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  Bound To Steele

  Coco Miller

  COCO MILLER ROMANCE

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  Copyright © 2020 Coco Miller

  All rights reserved.

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  License Note

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real events, people, or places is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any format without the permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review.

  This book contains mature content, including graphic sex. Please do not continue reading if you are under the age of 18 or if this type of content is disturbing to you.

  Contents

  Books By Coco

  Introduction

  Prologue

  1. Zola

  2. Easton

  3. Zola

  4. Easton

  5. Zola

  6. Easton

  7. Zola

  8. Easton

  9. Zola

  10. Easton

  11. Zola

  12. Easton

  13. Zola

  14. Easton

  Epilogue

  Also By Coco Miller

  Books By Coco

  Big City Billionaires

  Faking For Mr. Pope

  Virgin Escort For Mr. Vaughn

  Pretending for Mr. Parker

  Red Bratva Billionaires

  MAXIM

  SERGEI

  VIKTOR

  The Overwatch Division

  WYATT

  ASA

  CESAR

  Andolini Crime Family

  CARMINE

  GIOVANNI

  UMBERTO

  Introduction

  The moment I laid eyes on Zola, I knew my life would changed completely…

  Call it an epiphany, fate, destiny, or whatever. All I know is that I have to have her, and thankfully I know how to make that happen.

  I need to get married before my twenty-ninth birthday, and she needs her debt paid. It could be a win-win for the both of us, only I am falling head over heels in love with her, and she’s fighting me every step of the way.

  We kiss, she pulls away.

  We laugh, she gets angry.

  I take control, she fights me.

  I get it… she’s been hurt, but all I want to do is fix it. The arrangement may be a façade, but my feelings for her are real.

  Will she ever stop pushing me away and become the real Mrs. Steele, or was this ill-fated plan doomed from the start?

  Prologue

  Zola

  My palm sweats against the steering wheel as the car slides to the stop on the side of the road. I shiver when a huge semi−truck blares right by me, vibrating my car from its power. The weather channel said a slight chance of flurries, not a blizzard. I can’t see two feet in front of me from the curtains of snow falling.

  I would never have thought about driving if I knew the ice on the road would be so bad. The car can barely drive ten miles without sputtering to a stop, and I have to pour water into the radiator. At least, I hope it’s the radiator I am pouring it into. Google helps with that since affording a mechanic is out of the question.

  Fresh out of college and finding a job left me struggling to make ends meet. I’ve been pulling late shifts at the local diner and it isn’t enough. I’m tired of living out a backpack and sleeping in a hotel room.

  And it isn’t the five−star kind.

  It’s hard not to get defeated when it seems like the world is against you every step of the way. Sighing, my head falls back against the headrest, and I close my eyes to try and relax my racing heart. I never imagined my life like this. No one does, I guess. I imagined being in some tall tower made of glass overlooking a busy city, wearing a pantsuit, and drinking a cup of coffee before planning my day as a marketing executive.

  So much for that.

  Every day that goes by without success is a day I grow a little more bitter and angry and tired. I’m so tired. Checking my reflection in the rearview, I wipe the pool of tears gathering under my lashes and check my side mirror to make sure no cars are coming. Inching my way onto the road, I click the hazard lights on and take my time going down the road.

  A horn honks behind me, and when I glance in the rearview mirror, all I see are two headlights blinding me.

  “What in the world? Go around me then,” I roll down the window, allowing the frigid cold in the car along with a few snowflakes. I stick my hand out the window to tell them to pass, which is insane considering the road conditions and wave at him. The truck accelerates by me, bringing harsh wind and the scent of the exhaust.

  Only there is another car coming from the opposite direction.

  “Hey! There’s a car coming!” I yell, slowing down a bit so they can get in front of me, but they continue to stay next to me without trying to pass. “Stop! You have to stop!” I scream, but it’s no use.

  The oncoming car swerves to get out of the way, but it’s too late. Flashes of headlights blind me before metal crunches against metal. The truck next to me flips over the other car, crashing against the pavement. The red pickup slides along the ice−ridden road, disappearing into another realm hidden behind a white veil.

  It’s true what they say about not being able to look away from a car crash. Time slows. Fear flashes. And my instincts freeze. I slam on the brakes and screech along the frozen pavement, but it’s no use. I’m heading right toward the truck.

  I yank the steering wheel to the left and miss the truck that’s flipped over on its hood until I’m suddenly falling.

  I’m falling down a cliff, smashing against rocks and trees. My neck whips, the airbags hit my face, and my seatbelt snaps, freeing my body from the safest place there is.

