Just Stay: The Big Apple Billionaires Series, #4

By Evelyn Jeannie Hall

Taking her on as a roommate may be the best—and worst—thing he could ever do.

 

When Wyatt Ahn offers to share his place with Chelsea Porter, a friend and his best bud's former childcare expert, he does it to help her in a time of need. Little does he know that doing so will tempt him in ways he never even contemplated.

 

Chelsea has suffered so many setbacks it's amazing she's still standing. From a terrifying and permanent injury to losing the future she already had in the works, it takes all her strength to go on. Wyatt's kindness arrives in the nick of time but being in such close proximity with him carries consequences all its own.

 

There are a million reasons why they shouldn't get together—an eleven-year age difference, her precarious situation, not to mention a massive lie of omission—but once they give in to their hidden passion, there's no going back.

 

Will their relationship survive the steep odds against them, or will rising pressures prove to separate them for good?

 

WARNING: This story contains a tatted yet introverted Taekwondo master, a tough girl amputee, a rescue tomcat with adorably folded ears, and a NSFW scene on top of a crotch rocket.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evelyn Jeannie Hall
• Release date: May 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9798223383079

Book preview

One: Future So Bright

AUGUST

The whole world had been laid at Chelsea Porter’s feet like a royal fucking banquet. Granted, she might be currently situated in the backseat of her parents’ aging rattletrap of a Mazda sedan, but her future was so bright she needed those proverbial shades.

She’d graduated summa cum laude with her master’s from Queens College CUNY three months ago, had her first official position as a child psychologist lined up, and would be able to maintain her part-time childcare gig with the Graydons every other weekend.

At twenty-five, her ship had finally come in, and life was about to get crazy sweet.

In ten days, Chelsea would be having her cake and eating it, too. Helping underprivileged inner-city kids at an at-risk public elementary school had been her dream for years, and now she’d be able to establish herself in that job while continuing to spend time with her favorite charges ever. She adored the four-year-old Vienna Graydon—Vee for short—and her baby sister Journee as well as the girls’ parents, Sean and Elizabeth.  

The Graydons were all sunshine and daisies, quite unlike her own more dysfunctional family.  

I still think you should go into nursing, Beatrice Porter nagged her little sister Olivia for what had to be the seventy-fifth time, her too-long blonde bangs catching on her pale eyelashes. That’s a career with real job security. You’ll never be out of work as a nurse. Allonzo, back me up.

Chelsea’s dad raised his hand and rubbed at his neck, the pale patch of an inch-long burn he’d sustained as a kid standing out against his dark brown skin. As usual, he acted as though he’d gone deaf and mute. This had been his response to his wife’s incessant hounding for as long as Chelsea could remember. Beatrice didn’t seem to understand that the more desperately she demanded to be the center of attention, the more they’d either ignore her—like Allonzo—or keep their distance, like her two daughters.

Anytime Chelsea and Olivia had failed to keep their distance, their mother’s behavior would become even more challenging to tolerate. Not lashing out at a woman who thought it perfectly acceptable to follow her adult daughters into the bathroom or to repeatedly insert herself into the private whispered conversations she and Livy would try to have when Chelsea came home for a visit proved difficult.

Helping to heal others is so noble, Beatrice went on, moving the rearview mirror so she could pinion Olivia with her blue-gray gaze. And no matter where you go, they need those positions filled. Nurses are—

"Mother, I’m going to be an effing journalist, and that’s final," Olivia snapped, her soprano voice pinging through the interior of their car like a cathedral bell.

Don’t curse, Beatrice chided her youngest as if that had been the point of contention in the first place.

Didn’t even drop the real f-bomb, Livy muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes in her big sister’s direction, and Chelsea patted her leg in sympathy.

Ever since she could remember, this was how all such conversations went. Beatrice pushing and pushing until the components reached critical mass and exploded, all while their dad remained tacitly silent. It hadn’t helped that the house they’d always rented in Upstate New York had basically been a shoebox. Despite her dad’s two and a half decades as a life insurance salesman, all while her mom dabbled with things like Mary Kay or Pampered Chef, they lived paycheck to paycheck.

How her parents stayed married baffled her.

But you were so good when your father sliced his leg open that time, Beatrice dove right back in.

Chelsea often wondered if her mother was hard-headed or simply oblivious to the affect she had on everyone around her. Beatrice’s propensity to repeat herself—she’d told and retold the fillet knife story at least fifty times over even though they’d all been there—also grew tiresome. Her sister peered straight up through the car’s opaque roof like she needed to pray for patience, then glanced at Chelsea pointedly.

