Page 19 of The Undercover Billionaire's Baby

I bit my tongue hard to keep from blowing my cover. The thing was, I could. I could fix this for Lana. Write her a check and make it all go away, the plumbing, her tax bill, her load of wet books. I could banish that shadow of fear from her eyes, make her light up again like when I first met her.

“I’m scared I might lose the place,” Lana said, quietly. The others were still chatting, full of suggestions, and none of them seemed to hear what she’d said. I doubted she’d meant them to, or for me to hear either. Still, the catch in her voice sent a bolt through my heart.

“I could help you,” I said, caution forgotten.

Lana blinked at me. “You mean, with repairs?”

I swallowed, gears spinning fast in my head. I had an idea, or the germ of one: I could make her shop my project, instead of starting from scratch. Pull her out of debt, teach her to thrive. Dad wanted to see me face the real world? Well, what was more real than a failing business? What success greater than changing its fate?

“Repairs, yeah,” I said. “But more than that. My dad ran a hardware store. I helped with the books. I know how taxes work, and I’m great with insurance. I could give you some pointers to get back on your feet.” I felt my throat tighten, though I hadn’t quite lied. Dad had run a hardware store, back in the day. And I was great with bookkeeping, and with insurance. And Lana was smart. With a few gentle pointers?—

“Really? You’d do that?” Lana’s eyes had gone wary, like she hardly dared hope. “I could give you a discount. You know, on your rent.”

“No, you don’t have to. I’m between jobs, remember? This’ll be fun for me, something to do. A win-win for both of us. Uh…” I was overselling it. Grinning like a doofus. But Lana was smiling, bright with relief.

“That would be so great, any advice you could give me. I’m learning, I swear, but it’s all been so?—”

“Oh, look, they’re starting.” Rex pointed at the stage. Sure enough, the band was up, tuning their guitars. Late afternoon had turned to evening, and twinkling fairy lights had come to life, hung in a swaying net above the cut-grass dance floor. A few couples were already trying their moves, spinning and giggling, bumping their hips. Lana stood watching, swaying herself.

“It was unexpected,” said Dora, falling in beside me. “Her mom’s passing, I mean. She was getting better, right up till she wasn’t. And then it was too late, you know, with the shop. To get her caught up, and not drop her right in it.”

The band struck up before I could reply, launching into a bouncy rendition of “Handy Man.” I was pretty sure that one was from the sixties, but I wasn’t about to nitpick Lana’s delighted smile. She did a half-spin, almost carefree. Cathy nudged me, her elbow sharp in my ribs.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

I grunted. “What?”

Dora laughed. “Go dance with her! You know how, right?”

I made a tch sound. Of course I knew how. I slid in between Lana and a bopping couple, and she grinned at the sight of me.

“Aren’t they great?”

I nodded, because yeah, the band was pretty great. Lana spun and her skirt fanned out like a green dream. Her curls went bouncing as she jigged to the beat. I showed off a little and she laughed and clapped. Her joy made her luminous, and all I could think was, let’s keep this going. Keep her smile going, her shop, her life. The spark in her eyes. The hope, the relief.

I’d be her handyman, if that’s what it took.

CHAPTER 8

LANA

Iwoke to the good smells of frying eggs and bacon, and underneath that, the richness of coffee. In my half-asleep haze, my first thought was Mom? Then I remembered, and fresh grief rushed in. It was like that most days, the shock of remembering. That moment of lightness before it sank in. The first few weeks, that shock had been stunning, like a blow to the head. Blinding. Too much. It had left me flattened, curled in bed, too heavy with sadness to start my day. Now I could push through it, but it was exhausting.

I pushed off the covers, then got up and dressed, and made my bleary way out to the kitchen. Brad greeted me with a wave of his spatula.

“I brought up the coffee pot. I hope you don’t mind.”

I closed my eyes and breathed in the coffee. “Not if I get a cup.”

“Go ahead.” Brad passed me a mug from the rack by the stove. I filled it with coffee and a dollop of cream. Brad got down two plates and started loading them with breakfast. “I thought we could eat, then we’d look through your books.”

“You made me some too?” I felt suddenly hungry. I couldn’t remember my last real, cooked breakfast, the last morning I hadn’t made do with a protein bar. Brad had moved them, I noticed, shoved them behind the bread box. He noticed me noticing and his brows drew together.

“If you’d rather have those?—”

“No! No, they’re awful. I’ve just been busy lately, no time to cook.”

“Well, you have time to eat.” Brad set out our plates. I grabbed us some forks and two glasses of OJ. We dug into our eggs, and I moaned without thinking. Brad’s lips quirked up.

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