Bound To You

Millionaire's Row - 1

Vanessa Booke


Mom, thank you for being my number one cheerleader and for being the source of why I love Romantic Fiction so much. Thank you for everything you’ve done and will do for me. I can never say that enough. Melinda and NJ, thank you for encouraging me to keep going and for your feedback on all of my writing. I’m proud to call you my friends. I wish you both the best in your careers. To my editor, Carolyn, thank you for working with me on such short notice. I really appreciate the work you did for this book. I’m glad I found a gem like you. To my readers, thank you for buying this book and for taking a chance on me. I’ve often found that people who have potential sometimes need a chance or opportunity to let themselves shine. So thank you for giving me this chance. Dear husband, thank you for putting up with me. Seriously, thank you. I know I can be moody when I’m writing or when I’m trying to explain my ideas. Thank you for always being encouraging, funny, uplifting, and the only thing that keeps me anchored in this crazy and sometimes fucked up world. You’re the moon of my life. My sun and stars. My Mr. Darcy. I’m so lucky to have found you. Remember, when you read this I get extra brownie points that I can cash in for you doing the dishes. ;)


He’s cheating on me with her? My hand burns as I slug the tall blonde in front of me right across her collagen-injected face. A smile of satisfaction spreads across mine as blood gushes from her nose like a busted faucet. She leaps back, falling, as she clutches for the bed behind her. Her almost too symmetrical tits bounce as she lands with a loud thud on her ass. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as she leans against the bed, clutching her nose. I’m shaking, but I’m ready for more. A furnace of rage burns through me as she sneers at me and mutters the word bitch under her breath. I’m usually not in the habit of punching people I don’t know, but I’m ready to do it again.

“Rebecca, stop!” Miles scrambles toward me as he pulls his pants up like the floor is on fire. His honey colored eyes stare back at me in disbelief as he assesses the carnage that’s ensued. It was only an hour ago that I was on my way to his apartment to celebrate our anniversary together. The last thing I expected was to find him here with another woman.

“Who is she?” I snap. I can’t stand to look at him, and at the same time I can’t look away. His usually silky brown hair is disheveled into a messy flop of fuck-me hair. The overpowering amount of evidence sends a wave of nausea right through me. You’re disgusting.

“She’s my co-worker on the show.” The realization of who she is hits me as I look down at her petite frame leaning against the bed. She plays his love interest on the show Future Outlaw. It’s the TV series Miles has been working on. He’s described it as a fictional reimagining of Jesse James with time traveling cowboys fighting off the Italian Mafia. I’ve only been able to watch a couple of episodes because I’ve been so busy filling out grad school applications, but I’m shocked I didn’t immediately recognize her. Apparently, the lines of reality and make believe have been blurred, because a minute ago I walked in on the two of them fucking like cats in heat.

“Becca, are you okay?” His voice is full of concern but it’s meaningless.

Miles steps closer, snapping me back to reality. I don’t want him anywhere near me. The truth of his betrayal confounds me. It didn’t take me long to realize something was terribly and utterly wrong from the moment I stepped into the apartment. There were rose petals meshed against the carpet leading to the bedroom, a bottle of wine sitting on the dining room table, and a note sitting on the stand in the hallway. I was surprised by Miles’ overly romantic gesture. It’s not his style. He’s simplistic and so unromantic. He’s never bought me flowers and I’ve always been stupid enough to tell him that I don’t care for them, when the truth is I love them. I was enjoying my ignorant bliss up until the point where I heard a sensual giggle echo behind the double doors of Miles’ bedroom.

“Rebecca, it just happened,” Miles starts to say. Just happened?

“So your dick just happened to fall into her?” I ask.

