Page 140 of Money Reigns
He towers over me like a threat and a promise, six-foot-five of heat and control.
The counter bites into my back. His chest blocks out the rest of the kitchen.
I can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.
“Then explain,” he demands, voice low. “What’s going on?”
I lick my lips, trying to steady myself.
“They’ve been… wanting to renovate the inn. Sell it eventually. But between the mortgage and everything else, they can’t keep up with payments and renovations at the same time. So, yeah.”
I force a small laugh. “They’re in a pickle.”
It’s only half the truth.
I can’t possibly tell him everything. Not about Ronnie. Not about the threats.
Not about how close my parents are to losing the place for good.
He’d march in and fix it his way, with money and intimidation, and that could probably get him killed.
“A pickle?” he repeats, lips curving like he’s tasting the word.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual. “It’s what we say back home.”
His gaze sharpens. “And where exactlyisback home?”
I hesitate. Just a beat too long.
“Brokenwoods,” I say finally, naming the small town that raised me. Not even a dot on most maps.
He hums, thoughtful, and it vibrates against my chest, where he’s still crowding me in.
“We should go visit. Maybe after Paris.”
I freeze.
Warren Beaumont in Brokenwoods?
The billionaire storming Main Street, standing in my parents’ inn?
Oh, that would never work. He’d stick out like a diamond in a gravel lot.
My palms tingle just thinking about it.
“Maybe,” I chuckle, trying to brush it off.
His eyes narrow like he knows I’m dodging, but then his mouth is on mine before I can think.
And just like always—I melt.
Melt and hate myself for it.
Leave it to me to turn into the girl who gives in to the billionaire.
***
The Beaumont plane.Air Beaumont, apparently; is beautiful. Polished leather seats, dark wood trim, the kind of opulence you only ever see in magazines.