Have you told Mom and Dad about your fancy new office, Chels? It sounds so extra.

Chelsea had started to talk about it, but then her mom had started in on Livy about the nurse thing. Still, she’d try again.

It has its own mini-fridge so I can keep bottles of water and juice for the students who come to see me. And there are all sorts of therapeutic games and toys. It’s going to be awesome.

She could hear the excitement in her own voice. It’d taken her years of evening classes to get to this place in her life. But at last, she’d made it. Even better, Olivia would be attending her alma mater, they’d just come from her freshman orientation. Having her no longer living four hours away would be so nice. Also, her little sister was one of the few who knew about Chelsea’s thing with Wyatt.

Ah, Wyatt.

Her boss’s best bud. Vee and Journee’s godfather. An introverted, sweet, and somewhat geeky app developer who practiced Taekwondo. And one of the most scrumptious men alive. Her appreciation of him—okay, it might’ve been a crush—had transformed over the years into camaraderie and friendship. Chelsea had even become dependent on him stepping in to watch Vee during those times Sean needed her to stay late when she couldn’t.

Wyatt Ahn was a treasure.

Not to mention blazing hot.

These days, though, she tried not to notice said hotness since it would complicate matters between them. She had no desire to repeat the time they’d each become tipsy at the Graydon’s most recent Fourth of July bash. Not the fun part of him openly flirting with her—his obsidian eyes ogling her like he’d yearned to pounce—or the not so fun result of him avoiding her for a solid month afterward.

Chelsea had discussed the issue with her besties, the three other women who shared the confines of their studio apartment. Known as the Bitches around campus, they all hung out, confided in, and commiserated about their lives to one another.

Roni, Mona, and Charlotte knew all about Wyatt, and they weren’t remotely shy about ponying up their advice.

Bitch, better fuck him while the fucking’s good, Roni had admonished her more than once. And when she hadn’t immediately reported back from any good fucking, Roni had chastised her. Come on! This silly nanny gig isn’t gonna last much longer. Get your freak on already.

What? With a baby and a small child in the next room?

So go to his place, then, Roni waved off her extremely valid objections. He lives there in the same building, right?

Wyatt did live in the same building. In fact, he resided a mere two floors above the Graydons. Not that Chelsea deigned to confirm this. Roni had always been about going big or going home and damning the consequences if that strategy backfired. But Chelsea couldn’t afford to take such chances even if she’d wanted to. Anything that might jeopardize her good standing with Sean and Elizabeth was out of the question.

Mona had been curious about his Taekwondo. Or rather, the body she claimed he must have because of it. You need to sneak your quick little hand under that robe of his and rip it off. Find out just how much of a man you’ve got. No sense feeling conflicted if he doesn’t even have the merchandise you’re looking for.

Charlotte had been slightly classier about it. Emphasis on slightly. You said he has tattoos, yeah?

One tattoo, as far as I know, Chelsea corrected her. On his left bicep. I only caught a glimpse of something red.

That hadn’t been strictly true. She’d spotted what she was relatively certain to be some sort of spiky bestial tail. But ever since she’d mentioned his ink, Charlotte had made it sound like Wyatt must be some sort of secret bad boy. Chelsea hadn’t witnessed any evidence of that, but she couldn’t quite get the notion out of her head, either.

Or out of her naughtiest and most panty-melting dreams.

But then she’d caught Wyatt bullshitting with Sean and cheering Vienna on as she showed him her latest try at a somersault. The man had even been burping Journee on his shoulder, for Christ sakes. He’d been so at ease with the Graydons that day until she’d stepped through the door. Then, as soon as he’d made eye contact with her, he’d averted his gaze. It made Chelsea doubt herself. What if her memory of him flirting with her had been faulty? She’d been drinking after all.

What if in her head, she’d exaggerated that entire scene? Or what if she’d been the one to come onto him, and he hadn’t been interested?

Before she could process that depressing thought again, Chelsea was jarred back to the present by the sound of screeching tires. As they crossed over the Queensboro Bridge, a sprinter van zoomed up beside them on the left, nearly clipping their front bumper.

Her dad slammed on the brakes, making Chelsea’s breastbone thwack into her seatbelt.

What the hell that fool think he’s doing? her dad grumbled out, his eyes flicking to each of his mirrors in turn as the van proceeded to zigzag haphazardly across all four lanes of traffic.

