Page 12 of The Billionaire Experience

Reagan’s mom had struggled with her finances for most of her life. Ronnie Palmer loved to gamble and had spent nearly every dime she made at the riverboat. As a result, Ronnie had leaned on her parents—Reagan’s grandparents—as babysitters in addition to moving in and out of their house repeatedly. Reagan had changed schools five times between kindergarten and third grade when Grandma Betty had finally put her foot down.

From then on, no matter where Ronnie lived, Reagan had called 388 Maplebrook home. After Reagan turned twelve, her mother’s visits had spaced out to once or twice a year at most. Reagan had asked Ike and Betty to adopt her. Some small part of her had expected a fight, but her mother had signed over custody without question.

On a good day, Reagan had compassion for her nomadic mother. On a bad one, she resented her for not loving her daughter enough. But not a day passed when she wasn’t eternally grateful for her grandparents. A stable home life had come later for her, and one hundred percent thanks to their selflessness.

She arrived at her former home now to find Brody in the front yard, his attention on the towering maple peeking over the roof from the back. Jean was standing nearby, her fists on her slight hips, head bobbing as she spoke.

Ho boy.

Since the tree truck was on the curb, Reagan parked her car in the driveway instead. When she climbed out, she had his full attention. He wore a quizzical look on his handsome face, a charcoal-gray T-shirt, and faded blue jeans. Unable to staunch the appreciation for his fine male form, she had to remind herself to stop staring at the potential tree murderer in front of her.

He greeted her with a gruff, “Hello.”

“H-hi. You live here.”

“I do.” His smile made its way slowly across his cheeks. It was as mesmerizing as watching the ripples on a pond’s surface.

“Right. I know.”

His eyebrows lowered, but his smile remained, giving him a rogue, curious expression that was even more handsome than the one before it.

How annoying.

“Why are you talking to that man?” She pointed at the service guy who had moved from his truck to Jean’s side yard where he appeared to be inspecting a small fruit tree.

“That is my tree guy. I have a tree that needs cutting down.”

“The maple in the backyard?”

“Yep. Bigger than shit, isn’t it?”

“Biggest one on the street.” She lifted her chin, proud.

“I’m guessing because everyone else cut theirs down. They had similar concerns to mine, I assume. It’s massive. One windstorm and I will find myself with a tree house in my bedroom.”

His bedroom. The master bedroom was formerly her bedroom. A dart of pain stabbed her rib cage at the thought of a stranger living in her house and making decisions about her grandmother’s tree.

“I can’t let you cut down that tree,” she snapped. “I love that tree.”

His smile fell, but he seemed more curious than angry.

She immediately wanted to Ctrl+Z her emotional outburst. It wasn’t like her not to be pragmatic. On the drive over, she’d concocted a perfectly sensible list of reasons to leave the tree as it stood. Now that she was standing in front of a broad set of shoulders, thick hair that begged for a woman’s fingers, and a pair of thighs she could bounce a quarter off of, well, she…what was she saying?

“Trees are helpful for the environment.” The words burst from her lips. She was grateful to have remembered at least one of her mental bullet points. “Oxygen production. Which we breathe.”

He took a step closer to her. At least he was listening.

“Did you know that trees communicate with their surrounding environments, including with one another? If you cut down that maple, there will be a break in the chain.”

“You sound like my sister. You two know each other?” He turned his head right, then left like he was suspicious. “Did she send you over here?”

“I don’t know your sister. But I can promise you that this tree is not going to fall down anytime soon. Five years ago, there was a torrential storm, and the winds reached upwards of eighty-nine miles an hour. That maple lost three larger branches, but its trunk didn’t so much as bend. She’s rooted deep.”

He folded his arms over his chest, skepticism lining his brow. “How do you know how many branches that maple tree lost? Kind of hard to tell from your vantage point, wasn’t it?”

“My vantage point?”

“Jean’s front window.” He gestured across the street to where Jean surreptitiously yanked the leaves off one of her fruit tree’s branches and threw them into a rose bush. When the tree guy turned around, she showed him the naked branch. “Is she related to you?”

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