Kissed by a Billionaire

Chapter 1: The Harvest Moon

Alex Blackwood stood at the edge of his property, dirt caked under his fingernails and sweat sticking his white t-shirt to his back. The October sun was setting behind the rolling hills of Yorkshire, painting everything golden like a Instagram filter gone wild. But unlike those perfectly curated social media posts, this golden hour came with the smell of freshly turned earth and the sound of tractors rumbling in the distance.

“Boss! The last of the butternut squash is in!” Jamie Sullivan called out, his Irish accent thick with exhaustion. His red hair stuck up in twelve different directions, making him look like he’d been struck by lightning.

Alex nodded, pulling off his work gloves. His hands were rough and calloused – not exactly what you’d expect from a millionaire. But then again, most millionaires didn’t spend their days elbow-deep in soil, arguing with stubborn vegetables.

Thornfield Estate stretched out before him like something from a movie. Two thousand acres of the most gorgeous farmland in northern England, complete with a manor house that looked like Mr. Darcy might come riding up any second. The whole place screamed “old money,” which was pretty much accurate. Five generations of Blackwoods had worked this land, and now it was all his.

Lucky him.

“Right then,” Alex said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Let’s call it a day.”

The harvest crews were already packing up their tools. These guys had been working since dawn, and they looked ready to drop. Alex made a mental note to add a bonus to their paychecks this week. Good workers were hard to find, and these men had been busting their butts for months.

“Fancy a pint at the Sheep and Thistle?” Jamie asked, falling into step beside Alex as they headed toward the manor house. “Sarah’s got the twins at her mum’s tonight.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Alex always said no. He’d been saying no for seven years now, ever since his parents died and left him with more responsibility than any twenty-five-year-old should handle.

Jamie rolled his eyes so hard Alex was surprised they didn’t fall out of his head. “Come on, mate. When’s the last time you did something that wasn’t farm-related?”

Alex pretended to think about it. “I watched Netflix last Tuesday.”

“A documentary about sustainable farming doesn’t count.”

“It was educational.”

“It was sad,” Jamie shot back. “You’re thirty-two, not ninety-two. Live a little.”

They reached the manor house, all honey-colored stone and ivy-covered walls. It looked like something from a Jane Austen novel, which was probably the point when his great-great-grandfather built it. The guy clearly had a thing for impressing people.

“I am living,” Alex said, pulling open the heavy wooden door. “I’m living exactly the way I want to.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but Jamie didn’t need to know that.

The entrance hall was all polished marble and portraits of dead Blackwoods staring down disapprovingly. Alex’s boots echoed on the floor as he walked toward the kitchen. The sound always made him feel like a little kid tracking mud through his grandmother’s house.

“Evening, Mr. Alex.” Maggie Thornton appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She’d been the head housekeeper since before Alex was born, and she had this supernatural ability to appear whenever he needed her most. Or whenever he was about to do something stupid.

“Hey, Maggie.” Alex kicked off his boots by the door. His socks had a hole in the big toe, but Maggie had seen worse. “How was your day?”

“Same as always. Kept this old place from falling down around our ears.” She gave him that look – the one that said she knew he’d been avoiding human contact again. “Your dinner’s in the warming oven. Beef stew and crusty bread.”

Alex’s stomach growled like an angry bear. He’d been too busy to eat lunch, surviving on coffee and determination. “You’re a saint, Maggie.”

“Don’t I know it,” she said with a snort. “I left tomorrow’s schedule on your desk. The London restaurant orders, the organic certification paperwork, and that interview with Country Living magazine.”

Right. The interview. Some journalist wanted to write about “young entrepreneurs revolutionizing traditional farming.” Alex would rather wrestle a pig, but publicity was good for business.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll look at it after dinner.”

Maggie gave him another one of her looks. This one meant “you work too hard and I’m worried about you,” but she’d been giving him that look for seven years. He was immune by now.

The kitchen was Alex’s favorite room in the whole house. It was huge and warm, with copper pots hanging from hooks and herbs drying in bundles by the window. The old farmhouse table could seat twelve people, though Alex usually ate alone. The smell of Maggie’s beef stew made his mouth water.

He grabbed a bowl and ladled out a generous portion. The stew was perfect – tender beef, chunky vegetables, and gravy so good it should be illegal. Maggie was an amazing cook, but lately, he’d been craving something different. Something with more... flavor? Spice? He couldn’t put his finger on it.

Alex carried his bowl to the table and sat down in his usual spot. The chair faced the big window that looked out over the vegetable gardens. Even in the fading light, he could see the neat rows of kale and Brussels sprouts, the greenhouse where they grew herbs year-round, and the apple orchard beyond.

This was his kingdom. His responsibility. His whole entire life.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through emails while he ate. Orders from restaurants in London and Manchester. A request for an interview from some food magazine. Three different organic farms wanting to partner with him. Business was booming, which should have made him happy.

Should have.

The truth was, Alex felt like he was stuck in a routine that never changed. Wake up, check the fields, manage the workers, handle paperwork, eat dinner alone, go to bed, repeat. It was a good life – a successful life – but sometimes he wondered if this was all there was.

His parents had made it look so easy. They’d run the farm together, laughing and arguing and making it seem like the most natural thing in the world. His dad would taste something his mom was cooking and get this look on his face, like he’d just discovered buried treasure. Alex had never experienced anything like that.

Hell, he’d never experienced anything close to that.

His phone buzzed with a text from his business manager, Henry Pemberton. Quarterly reports ready for review. Excellent numbers this season.

Great. More paperwork. Alex finished his stew and rinsed his bowl in the sink. Through the window, he could see lights twinkling in the village below. People were probably at the pub, laughing and telling stories and enjoying each other’s company.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed to his study. The room was all dark wood and leather-bound books that looked impressive but mostly collected dust. His laptop sat open on the massive oak desk, surrounded by invoices and contracts and all the glamorous paperwork that came with running a multimillion-dollar operation.

Alex cracked open his beer and settled into his chair. The quarterly reports could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, he just wanted to sit in his big empty house and pretend he wasn’t slowly going crazy from loneliness.

Outside, the harvest moon was rising, full and bright and beautiful. It lit up the fields like a spotlight, making everything look magical and mysterious. According to his grandmother, harvest moons were supposed to bring change. New beginnings. Fresh starts.

Alex took a long sip of his beer and laughed. The only thing changing around here was the weather, and even that followed the same predictable pattern year after year.

But as he stared out at his moonlit kingdom, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming. Something that would turn his perfectly ordered world upside down.

He just had no idea how right he was.

Miles away, in a cramped hostel room that smelled like disinfectant and broken dreams, Isabella Romano was packing her life into a single duffle bag. She folded her last clean shirt – a faded blue thing that had seen better days – and tried not to think about how she’d ended up here.

Tomorrow, she was getting on a bus to Yorkshire. She had exactly thirty-seven pounds to her name, no job prospects, and a six-year-old son she couldn’t afford to keep.

But she also had something most people didn’t: the stubborn refusal to give up.

“Tomorrow’s gonna be different,” she whispered to herself, zipping up the bag. “It has to be.”

Outside her window, the same harvest moon that was shining down on Alex Blackwood’s farm cast silver light across the city streets. And for just a moment, Isabella Romano allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, everything was about to change.

She had no idea how right she was.