Page 11 of The Billionaire Experience

His siblings hadn’t been fans of his ex. Him either, if he were being honest. He’d been passing the time until someone better came along. An ugly truth, but a truth nonetheless.

“Besides, it’s usually us women who end up puttying ourselves together after a relationship ends, not the other way around. Men simply move on.” Jaylyn made a shooing motion with her hand.

“I have puttied myself before.” At the same time, they looked to the ceiling. “Is that the real reason why you didn’t call the keyboardist back? Because you were afraid of him leaving holes behind you’d have to fix?”

“Not afraid. Just…wary.”

“I get that.” He took her hand. She squeezed his fingers with hers. His baby sister had always been rough and tumble and ready to rumble, but beneath that ballsy exterior lay a fragile heart.

“I hope you’re better at puttying yourself than that ceiling.”

“Yeah.” He shook his head. “Me too.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Reagan glanced down at her ringing cell phone while the bagger packed her groceries into two reusable totes. She had no idea how she’d spent over one hundred dollars on the meager lot, but that’s where the numbers on the screen seemed to be headed.

She debated answering for another ring before pressing Accept. “Hi, Jean.”

“Reagan! There’s an emergency.”

“That will be one-oh-four ninety-two,” the cashier said.

Reagan fed her debit card into the card reader in front of her and tried not to appear shell-shocked by the total.

“Nice try,” she told Jean as she pressed a button. She may be foolish enough to pay nearly five dollars for an avocado, but she would not be bamboozled by her former neighbor again. “I’ve already been to your house this week for an emergency. Spying on your new neighbor doesn’t qualify.”

The cashier offered a tiny smile in response.

“I am not spying. I’m…observing.” Jean’s latest emergency had been a supposed clogged sink. By the time Reagan had arrived, the pipe had mysteriously unclogged itself. Jean had offered up a plate of fudgy brownies, which of course Reagan had stayed to sample. Then Jean had delved into the real reason for her call: gossip. Apparently, “a young woman” had arrived and was staying in the house with Brody.

Reagan had been loath to admit that she’d been curious, but she would die before she’d cop to the pinch of jealousy she’d felt when she’d laid eyes on the attractive woman. She appeared younger than Reagan by a few years, her dark, almost black hair pulled into a ponytail alongside several beaded braids. She had been chatting on the phone while she paced the driveway, her long flowery kimono dusting the ankles of her designer jeans and heeled sandals. Her bohemian style was unique and interesting, unlike Reagan’s standard clearance-rack jeans and T-shirt.

“It’s a real emergency this time!” Jean squawked. “Where are you?”

“Have a nice day.” The cashier handed Reagan a two-foot-long receipt. “You saved twenty-eight fifty.”

“Wanna bet?” Reagan did her best to tack on a smile as she gathered her bagged groceries. To Jean she said, “I’m leaving Whole Foods and questioning my life choices.”

“You’re not far from here. You need to see what’s going on across the street.”

Well, at least she’d admitted the real reason for her call.

“Whatever Brody and his girlfriend are doing, I don’t want to know.”

“There’s a tree service truck parked by the curb, Ray. They’re eyeballing the maple in the back. The one your grandma Betty planted! I can’t read lips but by the gestures they’re making, I think he’s going to cut it down.”

Reagan’s blood ran cold. The grip she had on the grocery totes loosened so much, she nearly dropped one on the pavement. She double-timed it to her truck, heedless of smashing the loaf of bread sliding around in one of the bags.

Her cell phone switched to the truck’s speaker when she pressed a button to turn over the engine. “Jean? Are you there?”

“I’m here, honey.”

“I’ll be right over. Stall him if you can.”

“Will do,” Jean said, sounding dutybound about her mission. “See you in a bit.”

Reagan’s grandmother, Betty, had planted that maple tree the year she and Ike were married. She’d heard the story of the newly built house—the first on the block—and how the tree was not more than a twig a hundred times, and she had never tired of it. The tree represented permanence. Stability. And to a young girl who’d had so very little of either at the time, the story had sounded like a fairy tale.

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