Page 37 of The Undercover Billionaire's Baby

“They’re saying I can’t compete. No one buys books.”

We do offer another grant, the message went on. It helps new businesses get off the ground. We think you’d be an ideal candidate with your drive and passion. If you come up with a new business plan, we’d urge you to apply.

“They’re saying I should give up and try something else.”

“They’re not saying that,” said Brad.

“Yeah, they are.” I put my phone down on the counter with the photos, all of my memories laid out in rows. “And they’re right. I don’t know what I’m doing. Everything I think is right ends up being wrong. I could’ve had the plumber come up here, but I thought I knew better. I order books no one buys and ignore the bestsellers. If Mom could see this…”

“She’d still be proud.”

I flinched at Brad’s words. I’d been stupid, naïve. I’d wanted so badly to be just like Mom, when Brad said he’d help me, of course I’d believed. But what did he know about running a business? What did he know of Haverford, or even books? I’d never seen him read one. What did he know?

I felt my thoughts turning mean and bit my lip hard. “You should go,” I said.

“Please let me help.”

“There’s nothing to do.” If he stuck around, I’d say something petty. Blame him for this mess when it was all mine. I could feel it building, the need to lash out.

“Are you sure? I have spare towels. We could?—”

“Please go.”

Brad inhaled harshly, and then he stepped back. “I’ll have my phone,” he said. “In case you need me.”

His footsteps receded, then the door opened and closed. The back steps creaked softly, and then he was gone. I wanted to text him and summon him back. Maybe he’d hug me, like when we played interview. Hold me and rock me and make this okay. A bitter laugh burst from me: this was my problem. I didn’t know what I wanted, or what was right. Did I want Brad to hug me or go away? Did I want to save money or let the plumbers upstairs? Which books would sell and which would be doorstops?

I didn’t know anything. I just didn’t know.

CHAPTER 15

LANA

The worst of it was, we still had to do the fun run.

I’d handed out all the pledge sheets, secured all the permits. Set up a whole party at the end, on the beach. It was too late to cancel, and besides, I couldn’t. I still had the bill to pay, for the repairs. This wouldn’t cover that, but it might make a dent. If people showed up. If they had pledges.

“It’s a perfect day for it,” said Brad, looking out.

I squinted past him. Perfect, how? The sky was gray, cloudy, threatening rain.

“It won’t rain,” Brad said, like he’d read my mind. “I checked six different forecasts. They all say the same. It’s going to be cloudy till noon, then in time for our picnic, the sun will come out. Shade for the race, then sun for the party. Don’t see how it could work out better than that.”

I bit my tongue on a bitter response. Winning the grant would’ve been better. My building not crumbling would’ve been nice. But I’d decided I’d be happy today, at least for the town’s sake. The run was the type of thing Mom would’ve done, something that got everyone out having fun. She’d have been in the middle of it, the sparkling center. I’d do the same. It would be my big sendoff.

“We should head out,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. I’d been doing a lot of that since the day of the flood. When I smiled, no one asked me if I was okay. I hated to lie, so better they didn’t.

“Your sunscreen,” said Brad, and came up behind me. He unzipped my fanny pack and dropped it in. I checked my shoes one more time — laces tied tight — and we headed down the back steps and up the road. A few early runners were headed up too, summer people in jogging pants with crisp new pledge sheets. They’d probably sponsored themselves and stopped there, a few bucks so they could come to the party.

“What’s with all the cars?” said one of the summer folks, a fit-looking woman in brand-new pink sneakers. Her husband glanced past her, back down the street.

“Out-of-towners,” he said. “Don’t know where to park.”

I hadn’t noticed at first, but the tourists were right: the street parking was busier than I’d ever seen it, cars parked all the way to the little town bank. A station wagon and a bug both arrived at the corner, one from the west, one from the east. They honked at each other, then the bug backed up. I frowned at them both, then up at Brad.

“Where did they come from? They’re not ours, are they?”

Brad shrugged. “I don’t know. I put up a few posters while we were in Boston, but I mostly focused on people from here.”

---