Theirs To Share: Theirs To Share, #1

By Layla Valentine and Ana Sparks

One delicious self-made billionaire,

One smoking-hot media mogul,

And one newbie journalist

All wrapped up in one scorching hot power struggle that will set the city on fire

What do normal folk know of what happens between billionaires?

Well I'm about to find out.

Because this time, baby,

Good things really do come in threes…

 

I'm just a newbie reporter, cutting my teeth,

Sent to write an exposé on the hottest billionaire in town,

Or he would be, if my tycoon boss wasn't making me drool at my desk.

They didn't tell me I was just a pawn in their game,

Because these two have a history,

And I'm going to get to the bottom of it.

I'm going to get the old friends and hated rivals back together

And I'm going to be right in the middle of it.

Whether it's off the record, or on top of their desks…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Layla Valentine
• Release date: Jan 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201278229

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

"C ome on, come on."

Squeezing my fingers around my oversized satchel bag, I tap my heel against the floor of the elevator. The anxious tic does nothing to speed things up.

It’s my second week at my first, real adult job. My sixth day. And I’m ten minutes late.

I check the time on my wristwatch, noting the painful tick of the second hand. Finally, finally the door opens with a ding.

Throwing myself onto the sixth floor of the building, which houses the main offices of the Franciscan Tribune, I rush past the shiny front desk and down the hallway. Phones ring, keyboards click, and reporters, editors, and interns exhale headlines like oxygen. It’s the kind of atmosphere I thrive on. It’s what I’ve been spending my whole life looking forward to.

It’s why I can’t screw this up.

Reaching my tiny cubicle in the open-working space, I collapse into my swivel chair and deposit my purse on the carpet. If I’m lucky, no one saw me come in late. If I’m even luckier, no one cares.

Powering up my computer, I surreptitiously scan the room. No one so much as looks my way.

Thank God.

No sooner have I let out a relieved exhale, though, than I feel someone hovering nearby.

Good morning, Noelle, comes the clipped voice.

It’s Graham, my editor. He leans against the fragile cubicle wall, his striped tie falling over the divide. Every muscle in my body freezes.

Good morning. I force a smile. Did he see me come in late?

You look nice today.

The way he says it, it sounds like an insult.

I glance down at my cream-colored pencil skirt, polka-dot blouse, and red heels. There’s nothing inappropriate about my outfit… At least I don’t think so.

But maybe I’m wrong. Four years of college and a year waiting tables didn’t exactly prepare me to dress for success. And it’s street fashion blogs that I get my ideas from.

Maybe I’m too creative with my outfits. Maybe they’re too loud. Or my skirts are too tight.

Or is it my makeup? I shouldn’t have tried out that new smoky eye, dang it! This isn’t a club. This is an office. This is…

The boss wants to see you, Graham says coolly, looking over my head like he’s already bored with me.

Huh?

Yeah. His lips press together. I know. The elusive Ethan Ford Jr. Who even knew he existed, right?

My stomach drops.

Do you know why he wants to see me?

Also, how does he even know who I am? I’m an underling at the paper, a fledgling reporter whose biggest story so far is an article about the local nut festival—a succinct 400-word piece that ran on the last page of the paper, right next to the advertisement for a carpet cleaning service.

Graham shrugs. Didn’t say. But he’s in the boardroom waiting for you.

Before I can pump him for any more information, he’s gone, and I’m left staring at my computer screen.

My hands shake in my lap, and I press them together to get them to stop. Ethan Ford Jr… I’ve done my research on him. He’s a mega-billionaire, born into media royalty. His father, the Ethan Ford most of the world knows best, died several years ago. His son promptly took over most of the family’s assets, including one national paper and numerous smaller ones, the Franciscan Tribune being the most recent one Junior has added to his list.

Though the internet is mostly composed of stats on Ethan Ford’s business success, the hallways and cubicles of the Franciscan Tribune are filled with something else entirely.

Callous. Stifled. Pompous.

Those are the nice adjectives people use to describe Ethan Ford. I’ve never met him myself, but hearing others talk about him hasn’t exactly given me any faith in his possessing a glowing personality.

Closing my eyes, I take in a long, cleansing breath, then stand. As much as I don’t want to go into that boardroom, delaying it will only make things worse.

Hugging a fresh notebook and my phone to my chest, I make the too-short trek to the boardroom. Its longest wall is floor-to-ceiling glass, and as I get closer I see the one person in it. His hands are clasped behind his back and he looks out the window, his back turned to me.

You can do this, Noelle. Just smile and nod. Smile and nod.

Steeling myself, I knock on the boardroom’s open door.

Mr. Ford unclasps his hands and turns around.

And my jaw nearly hits the floor.

The man standing on the other side of the long, polished table is nothing that I expected him to be. While some suits hang loosely on men, hiding their best assets, Mr. Ford’s does the opposite, his tailored outfit accentuating his broad shoulders and firm chest. His hair is dark, his eyes brown and large. A square jaw is covered with just the right amount of stubble—the amount that makes you wonder just what it would feel like to have that stubble scrapping along the inside of your thigh.

Heat fills my face, and I clear my throat. Words, words. I must know a few of them…

Noelle Edwards?

His brow furrows together. Uh-oh. Thirty seconds in the boardroom and I’ve already done something wrong.

I lift my chin, attempting to look confident. Yes, sir.

I’m Ethan Ford.

Yes, sir, I dumbly agree.

He unclasps his hands and gestures at the table.

Have a seat.

We both settle into chairs across from each other. My new boss has been looking at the floor or the table half this time, his forehead lined and a slight frown on his lips. Finally, he looks straight at me.

I have an assignment for you.

I blink in confusion. W-wonderful.

The fact that the owner of the newspaper—someone who I haven’t even seen