Cowboy in Colorado (Fifty States of Love) Read online

  Cowboy In Colorado

  Jasinda Wilder

  Copyright © 2019 by Jasinda Wilder

  COWBOY IN COLORADO

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations. Cover art copyright © 2019 Sarah Hansen.

  Created with Vellum

  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

  Epilogue

  Also by Jasinda Wilder

  1

  “Miss Bellanger?” The voice of my secretary interrupts my train of thought as I review some contract revisions that require my signature.

  “Hmm?” I don’t bother looking up—thinking she probably needs to reschedule some meeting or other.

  “Your father has requested a meeting with you.”

  This breaks me out of my concentration entirely. “He did?”

  Andrea, my secretary, seems hesitant, pensive. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did he say when?”

  “Ummm, now. He just called directly, himself. He’s in his personal conference room.”

  “I suppose he didn’t say what the meeting was about?”

  Andrea looks shocked at the suggestion. “Of course not, ma’am.”

  “No, of course not.” I sigh.

  He probably wants an update on the Coselli project—I’m not the official lead on it, but I am a lead in pretty much every way that matters. I gather my materials on the project, stuff them into my leather portfolio, and head for the private elevator which will take me to Dad’s warren of offices at the top of the Bellanger Tower. I press my thumb to the keypad, wait for it to scan my print and recognize me as authorized for access to the top floor, and then ride up the sixteen floors to the very top. The elevator door opens onto a hushed foyer, brightly lit with natural sunlight from the windows, which stretch from floor to ceiling. The floor is thickly carpeted, the walls are a neutral gray with prints of famous paintings here and there—some of them, like the Monet outside Dad’s personal office, is an original. I’ve always thought this whole top floor is rather understated for the personal offices of Thomas Holden Bellanger—one of the most wealthy and powerful men on the planet, but that’s how Dad likes it. He has no need to impress anyone, and anyway, no one outside his direct, personal staff has access to this floor…and me, of course, being his daughter.

  There’s no one to greet me, no secretary or receptionist—if you make it this far, you know you’re expected and you know where to go. I head for the conference room, a surprisingly small corner of the floor—small, but encased in glass on two sides, allowing for a breathtaking view of Manhattan from up here on the sixtieth floor.

  I take a seat on one side of a conference table which seems to be roughly a mile long—there are doors at each end of the room, and a giant, floor-to-ceiling flat-screen TV on one wall, with a bank of controls and connections on a nearby table to allow for various setups for telecommunication meetings and presentations.

  Why Dad wants to meet me up here, I have no idea. Usually, when he wants a report or an update from me, it’s because he wants my input on something outside my official duties as a senior project manager. As his daughter, I’m being groomed to take over eventually. Usually, those meetings happen in his office, informally. The conference room is formal, for official business—there’s recording software running 24/7, so every meeting that takes place here is on the record.

  At that moment the door opens and James, Dad’s personal assistant, walks in, followed by Dad’s secretary, Harriet, and then Dad himself.

  James Marshall Fenworth III, Esquire is, honestly, one of the single most frighteningly competent and terrifyingly efficient human beings I’ve ever met in my life, and I’ve met two presidents, two White House Chiefs of Staff, and the CEOs of dozens of the most successful companies in the world. Harriet Sheridan isn’t any less scarily efficient—she’s worked for Dad for twenty-five years, has an eidetic memory, and absolutely zero patience for wasted time.

  As his right and left hands, James and Harriet are never present at my update/intel meetings with Dad, so their presence signals that this is definitely not an ordinary, unofficial meeting between me and my dad—rather, if James and Harriet are here, and it’s taking place in the conference room, this is a meeting between Thomas Holden Bellanger, founder, president, and CEO of Bellanger Industries, and me, Brooklyn Bellanger, senior project manager working several pay grades down—and even though I happen to be his daughter, I know this is no ordinary meeting.

  Dad takes the seat at the head of the table and smiles at me. “Hi, honey.”

  I blink slowly, clearing my throat. “Hi, Dad.”

  James sits on Dad’s right, and Harriet on his left, and once they’re settled, Dad glances at James, and they have a silent exchange, and then Dad accepts a file folder from James—my personnel file, I assume. Eeek—this is really official. Something big is happening, and I focus on keeping my heart from hammering out of my chest.

  Finally, he looks up at me. “I’m sure you’re wondering why the formality.”

  I shrug, nod. “It’s a bit out of the ordinary, yes.”

  He nods. “You know very well I’ve long dreamed of being able to pass my position on to you someday, and until then, have you beside me as my second-in-command.”

  “Well, yes, but I always figured that meant, you know, eventually. When I was ready.”