The sprinter van next did a three-sixty further up, spinning out. Vehicles honked and spread out like dominoes as they attempted to miss it. But then the semi-truck in the far right lane swerved, causing it to careen right towards their Mazda.

Allonzo! Beatrice shrieked just as the sleeper section of the eighteen-wheeler sidled within inches of their much smaller car.

The sedan fishtailed as her dad screeched to a halt and several cars skidded out of control around them, some smashing into each other. But the semi’s trailer continued to veer sideways, bearing down on their little car, the long white rectangular mass heading straight for them.

As Chelsea screamed, others screamed, too, while this horrendous squeal of metal clashing with metal resounded around her. Fragments of glass showered down upon her—the window, part of her consciousness recognized—accompanied by the distinct biting tang of burning rubber and gasoline. She tasted blood and felt a pain so excruciating that everything in her periphery flickered like a dying match and went out.

And then, she sensed nothing at all.

Two: Phantom Pains

FEBRUARY: Six Months Later

As the crushing pain sliced into her left foot—ironic since she no longer possessed a left foot—Chelsea hissed and unlocked the deadbolt to her apartment as quickly as possible. Once inside, she threw her retrieved mail on the floor, attempting to breathe through the agony of what her doctors and physical therapists termed phantom pains. To her, the phrase sounded like something imagined, but there was nothing fucking made-up about what she suffered.

It felt as if someone had taken five different screwdrivers and was drilling into the top of her foot to bore through skin, veins, muscles, and bone. None of which existed anymore. But as much as she told her mind that this was a false sensation, her stupid body and stupider brain refused to believe her.

Okay, maybe she shouldn’t blame her body and brain for that giant truck slamming into her parent’s hunk of junk like it was a goddamn tinker toy. But her nervous system short-circuiting sure as hell didn’t make dealing with the consequences a piece of cake.

So, following the advice of her original physiotherapist, she crossed over to the specially made mirror box situated by her bathroom door. Reaching under the long skirt she’d worn, she removed her prosthetic and stood in front of the mirror, trying to ignore the searing agony.

She concentrated on her reflected image, one that displayed her body as whole again, then knelt and rubbed along her shin and ankle, massaging downwards until she reached her foot. At first, the staggering awfulness continued, but slowly, little by little, as she focused all her attention on the image of herself rubbing her foot, it grew less intense. Eventually, the torture ceased.

The visual trick had worked this time, thank anything that might possibly be holy.

Still inhaling and exhaling harder than she should’ve been, she leaned forward to pick up her abandoned prosthetic leg, but then lost her balance. Before she could arrest her momentum, she crashed right into the shiny sealed cement of the floor. Stifling her yelp, she flipped over on her side, her hip now throbbing like a speaker at a techno concert. That would probably become a nice big bruise.

Dammit.

She’d already been having a shitty time lately. The women she’d thought were her besties had one by one moved out. First Mona. Then Charlotte. And finally, Roni. The first two had made excuses and acted super apologetic when it had all gone down a couple of months back. They’d sworn to spread the word about Chelsea needing more roommates while also making noise about stopping by on the regular to keep in touch.

Roni—the friend she’d always considered herself closest to since they had similar backgrounds—had left a week after the others to go cohabitate with her boyfriend. She too had promised to stay in contact and even that she’d call to make lunch plans with her within the next few days. She’d hugged Chelsea, sniffled, shed one undeniably pretty tear, and trundled out.

Chelsea had heard from exactly none of them since.

Not. One.

At first, she chalked that up to them being busy. Mona and Charlotte had just embarked on the jobs of their dreams. And Roni would be in the honeymoon stage of her new relationship—brand spanking new since they’d only met a month before she’d moved out—so Chelsea had waited, not wanting to bug them. Then, she lobbed out a group text.

She even kept things cute to hide how much having those three leave her high and dry had hurt both her heart and her pocketbook.

Chelsea: Hey, ladies. Hope your fresh digs are awesome. Send pics pronto!

The next day, she sent another.

Chelsea: Text or call when you get a chance, por favor and s’il vous plait. Miss you. *blue heart emoji*

Two days later, she typed out a third.

Chelsea: Whoa, where my Bitches at?

She received back absolutely nothing. Zilch. Nil. Nada. Her three best friends had straight-up ghosted her ass. Initially, she’d been shocked over this, but as time passed, her shock devolved into bitterness. In hindsight, she could detect other signs of this predictive behavior. They hadn’t visited her much in the hospital, for instance.

