Page 45 of Trapped with the Billionaire

How was I supposed to get a decent job when all my experience was in the grocery industry and I was forbidden from joining a competitor in our geographic market for six months? It wasn’t like I could leave the house and move to the Midwest for a job.

I needed time to think. “I’m a little too busy to come in.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Just come by my office when you’re free.”

When we hung up, my head throbbed. So much for sliding into a job at another grocery chain.

* * *

That afternoon,I went outside in the back orchard, trying to clear my head with a little manual labor. Working with the dirt and the trees always centered me. Surely an hour of hoeing weeds would help take my mind off things—or maybe it would take two.

“Hey, Nicky, cut that out,” Maro Tanaka called as he walked my way. “You know how your uncle feels about messing with his rows.”

Maro had been the foreman back when Grandpa’s orchard had been over a hundred acres. He lived in the little ranch house on the far corner of the property. These days, he did landscaping on the side and helped with our orchard in his spare time. In exchange for a little help, Daddy had let him stay in the quarters he’d occupied since working with Grandpa, and I’d continued Daddy’s arrangement.

“I’m just taking out my frustrations on the weeds. He doesn’t keep after them enough anyway.” Not thinking about it, I’d turned the corner at the end of one of my rows of orange trees and started on a row of Ernst’s almonds—probably a subconscious protest as much as anything else.

“It’s your funeral,” Maro said dejectedly.

“If he cares so much, he should replace those two. They’re almost dead,” I said, pointing to the two sickly ones in the middle of the row Ernst ignored.

“You tell him that. He doesn’t care what I say.”

I’d suggested it twice and been heartily rebuffed each time.

Maro gave up and went back toward his little house after I insisted twice more that this was something I wanted to do myself.

We all knew the rules. We had our own rows of trees to take care of, and although Ernst seemed to hate the trees and what they represented, he’d been fierce in his insistence that none of us touch his.

“Today I need the work, and he can just shove it,” I said to the nearest tree as I whacked at another clump of weeds. Today was not a day to give a fuck about what Ernst did or didn’t like. Not a single flying fuck. And if he didn’t like it, all the better. I envisioned his face in the dirt as I scraped up the next clump.

Battling the weeds, the gophers, and the seasons to tend to the trees had always helped. Back to basics, Daddy called it—simple work without anything more than a tool in my hand and dirt under my fingernails. Years ago, life on this land had been simple. We took care of the trees, and they’d taken care of us.

Daddy had insisted that caring for the land and the animals and appreciating how food reached the table was imperative in our business. He’d been forced to omit the ‘animals’ part of that after the neighbors complained and made us get rid of the chickens we’d kept along the back fence.

Ten minutes later, my name rang out through the trees, “Nicole.”

The voice belonged to Ernst—he who no longer deserved to be called my uncle, because true family didn’t fuck you over the way he had in the last few days.

I turned, not at all amused that he’d shown up. “What?” I answered, failing at keeping the frustration out of my voice.

“Just came over to work my trees and talk since you called when I was busy earlier.” The man considered golf in the category of being busy—what an ass. “And what are you doing on one of my rows?”

“Just hoeing weeds.” I leaned the hoe against a tree and took a breath. “I really don’t want to sell the company,” I started.

He offered me a mean glare. “We’ve been over that, Nicole. The bank didn’t give me a choice. Payroll is due tomorrow, and it was either that or close down. Anyway, what’s done is done. I wish I had a better answer for you.”

I wouldn’t accept that. I couldn’t. “I read the contract, and there’s a right of rescission. We could convince them it’s a bad deal and find another bank.”

He sighed loudly. “No, we can’t, and I’m not going to. Instead we should talk about how you can work with them for a while to make sure the transition goes smoothly and maximize our payout.”

He was still only thinking about this as a sale. To him the company was a pile of money to be harvested.

To me it was my family’s legacy, and I wasn’t participating in its dismemberment. “I’m not working with them to destroy Rossi’s.”

“Don’t be rash, Nicole. Have you read the retention agreement I negotiated for you? It’s really quite generous.”

My morals weren’t for sale. “I can’t be bought. Not by them, not by anybody.” I picked up the hoe and headed to the house without another word.

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