  It’s quiet for a moment before the ground gets closer. It’s hard to believe. I can’t wrap my head around what’s happening, but it doesn’t matter. The front end of my car smashes against the ground, and my head hits the windshield.

  Blood drips.

  My breathing is jagged.

  And darkness creeps in, a reaper in disguise, and I succumb to its clutches.

  1

  Zola

  “No, I know the bill is due. I don’t have the money right now,” I scrub my hand over my face and do my best not to cry as another collection agency calls for my unpaid medical debts. That car accident set me back for the rest of my life, and I have no idea how I am ever going to get past it.

  It was a miracle I lived. I was in a coma for a month, broke my back, and I had fifteen surgeries to fix everything that happened to me. My body looks like a war zone.

  The lady on the other end of the phone keeps talking, clearly uncaring about my situation.

  “I can’t pay that right now. I’ll pay when I can. Please, I just need a little more time.” I scoff when she cocks an attitude with me. “I know you’ve given me time!” I shout. “It isn’t easy when I can’t be on my feet long.”

  A part of me wonders if I should have died in that accident instead because actually living seems impossible. Medical bills are impossible to afford, and I have hundreds and thousands worth of bills with a big red stamp on it that says, ‘past due.’

  “Well, there is no need to be an insensitive bitch about it!” I scream, throwing my phone on the couch. It bounces and hits the floor, cracking the screen. “Great.” I bend down and pick it up and sit on the blue, secondhand couch. Things haven’t been better in the last two years. They have only gotten worse. How am I supposed to get on my feet when everything tells me I can’t?


  I stare at the shattered parts of the black screen, my face broken in a kaleidoscope of different shapes, reflecting how I feel on the inside. Something has to change. I’m barely holding on. Crawling onto the stained, torn up carpet, I grab my laptop sitting on the ottoman and decide to try and get a job that doesn’t require me to be on my feet all day.

  The screensaver catches my eye, and I smile when I see a picture of me, my mom, and dad in front of the Christmas tree five years ago. My mom looked so beautiful, bright−eyed and happy. It was her last Christmas like that. Healthy with hair and then cervical cancer hit her like a silent killer, taking her swiftly before I even had a chance to say goodbye.

  A year later, my father followed in a motorcycle accident, and there are some days where I want to throw myself a pity party and yell at this thing called life. I know life isn’t fair and fairness doesn’t pay the bills, but something has to give before I break. I’ve only been telling myself for years that things can only go up from here, but looking around my one-bedroom apartment with broken windows and thin walls that a cat can scratch through, I know this is the bottom of the barrel.

  So when do I float to the top?

  “No, no, no.” I click through the job postings. Click after click; I bypass the posts that contain phrases like, “must be able to lift fifty pounds” or “must be able to stand for long periods at a time.” I refuse to give up. I refuse to live like this any longer. There has to be something more to life than this. Than this apartment. Than this feeling of drowning and never being good enough. I have to be enough for myself.

  “Secretary,” I mumble, leaning closer to the screen as I click. “Steele Construction has been the leading construction company in the United States for the last eighty years.” Eighty? Hmm, old money. Probably a really stable company.

  It says nothing about needing to lift anything, and at the bottom, it says full time with benefits. It’s what I need. I have to have this job, and they pay—“Woah,” my eyes bulge when I see the salary. I can get out of this cheap apartment, get new clothes, start paying my medical bills and get a car. Oh my god, I could get a car that actually works!

  “Okay, calm down, Zola. You haven’t even applied yet,” I take a deep breath and cross my fingers as I upload my resume.

  All I have to do now is hope, and even after so many misfires with the damned emotion, a flicker of it remained in my silly, gullible heart.

  2

  Easton

  The view looks good from fifty stories. The city is bright from the sun, and the building shines from its light. Cars bustle in city streets, red taillights breaking every few seconds, and there is always this one black bird that sits on the balcony outside my office every morning around the same time.

  “Mr. Steele?”

  I turn away from the view and sip my coffee. “Good Morning, Erica.” The mousy young girl has nerves written all over her every morning. She fidgets every time she enters my office and pushes her glasses up her nose. She is an intern here, but if she doesn’t gain more confidence, this industry is going to eat her alive.

  “There is a ten o’clock interview scheduled. I know you like to be in the interview process. And last time—”

  I hold up my hand to stop her from continuing. It isn’t often that the person in charge sits in on interviews. That’s what HR is for, but I’m different. I like to see the talent we bring in because it’s the future of my company. “It’s fine. I’ll be there. And can you make sure there are coffee and pastries for everyone during the interview?”

  “Um, what kind of pastries, Mr. Steele?”