“He’s been fucking me for a while,” Scarlett says, standing back up. “He said he was tired of fucking you. Too much baggage.” She smirks as she gives me a once over. “ You’re a lot bigger than I imagined. He said you were curvy,” she says with a smile. “But I think he was just trying to be nice…”


It’s been three weeks, 21 days and 504 hours since I last saw and spoke with my cheating ex-fiancé, Miles. Since the brutal encounter with Scarlett and him, I’ve been seeing two new men in my life. The first is Ben and the second is Jerry. They’re sweet, dependable, and they know just the right spots to hit. The sad part is, they’re not real. Nope, I’ve been having a three-week affair with several different pints of ice cream. I know, the scandal! Everything from Americone Dream to Milk and Cookies. The only thing to break me out of this endless loop of misery is an e-mail that I received yesterday.

To: Rebecca Gellar


Subject: Interview Invitation

“Ms. Gellar,

It is with great pleasure that we invite you to come in for an interview for a position at StoneHaven Publishing Co…”

I re-read the email over and over, letting reality set in a little more each time. The obsessive part of me has compulsively checked my inbox every five minutes, deathly afraid that the email will magically disappear. I’ve even forwarded it to two different emails, just to make sure I’m not dreaming it up. Everything is going exactly how I hoped for. I’m moving to New York and now I have an interview for my dream job. This is really happening. The past four years of working my ass off has finally paid off.

StoneHaven Publishing Co. is one of New York's oldest and most respected independent publishers. They’re well known for their debut authors and I haven’t seen one that hasn’t become a bestseller on any of the major lists - NY Times, USA Today, and Publisher’s Weekly. The thought of potentially working with one of them sends a warm rush of excitement through me. I have to admit I love the written word. There’s just something about reading a story that makes me happier than anything else in the world. Even chocolate. And for me that says a lot, because I love my chocolate. My hips even agree.

The timing of this email literally couldn’t be any more perfect. In less than two days, I’ll be on my way to the Big Apple. Carol Livingston, my best friend and college roommate, whom I haven’t seen in over two years, will be picking me up at the airport, and then my new life begins.

“You know, you don’t really have to move all the way to New York City,” Mom says, slowly unzipping my hideous pink suitcase covered in glittered Hello Kitty stickers. As much as I want to, I can’t get rid of the bag – my grandmother gave it to me. She has a thing for cats and the color pink, and the fusion of them together equaled my college graduation gift.

My mother isn’t the sort of woman to be in her pajamas all day. She’s always quick to get dolled up, even if it’s just her and me in the house, so I’m pretty sure this current choice of outfit is an open protest to me going to New York. It’s 1 o’clock in the afternoon and she’s still wearing her overnight pajamas, fluffy pink slippers, and her baby blue curlers. It’s the 21st century, but I still can’t convince her to use an actual curling iron for her hair.

I’ve been trying to avoid the “goodbye” conversation for the past week. I sort of sprang moving across the country on mom and she’s still upset with me. Despite the fact that I’m 24, she still acts like an overprotective mother bear. I’m pretty sure the only reason she hasn’t locked me in my room is because my father convinced her to be civil with me while he’s away. He’s a truck driver, and most weeks he’s driving up to Northern California, delivering barrels of wine to local restaurants.

For the past week, my mother’s been trying to convince me not to leave Los Angeles. She’s told, asked, and even pleaded with me to stay. There’s no convincing her that this is the right move, and there’s no convincing me that it isn’t. Dad always tells me that I got my stubbornness from her. I think he might be right. We’re both relentless in our nature.

“I know you’re worried,” I say, grabbing the last pile of outfits off my bed and stuffing my phone back into my pocket. There isn’t enough time in the world to try to explain to her why I needed to leave California ASAP.

“Of course I am. I don’t understand why you’re moving across the world?”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“I’m not, I think you should stay and find work here. You won’t like it in New York.”

“This is a great opportunity. I’m surprised you’re against it, you always told me to go for my dreams,” I say. “And you were always the one saying how living in New York was such a big deal for you when you were my age.”

“I think it’s great you’re going after your dreams, Rebecca, but I just wish that meant you living in Los Angeles. How do you know if you’ll even like New York?”