Page 84 of The Billionaire Experience

She yawned and sat on the mattress, her eyelids growing visibly heavier by the second. He took off her shoes, removed her jeans. When she pulled her bra out from under her shirt, he took that too.

“I hope you know it’s taking a feat of superhuman strength not to peel that shirt up and kiss your perfect nipples.”

“I’ll be asleep before you can,” Reagan mumbled, tucking a pillow under her head. “I can’t believe this. My own grandfather.”

“Life goals. May we be so lucky to have great sex at that age.”

Eyes shut, she wrinkled her nose. “Ew.”

He kissed her. “I caught a second wind. I’m going to write.”

“’Kay.”

“Will the screen bother you if I sit in bed?” Writing in bed was typically reserved for hotel rooms, but he didn’t want to leave her. Even the living room or kitchen was too far away.

“Nope.” It was the last word she said before she drifted off.

He fetched his laptop and a fresh bottle of water and propped himself up in bed to write. Tonight, the words flowed, not so much to him but through him.

Home, he wrote, is more than the structure in which we live. More than the bedroom where we sleep. We can find home in any state or country, wherever we are surrounded by the people we love.

He paused to take in a sleeping Reagan. Her long lashes shadowing her cheeks, her lips slightly parted as she breathed deeply. Had he found home even though he hadn’t been searching for it?

He frowned at the blinking cursor on the page and tried to decide if he wanted to admit that to the screen. Without typing another word, he closed his laptop, set it aside, and curled in next to Reagan to sleep.

Reagan hadn’t woken up next to someone in bed in a while. This morning, her eyelashes had fluttered open to the tantalizing scent of coffee. She’d been disoriented for a second before remembering her grandfather’s visit to the hospital last night. “Did I sleep too late?”

“You have plenty of time,” Brody had reassured her. “Thought this might help.”

She’d called her grandfather while sipping her coffee and counting her blessings. There were so many to be grateful for. Ike was healthy—a lot healthier than she’d previously believed. She had slept like a baby in Brody Crane’s bed. And she’d been nursing a hot cup of coffee from that bed before boarding a private flight.

Incredible.

Now she was in the backseat of a dark SUV with a driver named Bruce. Brody’s driver. They’d eaten at a delicious French bistro on the Upper East Side and were on their way back to Brody’s penthouse, which she’d seen briefly before they’d left for lunch.

Brody gave his request to the driver, a location ending in the word “Studio,” and Reagan felt her eyebrows lift. “I thought we were going back to your place.”

“We’re making a pitstop to the set of Loving and Living,” he answered. “I promise I’ll have you back in case you need a nap before we go to the event. But for now, we have to drop in on Keaton Killdeer.”

“Your mom?” Of course, she knew Keaton Killdeer was his mom, but the words had burst forth from her lips on their own. She was meeting Brody Crane’s mom? She wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

“She found out I was in town. Somehow,” he said with emphasis as he threw a glance to their driver. “I wonder how that happened, Bruce.”

“Hey, she pays me too, kid,” Bruce answered in a thick Brooklyn accent.

“She can’t leave the studio,” Brody told Reagan. “If I don’t go to her, she will send armed men in an unmarked van to kidnap me. Unless she’s already paid Bruce to do it.”

The driver laughed, his crinkle-eyed smile evident in the rearview mirror.

Butterflies fluttered to life low in her stomach. She wasn’t overly familiar with meeting moms. Her own had been absent for years, and Dustin’s mother had passed away before Reagan met him.

“I thought you were a rogue adventurer with no need for parental supervision,” she said, trying to downplay her nerves. She reached for her purse and checked her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a woman who’d been up too late fussing over her grandfather, had boarded a plane groggy from a patchy night’s sleep, and hadn’t slowed down since.

Perfect, she thought with an eye roll.

“She’s not as possessive as she is used to having her demands met. Superstars are like terrorists except they send expensive chocolates on holidays.”

“I know that’s right,” Bruce chimed in. Brody shot Reagan a what-did-I-tell-ya glance.

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