  “Erica?” I set my coffee cup on the long mahogany of the desk and exhale. “You’re a sweet girl, but you need confidence. Make decisions. Don’t come to me for every little thing. Take the initiative.”

  “Oh, Oh−okay. I apologize if—”

  “No, it’s okay.” I stand and stroll over to her, hands in my pockets, and give her a smile that I hope makes her relax. “Just go get everything set up, okay.”

  “Right away, Mr. Steele,” she squeaks, and just like a mouse, she scurries away.

  “Mr. Steele?”

  I hang my head when my name is called over the speakerphone on my desk. Walking back over, I glance at the clock on my desk and groan. It’s nine o’clock on the dot. And that means—

  “Your father is on the phone.”

  I say the words as my interim secretary speaks. “Thanks, Olivia.”

  “No problem, Mr. Steele.”

  I let the red-light blink for a second as I debate whether to answer it or not. My father, Steven Steele is determined to make my life hell every single day. He and my grandfather consistently bombard me with questions about my love life, and they tell me who is single in their social circle.

  They love to remind me of the little catch about running the company. By the time of the twenty−ninth birthday, if I’m not married, the company will revert to the next person in my family. It’s a stupid regulation in the contracts my great−grandfather made. He believed a married man that runs a multi−billion-dollar business looks best when a devoted wife is on the man’s side.

  I think it is ridiculous to think that I can’t run a company without being married or that I look like an irresponsible CEO if I don’t have a wife. I’m young, handsome, and wealthy. I have my entire life to get married. These are my best years, but in order to keep them that way (thanks to gramps), I have to get married—and fast. My birthday is six months away, which may be long to some people, but to find a wife? Where in the hell am I going to find someone in six months?

  The red light stops blinking, and I let out a breath that I didn’t know I was holding. I hate that my father still has a hold on me. It makes me feel like a boy instead of a grown man.

  “Mr. Steele?”

  Well, so much for wishful thinking.

  “Got it, Olivia. Thanks.” I grab the receiver and press the red button that I know will give me a headache by the time I have to walk through that door and sit in the interview. “Easton Steele,” I say the name that’s been in the family for the last three generations.

  “We know who it is,” my father grunts. “Who else would answer the phone and who else would we be calling?”

  Anyone other than me would be pretty great.

  “How can I help you? I have a meeting soon.” It isn’t for another hour, but the less time I have to be on the phone with them, the better. It wasn’t always like this. My father wasn’t such an asshole, but as time went on and the company’s future started relying on me more, my grandfather got ahold of him.

  It used to be dinner every Sunday and golf every Wednesday, and now I’m lucky to see either of them once a year. They are miserable people and like to put their misery on me. It’s another reason why I don’t want to get married. They followed the rules and now look at them? In a marriage with no love, no loyalty, and zero faithfulness. My grandfather is not a good man. My nana deserves better, but she has never worked a day in her life, so she needs him.

  The same with my mother.

  I plan to get them out soon. They deserve a life that isn’t full of lies.

  “We need to know if you’re going to be bringing anyone to the benefit, if not, Charlotte Buckingham is available.”

  “Charlotte? She’s been married five times, and she is twice my age,” I say with more disdain than I intended. I’m not that desperate.

  “That’s the point. Charlotte obviously doesn’t have any issues with getting married. She’ll marry anyone,and your days are numbered, son.”

  “This is ridiculous.” I hang my head and rub my temples. Frustration doesn’t begin to explain how I feel right now. “You are pressuring me, pushing me, forcing me. And that won’t end well,” I place my hands on the desk and push myself up slowly as if they can see me, but they can hear my threat. I meant it too. I’m done playing by their games.

  “Don’t forget who you are talking to boy.”

  “How could I
forget?” I snarl back at him, the man that barely raised me. “I need to go. I’ll call you both when I’m done.”

  My father and grandfather try to speak at the same time, but I cut them off, slamming the phone on the receiver, only to pick it up and slam it down again.

  And again.

  Until my anger gets the best of me, and I yank the phone off my desk, tossing the useless lump of plastic against the wall, shattering it into pieces.

  “Mr. Steele?”

  “What?!” I roar, running my hand over my mouth as I try to catch my breath. Fury pumps my veins, and all I can think about are the wants of my father. What about what I want?

  “I can come back later,” Erica squeaks.

  “No, I’m sorry.” I straighten and tug my blazer to try and seem somewhat put together. “What is it?”

  “Then ten o’clock interview is here early. Um, okay. I’ll…leave you alone.”

  “Erica, wait.”

  She turns around and keeps her eyes on the ground, bouncing from foot to foot. “Yes, Mr. Steele?”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes and tell Olivia I need a new desk phone.”

  “Right away, Mr. Steele.”