Chelsea had initially blamed this on the gruesomeness of her appearance early on. She’d looked like she’d gone fifteen rounds with Clubber Lang, and who’d want to chat about career beginnings and boys around that? Then, after three months of recovery and rehabilitation, she’d gone home to find them absent a lot.

Like, significantly more than usual.

And anytime she’d donned or doffed her prosthesis in front of them, they’d jerk their faces to the side as if Medusa might turn them to stone. She’d even noticed Roni actively brandishing her gag me with a spoon gesture behind her back at the other two, who’d visibly shuddered before muffling their snorts of derision.

Nice.

Turned out, the Bitches really were bitches after all.

As Chelsea pushed herself into a seated position, she found the pile of mail she’d unceremoniously dumped on her way in. It wasn’t like she had anyone else around to complain about the mess. All but one piece of it appeared to be junk, and as her eyes zeroed in on that single sheet of tri-folded and expensive feeling paper, some instinct had her flipping it open in a rush. The letter had come from her building’s owners.

Verdant Real Estate Corporation

P. O. Box 12221

New York, NY  10001

NOTICE OF EVICTION

To the residents of unit 3429:

Due to your lack of timely payment, your status has been deemed DELINQUENT. As such, you have lost your privilege to reside on these premises. To avoid any law enforcement entanglements, we suggest that you have your belongings removed from the residence prior to the date listed below.

Chelsea read the highlighted portion at the bottom which stated she must vacate within the next five days. Five fucking days. Not even a full week.

Stunned into numbness, she remained perched there in the middle of the floor. Despite her humble abode’s lack of square footage, it’d seemed so much larger than it had when her so-called BFFs had lived there with her. But not in a good way. No. At this moment, it felt empty. Hollow.

Lonely.

Tempted to rip the letter to shreds, she instead jabbed it into the pocket of her skirt. Chelsea had known she was behind on the rent. Despite her posts advertising for a roommate online, she’d only shown the place to a handful of hopefuls. Yet ultimately, none of those nibbles had taken her up on it. Seemed sharing a tiny studio devoid of walls and privacy with a total stranger didn’t prove to be most people’s cup of tea. She understood. Chelsea herself had only tolerated this sardine tin because she’d lived here with her best friends.

And side note: every square foot of the Verdant Gardens complex reeked of rotten eggs.

The irony of this was not lost on Chelsea.

This current disaster appeared to simply be the direction her life had chosen to go. First, the accident had stolen her leg above the knee, her capacity to breathe due to a rib puncturing her lung, and her ability to maintain her equilibrium due to a corresponding concussion. Next, being out of commission for months had cost Chelsea her child psychologist gig. Then, all that time spent in hospitals, treatment facilities, and physical therapy meant her medical bills were a shitshow.

She had no means of paying those bills, or for the roof over her head, either.

A roof she’d be losing in five motherfucking days.

And it wasn’t like her parents or Olivia could help. Her folks made squat financially, and her younger sister was a broke college student just like Chelsea had once been. So her next stop would probably be either a shelter or a cardboard box. But people could come back from being homeless, right? Hadn’t she read a success story about that in the Huffington Post?

It’ll be all right somehow, she told herself, even as her throat constricted and the back of her eyes and nose started to burn. It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.

Chelsea had grown up being the resourceful one in her family. The tough chick. The levelheaded go-getter. The optimistic friend everyone confided their troubles to. The A+ student who wouldn’t let anything defeat her. But now she saw all that in a much darker light. What if the Universe kept the hits right on coming because she’d seemed able to take them on the chin and hop back up for more?

Another phantom pain lightninged through her absent foot as if in answer, and like the straw that broke the camel’s back, she collapsed under the pressure. Giving in to the sorrow, betrayal, frustration, and anguish, she started to cry like she hadn’t in years, if ever. She cried so hard that her entire frame shook, so hard that the sound of it reverberated off the walls like the howls of a fatally wounded animal.

Chelsea was still on the polished cement sobbing her eyes out when the buzzer issued from her door. It was an old buzzer and aggravatingly loud, letting her know that someone wanted to come upstairs.

Yeah, no. Now was not the best time.

Therefore, she ignored it.

No one she might want to see would be calling, anyway. It wouldn’t be any of the members of her family or the Graydons because none of them were aware of just how horrible her situation had become. It obviously wouldn’t be any of the Bitches. And if some salesperson had the balls to interrupt her while in such a state, they could just fuck right off.

The only problem