Page 85 of The Billionaire Experience

Her pleasantly full belly was slightly queasy at the prospect of meeting Brody’s mother, and not because she was famous. When Bruce drove onto the studio lot and around to the back doors, Reagan blurted out, “I’m fine waiting here.”

“Not that Bruce isn’t great company, but I thought you’d enjoy a tour of the set. She loves to meet new people.”

Reagan opted not to make a fuss over going inside. To be fair, she wasn’t as curious about the set as she was to meet Keaton Killdeer.

The studio was active, with people buzzing around in headsets dodging set pieces and lighting fixtures. In a strange way, it reminded her of a Home Depot. There was less glitz and glamour behind the scenes than she’d expected.

Brody stopped by the craft cart and offered her a donut, which she declined. He bypassed the snacks as well, leading her by the hand to a line of dressing room doors. As they passed by a woman with a clipboard, she called out, “Hey, Brody!”

“That’s Chuck. She’s been a writer on the show for like, twenty years,” he explained before rapping twice on his mother’s dressing room door. “Ma! It’s me.”

“Come in, darling!”

He twisted the knob and let himself in, dropping Reagan’s hand to palm her back as he closed the door behind them. Keaton sat on a high-backed stool, tissues tucked into her collar protecting her shirt as a makeup artist added the finishing touches to her lips.

“Thank you, Michelina,” Keaton called after the makeup artist, who’d turned to leave. Not before she did a triple take at Brody. Michelina sent an appreciative gaze down his body and back up before snapping her attention over to Reagan.

She couldn’t blame the other woman for staring. He was as stunningly attractive as he’d been the first time Reagan had seen him from Jean’s front window. Not that she’d become used to his hotness, but it had become more familiar to her. She had managed to keep her tongue from lolling out of her mouth in public, anyway.

“Who do we have here?” Keaton asked once Michelina had gone. She plucked the tissues from the collar of a stunning white pencil dress hugging her lithe frame. Her hair was a vibrant shade of red, not a single strand out of place. Brody had his mom to thank for his good looks, at least in part. Reagan hadn’t met Octavius yet. She was suddenly curious what he looked like.

“Reagan Palmer.” She offered her hand.

Keaton regarded it for a beat before offering a limp shake.

“Reagan is my date to the charity thing tonight. She’s also my handywoman, muse, and temporary roommate,” Brody said, easy as you please.

Reagan thought she felt the temperature lower in the room when Keaton’s brow arched. Outwardly, the other woman showed no sign of alarm. “From the Midwestern town where you’re squatting?”

Ah, there was a sign.

“One and the same. Get this—she used to live in the house I bought. I hired her to help with repairs and she ended up staying.”

“Hmm.” Keaton offered a slow blink.

Reagan’s smile was so brittle she swore she felt it crumble at the edges.

“It’s good to see you.” Keaton turned to Brody. “I am going to give you a check for Eli’s charity. Dante called about it, and I promised him I’d send it with you.”

“Can’t you Venmo him?” Brody asked.

“No.” Keaton rose to fetch her purse and pulled out her checkbook. “Is five hundred enough?”

“I’m sure Eli appreciates whatever you can give him,” Brody answered.

“I was going to give a quarter of a million, but then I figured if I’m going to give a quarter, might as well give half.”

“Half a million dollars?” Reagan repeated, her voice hoarse. She’d first assumed “five hundred” referred to single dollars.

“Mm-hmm. Standard giving at this sort of thing.”

“Above standard. Keaton Killdeer isn’t one to be outshined,” Brody muttered.

“It’s impossible to outshine me.” Keaton handed over the check, which Brody folded and stuffed into his jeans pocket as if it were a twenty-dollar bill. “I’d join you if I could. We have a late night here. The crew suffered technical hiccups yesterday morning, which delayed filming. We’re still catching up.”

Another knock came at the door, but it opened before Keaton could ask who it was. A woman breezed in, her eyes on the script in her hands. “Hey, Keat, can we run the lines for the…scene…with…” She blinked from Brody to Reagan. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hey, Lexi,” Brody said with a familiarity that made Reagan’s stomach flip.

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