Accidentally In Love Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by R.R. Banks

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Accidentally Married (Sample)

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Also by R.R. Banks

  What did I do when I bumped into a gorgeous billionaire?

  * * *

  Well, I called him an “asshole” and an assortment of colorful names.

  Turns out I was completely in the wrong.

  Then I ended up falling into his arms… literally.

  He saved me, and I kissed him.

  I, Paige Samuels, a might as well be virgin wallflower, kissed a stranger.

  But Liam Anderson is more than rugged and swoon-worthy.

  He’s also broken, cold, and emotionally unavailable.

  So, what could a wealthy recluse and a failing bookstore owner have in common?

  Other than amazing, mind-blowing sex...?

  * * *

  A dark secret in this small town that could destroy us both.

  Liam may do everything in his power to protect me.

  But will this secret and my terrible luck with love, drive us apart?

  Liam

  The afternoon is waning as I sit at my desk, staring out of the window at the sprawl of downtown Seattle. In the distance, the Space Needle rises high, the point of it lost in the clouds, the structure appearing to pierce the overcast sky.

  It's a cold and dreary day in Seattle, which is fine. It actually suits my mood perfectly. I have a thousand emails that I need to return and other business to attend to, but I can't stop staring at the email on the computer screen in front of me. I reread the words I had read a thousand times already and still can’t believe it.

  I scroll down the page, already knowing what I'd find and not wanting to see it again. Yet, unable to stop myself from looking anyway, I continue on. Attached to the bottom of the email is a photograph of her. She is dressed in black lingerie that I've never seen before. The kind of lingerie she used to wear for me early on. Black stockings, heels, and black, lacy panties with a matching bra.

  The kind of outfit I haven't seen her wear in ages.

  The worst thing is that this is only one of the dozens, maybe even hundreds, of emails and photographs that I discovered, dating back several years. My father always used to tell me that I shouldn’t open doors I’m not ready to walk through. This is one of those times that I wish I would have listened to his advice.

  How could I have been so blind…so stupid? How could I have not seen this coming? I've racked my brain over and over the last few weeks, trying to see what I had missed along the way. What signs had I ignored?

  The phone on my desk buzzes, and I let out a long breath, annoyed. Not that I'm doing anything important at the moment – I'm too pissed to focus on the work I should be doing – but I didn't want my brooding interrupted. Feeling a flash of irritation, I punch the button on the speakerphone.

  “Yes, Alice?” I snap.

  “Sir, there's a Mr. Adam McMurtry in the lobby to see you?” she says. “He doesn't have an appointment, but –”

  “No, that's fine,” I say. “Send him in.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  I walk over to the sideboard in the office and pour some scotch into two tumblers. Carrying them back over to the sitting area in my office, I set one glass down on the table and take a seat on the couch, holding my own glass, staring down into the amber liquid. A moment later, the door to my office opened and Adam stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him.

  He crosses the room and sits down on the small loveseat across from me, setting his satchel beside him. Adam picks up his drink and swirls it around in the glass, looking at it appreciatively for a moment before taking a long swallow.

  “I always love doing work for you,” he says.

  “Why is that?”

  “Not only do you pay well,” he says, “but you have the best taste in liquor.”

  I shrug. “It's what I grew up with,” I reply. “My father was a frugal son of a bitch, but there were certain things he did not skimp on.”

  Adam lets out a long breath and leans back on the loveseat. I can tell by the look on his face that I am not going to like what he has to say. But, I already knew that I wouldn't. I knew it the moment I stumbled onto the trove of emails and photos. In light of that, Adam's work was superfluous. But, I hired him before I found the hidden email account.

  Adam is a private investigator. He mostly handles insurance fraud and other business-related cases, preferring to stay out of domestic affairs. Not that I blame him for not wanting to deal with messy divorces and the like. In his place, I sure as hell wouldn't want to either.

  But, he's a professional. He is discreet, and he does his job well. He's worth the money. And because I've worked with him a number of times in the past, mostly to vet clients and whatnot, I always feel comfortable using his services. I've just never needed him to look into something concerning my personal life before now.

  Which makes this awkward for me. I'm not one who typically airs my dirty laundry, preferring to deal with things behind closed doors. Venting my personal life to the world would reflect poorly on my company, and so, I prefer to keep my matters private.

  But I've never dealt with something like this before. So, when I suspected that Brittany was having an affair, I talked to Adam about it. I asked him to look into it and see what he could find. Part of me – well, most of me – was hoping that he'd come back and say that I was just being paranoid. That he had found nothing, and Brittany was what she appeared to be – the perfect wife.

