Page 221 of Money Reigns

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By morning, the place looks like an anthill. Trucks lined along the curb, tools unloading, men hauling lumber and tile. The air smells like sawdust and new beginnings.

I stand on the porch steps, giving Greg the head contractor, my rundown. “Tiles replaced. Fresh paint inside and out. Rotted wood gone. New fixtures. Nothing cheap.”

He nods, scribbling notes, barking orders over his shoulder as I talk.

Through the newly installed frosted glass doors, Logan sits at the front desk. He isn’t glaring anymore. Just watching. Weighing.

Out front, Chase leads the crew on the ground already with a hammer in hand, grinning like the chaos is a game. He catches my eye. “We’ll run short on supplies. The local hardware store will have what we need”

I pull out my wallet, slide a black card free, and hold it out. “Get everything. No limits. Whatever this place needs.”

Chase whistles low, pockets the card. “Guess money does grow onBeaumont trees.“ He hops into his truck still smirking.

I turn back to Greg. “The playground down the block, it’s a mess. Can you come back here in a couple months?”

Greg scratches his chin. “We can, but that park needs new everything. Slides, swings, benches. Hell, the mulch under that snow is moldy.”

“I’ve already spoken with Parks and Rec,” I tell him. “Deliveries start when the snow thaws. I’ll cover labor if you can spare it.”

His brows rise, then he extends a hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Beaumont.”

We shake.

Firm, solid.

I step back inside, the air warmer after the noise of hammers outside.

At the counter, a woman with red hair pulled neat stands. She’s dressed well, clean lines, not flashy, not cheap. Middle of the road. Intentional. Hazel eyes catch mine, though there’s a sadness tucked behind them, even as her blush gives away that Logan said something she liked.

Logan stiffens the moment he notices me watching.

Noted.

Ella steps forward; poised, careful.

But not afraid.

“Mr. Beaumont,” she says, tone dry but not unkind. “The man. The myth.”

I smirk, slow. “Dr. Marsh.”

Her lips twitch, but her gaze doesn’t drop. “You’re not scary, you know.”

She leans in, voice dimmed to a private whisper: “I can see the crushed little boy beneath you.”

A dark chuckle rumbles out of me. “And I can see the sad little girl in you. What areyouhiding, Ella?”

She falters, just for a beat, before she folds her arms.

I tilt my head. “Where are you going today?”

Her brows lift. “What makes you think I’m going anywhere?”

I take a breath, play along with her obvious banter. “You’re protective of her. I get that. So am I. Which means you’re going somewhere withher. Where?”

She studies me, like she wants to measure how much truth I deserve. “Why?”