  He frowns. “Do you think I’d bring you up before you’re ready?” he asks. “I’ve been grooming you for this for years. You know this.” He leafs through my file again. “My proposition for you is something you may not initially agree with or even like. But please hear me out.”

  “Okay.”

  “I know you’re expecting me to start you out small, to earn your way to the top and honestly, in my opinion, putting you in as a senior project manager was starting you out small, Brooklyn. But, truthfully, I think your talents are wasted mucking your way up from the bottom. I say this having watched the way you handled yourself at NYU, in your internships, and in your employment experiences outside Bellanger Industries. You are, after all, my daughter. You have proven yourself in the world beyond my control and influence, and now it’s time for you to take on more responsibility. To work for me directly.” He smiles. “I’m not getting any younger, and I would like to be able to, if not exactly retire, scale back my involvement in day-to-day affairs, knowing Bellanger Industries is in the capable hands of a Bellanger—yours, my dear.”

  My heart skips. “Really?”

  “I’m not throwing you into the VP office just yet, darling, so don’t worry.” He grins, knowing that’s what I would assume, and knowing too that I don’t feel quite ready for that just yet, being only a few years out from my MBA in Business at NYU. “I’m thinking real estate. That arm of the business is…not suffering, but not doing as well as it should. It needs a more creative and forward-t
hinking mind at the helm.” He accepts a different folder from Harriet, and hands it to me—it’s a portfolio of real estate holdings owned, operated, and developed by Bellanger Real Estate Development, along with projects in various stages of completion.

  “We have projects of all kinds under development, across the world, and here in New York. Big ones, small ones, lucrative ones—pedestrian ones…” His eyes go to mine. “I need someone with the…forgive the expression, dear, but—the balls to take on new and exciting and daring ideas.”

  I could see where he was going with this. “You want me as your risk-taker.”

  He smiles. “Indeed. You will answer to me, and to James in my absence. You will have a discretionary fund at your disposal, and you will be required to find, pitch, and develop your own projects. You may have a select number of my employees moved over to work for you, but you are responsible. You know my expectations where risky ventures are concerned, and I think you share my viewpoint on such things.”

  “There’s no reward without risk, but risks must be carefully calculated,” I answer.

  He nods. “Precisely.” He smiles at me, and I know that smile—a tiny little mischievous twist of his lips; it meant he had something else up his sleeve. “You realize this will be a test for you, don’t you?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning BRED—” the in-house acronym for the real estate arm, “has been operating without a permanent leader for some time. The person currently heading it is able to run it perfectly well, and it is profitable, but he’s not a forward thinker, nor is he creative. He chooses projects that are sure to succeed, within his scope of experience.” He taps my portfolio—which includes the list of projects I’ve worked on, as an intern, as a new hire at a different firm right out of NYU, and then as senior project manager here. “You were not lead on any of these, obviously, but I see your fingerprints all over each of them. Location, architect, certain stylistic and functionality elements…you have talent, and all you need now is room to really stretch your wings, a little—to be creative. And to do that, you have to have room to fail.”

  “Dad, I—”

  “So, you will work for me on a probationary status—I’ll be watching. I’ll be there to guide as necessary. But you’ll have the full weight of my expectations, because you’ll be playing with my money—my personal money, rather than business capital.” He pauses. “Prove yourself to me, and you’ll be CEO of Bellanger Real Estate Development before you can blink.” A slow grin. “And, assuming you succeed in this, which you will, of course, you’ll be up there in a matter of a few years—” He points at the adjoining wall, meaning the office of the vice president of Bellanger Industries. I know he’s always wanted to see me there—and it’s where I’ve always wanted to end up, I just hadn’t expected to see that office being so attainable so soon.

  I suck in a breath. “This is not what I was expecting this morning, Dad.”

  “I know.” He shakes his head. “I’m not going to play games, Brooklyn. I don’t have the patience for such things. I’ve spent the last ten years of your life readying you to work with me—” He taps the table in emphasis. “With me, Brooklyn, not just for me.”

  I sigh, nodding. “I know. I should’ve known you’d have other ideas than to let me slog through the ranks.”

  He nods, grinning. “I’m glad you see this from my point of view. I’ll leave James and Harriet to fill you in on the details. James will draw up the contract for you; fill you in on the particulars. I’ll expect your first pitch within…say, two weeks?”

  I blink at him—or rather, at his receding back, his broad shoulders, salt-sprinkled brown hair. Two weeks? To pick my team, decide on a project, and work up a pitch for him? I stare at James, who reads my mind, it seems; that’s not enough time. But that’s Dad, for you: load you up with privilege and responsibility, and then expect the world from you. Funny thing is, it works.

  “Two weeks. Spend most of that choosing your team. We have compiled a list for you, of the most talented and promising individuals from our roster—keep your team small, would be my advice, a dozen people, at most.” He slides over a folder containing the details of my new job.