  Then I found them. I was having trouble with my own laptop at home, so I grabbed her tablet to check my emails. When I pulled up the email program, I had intended to log out of her account and into mine, but the subject line of a few of her emails caught my eye. Titles such as Hey Sexy and Fuck Me 2nite? stood out like flashing neon beacons among the other more mundane subject lines.

  I knew I shouldn't have done it. I should have just closed the email program and pretended that I never saw it. But, I couldn't. I forced myself to read all the emails, even finding a folder marked “Travis” that contained many more. The emails were all sexual in nature. Dirty talk. Plans to get together and the details of what they were going to do once they met up.

  My heart sank deeper with each email I read and every photograph I saw.

  Having long suspected that Brittany was seeing somebody on the side, I hired Adam to look into it a few weeks before I found those emails.

  “I'm guessing by the look on your fa
ce that you know what I'm going to tell you,” Adam says.

  “Yeah, I do,” I say. “Turns out, your investigation was redundant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I filled him in on the details of the emails and photographs I'd found. He listens and when I'd finished, he whistles low.

  “Damn,” he says. “I'm really sorry to hear that, Liam.”

  “Not nearly as sorry as I am,” I say. “But, thanks.”

  “There is something you're not aware of though,” he says.

  “What's that?”

  “Based on some emails I found, Brittany and Travis were going to try to steal your company out from under you with the intent of selling it and making a fortune for themselves,” he said. “And if they couldn't accomplish that, they were going to siphon off millions. Bleed you dry financially. Then go live out their lives in Bora Bora or another exotic place like that.”

  “Wow. That's ambitious,” I reply dryly. “They're quite the criminal masterminds, aren't they?”

  Adam shrugs. “They apparently like to think they are.”

  I lean back on the couch and take a drink, my mind spinning. I don't speak for a long moment, absorbing everything that I already knew and what Adam had just told me. And although I'm profoundly hurt by it all, there is a strong current of anger – a dark and steadfast anger – coursing through me as well.

  I have been a good and faithful husband to her for almost ten years. I've had plenty of chances to cheat with gorgeous women, but every single time the opportunity had presented itself, I declined. Why? Because I love my wife. I've spent almost a decade trying to be the best husband that I can be. Providing for her. Catering to her every whim and desire. Ever since we got married, Brittany has lived a pampered life, wanting for nothing. It's a life that I've been more than happy to work hard for.

  But now to find out that not only was she having an affair, but was plotting to steal my company and bleed me dry? I honestly don't know how to feel about it. I'm stunned, and more than anything, angry.

  “So, what are you going to do?” Adam asks me.

  I take another drink and shake my head. “Honestly? At this point, I don't have the first clue.”

  “Yeah, I can't even begin to imagine,” he says. “Not that it's any of my business, but do you have a solid prenup? Something that protects you in case of divorce or what have you?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I do,” I say. “It gives her a pretty generous amount of alimony.”

  “If I were you,” Adam says, “I'd talk to my lawyer before you do anything. Lay it all out and see if there's any way that you can void it. What she did is wrong. She shouldn't get that kind of a parting gift. Not after something like this. Assuming that you plan on divorcing her, that is.”

  “I don't see a scenario that doesn't involve divorce,” I say. “I won't ever be able to trust her again.”

  “Talk to your lawyer,” Adam says. “Before you do anything. Before she knows you found out. If you tip her off and she figures out you're moving against her, she could do something stupid. Better to protect yourself.”

  I nod again. “Probably the best way to go,” I say. “Thanks, Adam.”

  “No sweat,” he replies. “I'm just sorry that it came down like this.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

  Paige

  “Thanks, Margo,” I say.

  “No, thank you for getting me a copy,” she beams. “I can't wait to sink my teeth into this one.”

  I hand Margo the bag containing the latest Patricia Cornwell novel. She's been one of the store's most loyal customers for years. She was actually the first customer to ever step through the door of Bookworms, way back in the day when my parents first opened the store. On the wall behind the register, there's even a photo of her with my folks at the grand opening.

  A retired teacher, she's a voracious reader and goes through crime fiction novels like nobody's business. Whenever there is a new release, I always make sure that she gets the first copy that comes in the store. It's a tradition that my folks started. After they passed, and I took over the business, I decided to continue that tradition.

