boxing Day?”

  The day after Christmas Day was when Will died, and it’s always the hardest day for all of us.

  She shrugs. “I’ll get by.”

  Teddi travels a lot as part of her job, but it strikes me that she can’t just take off for the day like the rest of us do if we feel the need to be alone and walk moodily by the sea—she has to go by public transport unless someone takes her, so all her trips are carefully arranged. Although she’s independent and lives on her own, obviously, she can’t drive. I feel a swell of pity for her, but I don’t say anything, because that’s the last thing she’d want.

  “Go on,” she says. “You get going.” She looks up at me. I catch my breath, feeling the usual twist inside at the knowledge that she can’t see my face, can’t look into my eyes. I have to fight not to lower my lips to hers. I want to more than anything, but I know that would ruin our relationship, and I don’t want that.

  “All right. See you when I get back.” I move away.

  “Yeah, see ya.”

  I bend and kiss Bella goodbye on the snout, and then head out without looking back. For Will’s sake, I try to keep an eye on Teddi and make sure she’s okay, but at this time of year I’m no good to anyone, especially her. She’d be the first person to say she doesn’t need anyone’s help, and anyway, Stratton will be around if she needs him.

  I’d packed my bags this morning and loaded up the car before I came to work, so within half an hour I’m on State Highway One, heading north.

  The road’s busy for the first thirty minutes, but then I gradually put the outskirts of Auckland behind me. The traffic peters out, and the scenery turns from concrete and glass to trees and fields. Flat-topped volcanoes pepper the horizon, and once the road leads inland, thick forests cover the hills and the fields become dotted with sheep.

  I let my Alfa Romeo stretch her legs and enjoy the drive, turning the music up and losing myself in the journey. It occurs to me as the tires eat up the miles that I spend most of my life trying to lose myself. Whether it’s gaming, books, movies, driving, sport… My goal is always to find an escape.

  Was it this way before Will died? The hot summer breeze blowing across my face, I think back. I spent my teenage years working and gaming. All I can remember about my early twenties is staring at computer code—trying to perfect Dark Robot so it was as good as it could be when we released it. It was worth it—it’s still the best selling game in New Zealand and Australia, it’s doing well in the States and in Europe, and it put us on the track toward making us all billionaires. But can you call that living?

  My mid-twenties were different. We were all still working hard, but by then Will and Teddi were dating, and in the evenings it was mainly Stratton and me—I remember lots of parties, drinking, girls, sex, music, more drinking, more girls, more sex… I had a great time, but it strikes me now that it was still escapism, of a sort. No girl stands out for me as being special; none of them lasted longer than six months at most.

  Then Stratton started going steady with his ex, Natalie, and things began to change. Although I dated occasionally, I spent more and more time on my own. I think I was already starting to isolate myself. And then Will died, and that just about finished me off.

  So maybe the way I am isn’t Will’s fault. Maybe he just gave me permission to let out the darkness that’s lived inside me all my life.

  I glance to one side of the car, looking at the plastic bags in the foot well of the passenger side. They contain half a dozen bottles of whisky, ready to help me blot out the world when I arrive at my destination. I spent a long time choosing them, even though after the first few glasses I could be drinking lighter fuel and I wouldn’t notice the difference. But the taste and smell of the rich Islay malts I love, that moment when I feel my pulse slow and the alcohol thread through my veins, are why I drink, so I always buy the best.

  For some reason, the faces of those people I love flit through my mind—Stratton, Teddi, Meg, my parents. I know they’re all worried about me, and they hate me drinking.

  There are clouds on the horizon, promising rain. I press the accelerator harder. It won’t be long and I’ll be sitting on the deck looking at the sea as the sun goes down, and then I can do whatever I like for two weeks and not have to worry about what anyone else thinks.

  *

  It’s still light when I arrive, although the sun is low over the horizon, and the sky is the muddy purple-gray that Play-Doh turns when too many colors are mixed together. I pass the rolling lawns of the golf course, crest what’s known as Millionaire’s Drive, pause briefly to look down at the glittering sea and the light-gold sand, then continue down to Matauri Bay.

  I pull up on the grassy bank behind the row of baches and turn off the engine. Immediately, quietness rolls over me, the only sound the soothing whoosh of the waves and the cry of gulls. I breathe out, and out, and out, exhaling forever, and it’s like I haven’t breathed out properly since the last time I was away from the city.