  I read it over—the sum Dad is allowing me to work with is…mind boggling. I don’t expect to use it all on the first job, of course. Start small, get my feet wet as the lead. I have two quarters to develop the first project, and I’m expected to have at least three projects finished within the first two years. It’s an aggressive schedule, and a sign that he wants to me stay small and focus on quality rather than scrabble hard and fast for the biggest numbers.

  James passes me another folder, this one much thicker, containing the entire list of development projects in process or recently completed, as well the pitches on the table being considered—research, so I know what to look for and what to pitch. He wants something outside the box.

  I sign the contract, slide it back to James, and gather the materials he’s given me. “I’d best get to work then, hadn’t I?”

  He nods, and then tilts his head to one side. “Would you like to see your new office?”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Office? I get a new office?”

  He chuckles. “You get several. Most of a floor, in fact. The contract with the company leasing floor space in this building expired, leaving that space open. Mr. Bellanger has allotted it for your use. A corner office, three smaller offices, a kitchen, a break room, a multi-use flex space, and a conference room, its own receptionist desk.” He slides over a set of keys. “Follow me.”

  Three stories down from Dad’s top-floor warren, I have my own little corner of office space. As we get there, I see that the space is partitioned off as a separate set of offices—the previous tenants’ branding has been removed, and Dad has had his people stencil “Bellanger Real Estate Development” on the door, with his logo, and my name in all capital letters beneath it.

  I frown at James as we pause at the door. “My name is already on the door?”

  James smirks, shrugs. “He’s been anticipating this for some time.”

  I sigh. “Figures. Dad is always ten steps ahead.”

  James laughs. “Ten? Try fifteen or twenty.”

  “So he knew I’d want this opportunity, and he got this ready for me.”

  “The list of staff I’ve given you were handpicked by your father to work with you—to work for you. When you’re CEO, they will be your team, and these next few years will be your trial by fire as a unit.”

  “So, no pressure.”

  James narrows his eyes at me as I unlock the office door. “I understand that you’re kidding, Brooklyn, but make no mistake—there is pressure. A lot of it. And expectations—very high ones. CEO of real estate within two years, vice president of Bellanger Industries in five…” His pale blue eyes fix on mine. “President and CEO before you’re forty.”

  “And it all starts here,” I say, and my eyes wander over my new offices—my new world.

  Yeah. No pressure.

  Right.

  2

  I’m the first one to take a seat at the conference table—it’s a week since my meeting with Dad wherein I received a massive promotion—along with the expectation of a bold, daring development pitch due in…eight days. I can’t just throw anything at Dad, however. It has to be a targeted, decisive, insightful, creative idea—if he wanted another beachside condo complex, he’d go to Brian, the current president of BRED. I’m Dad’s specific, personal pick to choose projects that will be out in left field, risky but ultimately profitable, and unique. So far, I’ve spent a week choosing my team, getting to know them, and assigning them roles. We’ve had one brief meeting where we tossed around ideas, but nothing stuck. This meeting, though—we have to choose an idea today, and it has to wow me.

  After a minute alone in the conference room, my team assembles—Tina, my PA; Jeremy, my second-in-command; the rest of the team shares duties, attaining permits, location research, finances, in-house accoun
ting…all the many duties and responsibilities which go into real estate development.

  Once everyone is settled, I smile at the group. “So. Ideas. Our pitch is due in eight days, including the weekend.” I eye everyone. “Anyone?”

  “Obviously the usual suspects are off the table?” This is Tom, a resources coordinator. “Condos, strip malls, things like that?”

  I snort. “Yes, obviously. The idea has to be unique and daring, but still something we can turn a profit out of.”

  Silence.

  “A totally green condo?” suggests Eric, an accounting guru.

  I laugh. “I am in no way ready to take that on, and that’s not daring, that’s obvious, just hard.”

  “A water park?” Tom again. “But, like, themed?”

  I don’t even dignify that with a response.

  “What about an all-inclusive resort?” This is Tina, my new personal assistant. “Somewhere like Costa Rica or Belize. I’ve been to a couple of those with my family and I’ve always thought there could be really good money in owning one.”

  Jeremy, who I’ve decided will be my second-in-command, shakes his head. “Not far enough outside the box. BRED has resort hotels in Miami, Ft. Lauderdale, the Keys…if he wanted to do an all-inclusive, he’d have done it already.”

  Jeremy is young, hungry, smart, good-looking, well-educated, well-dressed, straight, successful…and is always looking at me sideways as if wondering when the inevitable will happen between us. Problem for him is, I have no intention of dipping into the company roster, especially if this is going to be my core team as I move up the ranks; I’ll have to set things straight with him at some point.