Meeting my billionaire

I stared down at the piece of paper in my hands, and still, all I could think was, holy shit, I really got fired.

Me, Aubrey Nielson, the girl who left Portland, Maine—the Portland that needs a state as a descriptor—for New York, top of her class at Dartmouth and NYU, devoted to all her students, had been fired two months into the semester by a piece of mail.

When I called, they told me the school system was downsizing. A kind way of saying budget cuts. They were considerate enough to give me my pension, but having only worked in the school district for three years, my pension totaled a whopping 2,800 dollars.

My morning had been spent crying in the apartment I could no longer afford to rent before I decided to drive out to upstate for some time away. I loved my life in New York, loved living in Brooklyn, and teaching in Harlem. Weekends in Manhattan felt like I was living in a Sex and The City episode every time I walked the crowded sidewalks beneath the towering buildings above. There, I could be who I wanted to be. My past wasn’t painted on my forehead, my lifestyle not a source of gossip. I was one of many. A small fish in an ocean of people just as fucked up as I was.

It was a fantasy, and like all fantasies, it faded away to reality.

Moving back home was something I had promised myself I would never do. I was offered a teaching position at the school my mother worked at—a position that paid half of what I had been making before, but with my choices being that or the zero dollars I would make otherwise, it wasn’t much of a choice at all.

I had just two weeks left until I would get to move back in with my high school best friend, Crystal, her current boyfriend, and three kids. As wonderful as she was, I wasn’t looking forward to running into the rest of our high school class, or answering hard-hitting questions like, « Why’d you get fired ? » « Why aren’t you married yet ? » and « Don’t you want a family ? You should start soon, the clock’s-a-tickin’. »

But two weeks left meant two weeks of trying to change it.

« It didn’t sell ? » I asked the dock attendant.

« Nah, I’m sorry, » he said in his weathered voice. « No one’s really been lookin’ for an old boat like that. » I looked over my shoulder and my dad’s Jon Boat. I hadn’t kept it up and had barely used it since I moved, but it was one of the last pieces of my father I had left. « I’m still willing to take it off your hands. »

« Thanks. I’ll think about it, » I smiled at him. « I’m going to take it out for a bit, okay ? » He nodded a goodbye and left me to it.

I jumped inside. The little engine barely started nowadays, but the current of the St. Lawrence river was slow enough to shore if needed. With a practiced smack, it kicked to life and I smiled with accomplishment.

I drove the little boat, feeling the chilly, spring air blow in the citrusy scent of the fir trees from the Canadian shore. The smell always brought back happy memories.

My dad started bringing me out here when I was thirteen, a few months after Mom passed away. We lived by the water in Maine, but this was an escape from our lives. A much-needed one at that.

We would take the little boat as far down the river as the gas would take us, marvel at the yacht houses the size of hotels, and mansions that looked like castles towering over the old trees.

Dad told me how they were built by the old railroad tycoons and hoteliers at the start of the 1900s, but to see them still standing and occupied over 100 years later seemed even more unbelievable.

We would tell stories of what our lives would be like if we were as filthy rich as the people living in those mansions. He’d always tell me that we were the rich ones. Because time with each other was far more valuable than money.

When he passed away three, short years later, moments like those became my favorite memories of him. Boating past these islands reminded me how truly lucky I had been.

In the middle of my daydream, the engine sputtered to a stop. Crap.

I smacked the side of the engine over and over with my palm, but nothing responded. I turned to find the current had drifted me painfully close to the rocky coast of one of the largest islands and even closer to one of its jetties and ancillary structure that jutted out into the river. I pulled out the paddle steer away just as the engine purred to life.

I fell back into the boat, the paddle flying from my hand. The boat careened toward the structure—and as I screamed—smashed into the side of it.

. . .

I only realized I had been knocked out when I woke up. I lifted my head and almost passed out again. The pain was so sharp in my skull, I could think of nothing else. My vision came back and I uttered every curse word I knew.

I stood up carefully. My head throbbed, but it was bearable. I climbed out onto the shore and looked around. My boat was partially out of the water, mangled with the wood of the damaged structure. I felt lucky I had my phone to call for help.

Except, I didn’t have my phone.

I continued to list more curse words and then migrated into other languages.

I stared up at the towering stone mansion on the hill above me and my stomach turned. A second later, I vomited onto the ground and began to feel light-headed once more. That’s a sign of a concussion, right ? I hadn’t dated enough doctors to know the answer to that.

I walked a little further and made it out of the trees. A lovely, green lawn with sprawling gardens appeared in my view. As I continued to walk, a few people tending to it saw me and stared. I instinctively tried to smooth out my hair, but it made my head scream. A short man ran over to me and starting pulling me with him toward the medieval monstrosity before me.

« El doctor está adentro, » he said. The doctor is inside. I nodded to him and followed his lead.

Once inside, my head began to throb again. « What’s this fuss ? What happened ? » An older woman in an apron shuffled out of a room. Her pale skin and indiscernible British accent were the only things convincing me that she wasn’t my mother. She looked so much like her—the dark, pixie haircut, and the cheerful, round cheeks—but maybe that was the head injury talking.

« I’m so sorry. I was on my boat and the engine malfunctioned, » I explain.

« Oh, darlin’, » the woman cooed. « I was askin’ about your head ! »

. . .

They had taken me to the infirmary inside the castle where a doctor inspected me and concluded I did indeed have a concussion. The older woman, Mildred, sat with me the whole time seeming truly concerned about my well-being. She kept me awake and talking, asking me about my work, my hometown, and eventually, my career despair. Without realizing it, I was spilling my life story to her—everything from my parents to my hesitation to move back home to Maine. She made me feel so safe, I forgot to call anyone.

« You are so young. There’s no reason for you to fret over a family just yet, » she flattered me.

« Do you have kids ? » I asked her.

« None of my own, but I’ve raised my stepson since he was five. » She handed me some tea. « And I’ve been the family’s nanny for years. I see the master’s children as my own as well. »

« Children live here ? »

« Three of ‘em ! One’s a teenager, but he’ll always be a babe to me. »

I glanced through the door at the sprawling foyer watching the people tidying up inside it. Dark mahogany covered the floors and walls, a grand, marble staircase led to a mezzanine and rooms above, all with a massive crystal chandelier dangling overhead. It was hard to believe a place like this existed in America, or that someone lived here. « Who does this place belong to ? »

« Mr. Augustine Montgomery. » Augustine Montgomery ? How does a name sound rich ?

« Is he here ? I should talk to him. »

« He’s away for work, but he should be back later this weekend, » she said in her charming accent. « We can tell him about the damage when he’s in a good mood. Shouldn’t be a problem. »

Something about the way she said that made my skin grow cold.

A few gasps were heard from outside the door, followed by a shuffling. Mildred perked up, trying to see what was causing the fuss.

Someone peeked inside the room and said, « He’s here ! »

Mildred’s eyes grew wide. « He’s’ere ? » she said with fear in her voice. « He wasn’t supposed to be back for another day ! » She stood up and started gathering the tea set, even snatching my cup from my hand. « Stay ‘ere, love, » she instructed me in a frantic tone.

She shuffled out of the room and instantly froze in her tracks.

« Mr. Montgomery. We weren’t expectin’ you, » she said.

« I was told there’d been an accident. » The deep, British accent reverberated in my chest, as well as much lower. It piqued my interest.

I leaned through the doorway and instantly felt lightheaded again—this time, not because of the concussion.

It was because the man standing with Mildred was even sexier than his voice.