  After taking my bag from the back of the car and the plastic bags from the front, I lock it and walk across the bank to the blue bach on the end of the row. It looks even more worn and battered than the last time I was here, so clearly Uncle Wiremu hasn’t gotten around to decorating this year.

  I smile as I let myself in. Nothing has changed. The bach consists of an open-plan living room and kitchen, two small bedrooms, and a tiny bathroom. The painted walls are scuffed, the sofa and chairs in the living room are well-worn, while the tiny wooden table that’s folded against the wall looks as if it’s made from driftwood, and is held together with tape and bits of string. There’s sand on the floorboards and cobwebs in the corners. There’s no air con, just an old plug-in fan that I switch on, which barely stirs the warm air. In the kitchen, there are three chipped mugs, two dented plates, and some mismatched cutlery.

  But it’s clean and familiar, and Mum has obviously paid a visit to the local Four Square for me, because there’s fresh milk, bread, and butter in the fridge, tea and coffee next to the kettle, and a variety of tins in the cupboards. I’ll probably have takeout from the local fish and chip shop most days, but if I don’t feel like going, at least I won’t starve.

  She’s also put a string of solar fairy lights around the post supporting the canopy over the deck. I study them for a moment, disliking the Christmas reference, but they’re pinned to the wood and I don’t want to damage them, so they’ll have to stay.

  I feel… not happy, exactly, but calm, relieved to be there and to be able to put aside the worries and troubles of my ordinary life for a while. Here, I’m not Richard Wright, billionaire director of Katoa, game designer extraordinaire. I’m plain old Rihari, just an ordinary Maori boy from the local iwi. I don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not. I can just be.

  It’s getting late now, and the fish shop will be closed, so I put my bag on the bed in the biggest room, heat up a tin of beans and sausages, pour myself the first of what will be many whiskies of the night, and take the bowl, the glass, and the whisky bottle out onto the deck. I sink into the lone sun lounger, prop my feet on the balustrade, and eat the beans and sausages, letting the
calm ocean wash away the noise and smell of the city.

  The bay isn’t quite empty. A couple is walking a dog further down the sand, heading away from me. There’s a pakeha or non-Maori family three baches down, and I can hear the mother trying to get the kids to bed—good luck with that on Christmas Eve, I think with amusement. In the bach next to that, two Maori couples take seats outside with a bottle of wine, talking and laughing. I smile wryly as I recognize my uncles, Hemi and Tama. Hemi looks over and raises a hand, and I wave back. I’ll call by tomorrow, I tell myself. Tonight’s just for me.

  Ten minutes later, in the bach next to mine, a woman comes out and sits in a wooden chair, doing the same as me, propping her feet on the balustrade. I only mean to glance at her, but she catches my attention, and I find myself studying her as she makes herself comfortable. It’s getting dark, and, like me, she’s turned off the lights inside the bach so she doesn’t attract insects, so I can’t see her that well. But I can tell that she’s around my age—early-to-mid thirties—with long, dark-blonde hair piled scruffily on top of her head so that numerous strands tumble around her face. She’s wearing a faded T-shirt and frayed denim shorts. Her legs are long and brown, and like all good Northlanders, she’s shoeless. Nobody joins her on the deck, so it looks as if she’s there alone.

  She picks up a bowl of something, and the aroma drifts over to me—something in a white wine sauce, pasta maybe, or chicken. It smells delicious.

  At that moment, she glances across at me, catching me looking at her. I hesitate, embarrassed, not sure whether to say hi or look away.

  She picks up her glass of white wine and toasts me with it. “Merry Christmas,” she calls out.

  Somewhat wryly, I toast her back with my glass, but I don’t say anything. I stopped saying Merry Christmas a long time ago.

  Returning my gaze to the sea, I finish off my beans and sausages and place the bowl on the floor. I top up my whisky glass. Stratton and I developed a taste for expensive whisky in our early twenties, and we have fun hunting down rare and interesting bottles to give each other. This one is a rare twenty-five-year-old Port Askaig, costing around four hundred dollars a bottle. The oak rounds out some mouthwatering citrus flavors, and underneath them I can smell oak spice and vanilla. I take a long swig and let the firewater wash through my veins. With each mouthful, I feel the sea of emotion that threatens to overwhelm me ebb away. The tension leaves my shoulders, and I blow out a long breath and slide down a bit more in the lounger.