Page 5 of Faking It with my Small Town Billionaire

I don’t really know what I was expecting from this meeting, but clearly, I was unaware of the depth of struggle and anger most of my fellow residents and business owners have bubbling inside.

I can’t blame them. Like me, they’re scared.

“You all right, honey?” Jasmine says, having edged up beside me.

Jasmine is ten years older than me at forty-three years of age. A widow with two children already in college, she’s a master of handling stress. In fact, she’s calmed me down on many occasions over the five years she’s worked here when I’ve felt things piling up.

She’s the most patient, kind, and honest woman I know, and a perfect fit for Harper’s. Dad would have loved her.

“This is just so hopeless,” I bemoan. “What was I thinking?”

Jasmine smiles, her soft afro framing her face. “You were thinking about the good of Willow Creek and all who live here,” she says. “You’re only trying to do right by these people, Lily. Lord knows this town has had its fair share of tribulations.”

“But if we can’t work together, if we can’t come to some sort of agreement, we can’t move forward.”

“Have a little faith.” She raises her eyes upwards. “He’s listening.”

Jasmine is also the most religious person I know. She’s a singer in the gospel choir, and I know she’s good because she’s always humming some divine tune when she works. Her voice soothes me like honey for the soul. Maybe if she belted out one of her hymns now, we could get this crowd back in order.

Cindy and Jack are still going at it, and I’m just about to open my mouth and call things to order when the bakery door opens. The little bell above the door tinkles, but no one hears it over the arguing. My attention is caught between the broad shoulders I can see moving at the back of the room and Jack and Cindy, who look like they’re about to venture into hand-to-hand combat.

“The town is lost, and that’s the end of it,” Jack bellows.

“No, it isn’t,” a deep voice booms across the room.

Cindy gasps, and the room falls silent. A second later, threading his way through the people standing in the back, Orson Donovan appears out of the bodies and moves towards me.

“Oh, my,” Jasmine murmurs under her breath.

And she has a point. I snap my jaw closed, noticing that it has fallen open, and can only stare in utter shock.

The scrawny kid I knew in school is all grown up. And I mean all grown up. I’m guessing about six feet tall, with shoulders the width of a door. Tousled black hair falls over a high forehead, but it’s not super short. In fact, it sits on the collar of his expensive-looking gray suit jacket. I had a crush on this man when he was the width of a rake. Right now, my heart is thumping like a drum.

Orson reaches me. His full lips break into a smile, while his deep brown eyes meet mine. In a voice that sounds like melted chocolate, he says, “Hello, Miss Harper.”

3

Orson

It’s been three weeks since I spoke to my grandfather. Apart from reading the file he gave me, which was the length of a novel without the happily ever after, I’ve spent that time collaborating with the other investors who will be involved.

We met in our offices in the city and spent an entire day coming up with a provisional plan. A few ideas were thrown around—advertising, repairs, sponsorship, the usual stuff—and even though we didn’t get everything nailed down, we got the basics.

Now, I’m back in Willow Creek to offer what we have. It feels more like I’m throwing myself to the wolves than offering an olive branch, but my grandfather didn’t really give me much choice, did he?

I sent my scouts out to the town first. I wanted to know what I was walking into. It’s a good strategy that has given me the edge on many contracts. Most of my deals are ten times the size of Willow Creek, and inside information—if you can call listening to office gossip that—has always been invaluable.

Their assignment was a little different this time. Usually, they lurk around offices and cafeterias, listening for any juicy information that might be relevant; you’d be surprised how rarely anyone asks them who they are. Wearing fake lanyards with their names and photos seems to make them invisible.

This time, there were no offices to infiltrate. Instead, they were advised to dress casually, armed with a laptop or a phone. On the face of it, they look like the average guy or gal enjoying a coffee or browsing for products in a store. What they are really doing is listening to all the gossip and gathering information.

All right, they’re spies, but scout sounds better on the payroll.

Whispers of a clandestine meeting have brought me here to Harper’s, where, true to my scout’s words, there is indeed a gathering of townfolk. From what I can see from the street, the place is packed.

I take a deep breath and look up at the sign above the bakery. It’s old and faded and could definitely do with a touch-up. I remember coming here nearly every Saturday morning with Mom. Mr. Harper was always kind and courteous. He didn’t treat us like most of the rest of the town, nor was his kindness fake. I got used to figuring out the false smiles from the genuine ones.

His daughter, Lily, always worked with him on the weekends. From what I hear, she still runs this place. I suppose I should feel relieved she’s still here. She was one of the few people that didn’t treat me like a pariah.

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