  Margo is not only one of my most loyal customers – she is one of my only customers. The truth is, Bookworms isn't doing so great and hasn't been for years.

  “You really should see about having a book signing with some of these authors,” she says. “I think it would do wonders for your business, Paige.”

  I cut a quick glance around the store and smile to myself. No self-respecting author would come to Port Safira to begin with. They'd be even less likely to come to my store. It's small and cramped. When my folks opened it, they wanted to give it a cozy, intimate feeling. But, over the years, with so many bookshelves, books, and piles of knick-knacks everywhere, the store looks disorganized and more “junkyard chic” than cozy or intimate.

  “That's a good thought,” I say, knowing the likelihood of it happening hovers somewhere between slim and none. “I'll see what I can do, Margo.”

  She smiles widely. “If you can, see if you can get Sue Grafton or Patricia Cornwell in,” she says. “Or maybe Michael Connelly.”

  I laugh. “I'll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, dear,” she says and heads out of the store.

  After the bell tinkles as the door opens and closes behind her, I walk to the front windows of the store and look out at Sapphire Avenue – the main artery that cuts through the middle of town. Thankfully, it's the one thing that hasn't changed around here.

  Port Safira is a growing town but still isn't quite on par with Seattle. Nestled on the Olympic Peninsula, my hometown is still a relatively small place, with just under a quarter of a million residents. I was born here and have seen it change drastically over the last decade. And, in my opinion, not necessarily for the better.

  When the cruise ship industry gained a foothold here, I knew that things were going to go downhill. Once the terminal went up and the money started flowing into the local economy, it wasn't long before hotels started springing up. And then condominiums. And after that came the high-end chain stores and boutiques.

  The Mom-and-Pop shops that were once a staple of my hometown started dying out and becoming extinct. Places like Starbucks and Banana Republic are sprouting up like weeds, while businesses like Donna's Coffee Spot and Fashionably Late – places that have been in existence longer than I've been alive – are being driven out of business.

  Port Safira has always been a blue-collar, middle-class town. It’s not Beverly Hills or even one of the more affluent suburbs around Seattle, but it has always been a nice place. A good place to raise a family. And yet, developers by the score are coming through here, buying up land and gentrifying the hell out of everything. And in the process, pushing a lot of lifelong residents out of town.

  I sigh and look up at the clock. It's almost noon, and I figure that since I'm alone in the store – as I am most days – I might as well close up for a bit and go grab something to eat. Which is pretty much my standard routine most days. It's not like I come back to hordes of people waiting outside the doors to get in.

  When my parents first opened this place, it wasn't with dreams of getting filthy rich. They were both avid readers and thought that sharing that love of reading and the written word was something Port Safira needed. They held events designed to get kids interested in books, always attended local functions and had a booth at the fair. And for a while, the bookstore thrived.

  But, of course, with the proliferation of the Internet, video games, and the slow death of all community events and functions in Port Safira, fewer people are reading. At least, in paperback book form. Most people just download books to their tablets, phones, or e-readers.

  Technology signaled the demise of the brick and mortar bookstores much in the same way these goddamn developers are bringing about the death of everything that had always made Port Safira special. Everything that made it a tight-knit community.

  I s
igh again and shake my head. Thinking about my hometown and what it is becoming never fails to put me in a bleak mood. And the fact that I sit in my bookstore day after day, rarely seeing anybody, doesn't do anything to alleviate that mood.

  Putting the “Be Back Soon” sign in the window, I walk out and lock up behind me. I need something to eat, but more than that, I need human interaction. Something to help snap me out of this foul mood that has me wrapped up tighter than a Christmas present.

  “So, then he tells me that it was somehow my fault,” Skyler spits, genuine anger in her voice. “Can you even believe that?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “You're kidding me.”

  “Not even a bit,” she says. “I walk into his office and catch him with his secretary bent over the desk, and he's just pounding away. They didn’t even notice me for like two full minutes.”

  “That is unreal, hon,” I say.

  “Tell me about it,” she replies. “When I finally get them to notice me –”

  “And how did you do that exactly?” I ask.

  “I threw a bottle through the window, of course,” she says like it's the most obvious, normal thing in the world. And given that it's Skyler, I probably should have expected something like that. She's always had a flair for the dramatic.

  “Of course,” I say.

  “Anyway, it was a scene,” she says. “They're both falling all over themselves to get their clothes on, and all the while, Dean's apologizing and telling me that if I'd been more affectionate, maybe he wouldn't have had to bang his secretary. Yeah, this is my fault.”