Knox - Benefactor: A Greenbridge Academy Romance

By Abby Knox

She doesnt belong on that stage. She belongs on Broadway. She belongs with me.

Need a fixer? A negotiator? Need to throw money at a problem? Rushmore is your man. But as soon as Hunter, the woman of his dreams, appears on stage, hes got a whole set of problems that not even he knows exactly how to fix. One of them being, shes 18. The second problem? Shes his spoiled daughters classmate. Confident he can make an arrangement that will satisfy both himself and the beautiful Hunter, he is all set to woo her with flowers, gifts, and anything else her heart desires. He soon discovers, however, that the young lady is not a property to be acquired.

Eighteen-year-old Hunter expects to coast through her senior year and then go to New York to conquer the world. How exactly shes going to finance these big dreams is the only question. When the answer comes in the form of the dashing Mr. Rushmore the father of the meanest, richest girl in school Hunter has a big decision to make. Will having all the material things shes ever wanted be worth risking her reputation? Maybe not, but she sure is going to have fun while it lasts.

Need a sugar daddy to pay your bills? Get ready, because Mr. Rushmore is about to make it rain! Just dont call him that, whatever you do. Hes investing in your future. Warning: this novella contains an age-gap love story with lots of teasing and heavy petting before the virgin gets the biggest gift of all! As always, youll get your HEA with no cliffhangers and no cheating.

(Possible trigger: Our hero has an ex-wife, but no drama occurs with said ex wife in this story. Everybodys moved on! Side note: sometimes my heroes and heroines have ex partners, because I like complicated people. Enjoy!)

Rushmore

The last place anyone might think to find a person with the last name of Rushmore would be sitting in a lawn chair on a crowded public park lawn. But one does what one must, even if that involves stewing in the humidity on a sweltering July night to attend a mediocre summer community theater performance of My Fair Lady.

Obviously, Im not here for pleasure. And its not exactly business, either.

Philanthropy is the only thing that could compel me to endure these little bloodsuckers, I mutter as I slap the tenth mosquito of the night.

Miles, my theater companion for the evening, brought a small battery-operated fan. He offers it to me but I wave him off. The only thing worse than mosquitos is holding that ridiculous plastic thing and looking like a giant baby-man.

Weston Ford is right over there, Miles says, gesturing two rows ahead. Why not tackle him now? Use your magic on him, hand him the paperwork, and then we can get out of here.

Take it easy, Miles. Thats not my style. Too eager. Have that contract ready to go at intermission, though, I reply.

As I study the back of Weston Fords head, it appears he is here with his sister. The two of them are cracking each other up over something, and I dont want to interrupt that. Their interactions remind me that I never had that kind of family dynamic growing up. I am not a fellow anyone would describe as wistful, but I might be close to it right now.

Got it right here, Miles says, patting his attach case stowed under his lawn chair.

I nod as my eyes land on a family lounging on a picnic blanket near us. Each of the dads is holding one of the baby girls hands as she takes unsteady steps. Theyre laughing and praising the one-year-olds bouncy movements as she squeals and kicks her wobbly baby legs. The scene reminds me of when my daughter Ridley was a baby, one of those brief moments when her mother and I were not despising each other.

And where is my ex-wife tonight? Probably with her new beau being properly romanced for the first time in her life. My daughter? My gut clenches to think about it. Most likely shit-talking me while using my credit cards to finance an elaborate night out with her friends and hangers-on. The shit-talking and the spending are the least of my worries with her. Shes had everything handed to her and Im worried weve created an unkind, selfish monster.

Earth to Rushmore

What? I answer Miles testily without breaking my stare.

Miles chuckles. Im offering you bug spray, man.

I finally look over at him and hes handing me a green bottle with childlike illustrations of bees and plants on it. This is for babies, I say.

He shrugs. Yeah well, it works. Martha and the baby have turned me into a regular suburban dadanything you need, I got with me at all times. Tylenol? Check. Tissues? Band-Aids? Sunscreen? Got you covered.

I wince as I realize Im surrounded by happy families.

This realization makes me wish I could start over. Can I do that at the age of 39? I wonder if I have time to turn around my relationship with Ridley. Or have another baby with someone. Or maybe I should just adopt, seeing as I hardly have the time or inclination to be a decent husband. Perhaps Im not even capable of maintaining a steady relationship.

I take the bug spray and spritz myself. Now I smell like an organic toddler, I grunt, handing him his bug spray back.

This is why I stick to boardrooms, where Im less likely to be reminded of what Im missing in life. Mixing with the common folk is turning me into a complete sap, I think.

Dont look so sour. It was your idea to come here, Miles remarks. You couldnt schedule a lunch meeting at Enzos?

I answer him, but my eyes remain on the playbill, making sure all the advertising for Rushmore Hospitality I signed off on has been put in place on the glossy pages. I didnt get where I am by expecting new clients to come to me. When I want something, I get off my ass and get it. The inside of the cover features a four-color ad showing off the Ridley Hotel, named after my daughter in honor of her sixteenth birthday. The back page shows a black and white ad for the Bianca Inn. I grit my teeth every time I read or hear that name, but unfortunately Im not legally allowed to change it, per the divorce decree.

I hope this first act doesnt take too long. I can dash over to have an impromptu meeting with Ford, get him to sign his name on the dotted line, and then I can get out of this crowd of people before anybody else notices me and asks for yet more favors, I say. And Miles can go home and share the news about Ford with his wife, who is headmistress of the local private school, and their brand new baby, and I can go home to my peacefully quiet lake house for a scotch on the rocks on the bug-free, screened-in deck.