Page 17 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

M y eyes shoot over to Ben, whose ears visibly perk up at the noise. Quickly and without a sound, he nudges me aside, steps in front of the door, and grabs the handle. Then, with a sudden motion, he opens it and rushes inside.

I resist the feeling in my stomach that urges me to run away and peek around the corner to see what caused the noise. I can’t see anything right away. Past Ben’s broad shoulders, in the living room area, I spot a bag of chips, its contents spread all over the floor.

“Oh,” Ben says—obviously relieved—and looks back to me. “It would seem you have a visitor. Maybe you two know each other.”

Between Ben’s legs, a little ball of fur slowly tiptoes from one salty treat to another, gathering them up in its tiny hands and immediately stuffing them into its mouth. It’s gray, surprisingly fat and?—

“You’re not related, are you?” Ben mocks, stepping aside for me to get a better view of the raccoon.

I cross my arms and glare at him. “Are you making fun of my near-fatal injury?”

“You mean the one you got in a funny, dance-related accident?”

The raccoon pauses mid-crunch, its beady eyes flicking between us as if weighing its odds. Then, when it apparently has determined it could take both of us in a fight, it simply snatches another treat and continues its feast.

“Sorry,” Ben whispers, squatting down and resting his elbows on his knees. “You think it knew your grandpa?”

“You think my grandpa was out here training a snack-stealing raccoon?”

Ben tilts his head. “I don’t know. Do you think your grandpa was out here training a snack-stealing raccoon?”

I ignore him, step into the apartment, and crouch down as well.

The inside isn’t ransacked, but it does look like the raccoon has been in here for a little while.

Cabinets are open, a box of chocolates has apparently already been emptied, and a bag of oats has been opened, tipped over, and apparently found to be lacking.

“Shoo,” I say softly, not sure what to do.

The raccoon stares at me like I just suggested it get a real job.

Ben clicks his tongue. “What was that? That’s not how you do it.

With wild animals like this, you have to assert dominance.

Watch this.” He leans in, extends his hand, and starts speaking three octaves higher, like he’s talking to a baby.

“Hey there, little buddy. Heyyy. How are you doing?” He inches closer.

“You enjoying a little dinner over here?” Ben reaches for one of the chips and slowly hands it to the raccoon.

“Here you go,” he continues softly. “Now please don’t bite me, because I’m not sure my rabies vaccine is up to date. And that stuff is no joke, okay?”

The raccoon, apparently somewhat pleased by not having to walk from chip to chip anymore, accepts what it is handed and eats with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Ben feeds it another chip, and another. Then it flops onto its belly, and just extends its arms. This continues until both cheeks of our new raccoon buddy are absolutely stuffed.

Carefully, Ben—now sitting on the ground next to it—starts petting its head.

To my surprise, the raccoon doesn’t bite, but instead just crawls into Ben’s lap and rolls itself up.

When Ben doesn’t immediately continue the tender caressing, it reaches for his hand and uses it to pet itself.

Ben looks over to me with the biggest grin. “See! Dominance established,” he whispers, as if afraid he might scare away his new best friend.

“Yes,” I whisper back, “it looks like you’re the alpha now. Just don’t stop petting him, breathe too loudly, or move.”

“Oh, believe me, I am not going to move ever again… unless my new friend here requests it.”

I get to my feet slowly, circle both of them, and when the raccoon doesn’t seem to mind, I start cleaning up the rest of the chips, the empty chocolate wrappers, and the oats.

Everything else in the apartment is mostly the way I left it the day my grandpa died.

Except that his bed is empty now. The blanket lies neatly folded on top.

Canvases are still stacked against the walls, old art books pile precariously on every flat surface, and the lingering sense that he might just stroll in makes it really fucking hard to breathe.

Someone has put the easel I punched over against a wall, the destroyed painting of my dead grandpa back on it for display. My eyes catch on it and stay there.

“You painted that?” Ben asks softly, and cocks his head, inspecting it.

I nod slowly.

“Whimsical. Sad. Skillful technique. You’re a very good artist yourself, aren’t you?”

Our raccoon buddy has started snoring by now, but Ben continues petting it anyway. I suppose they’re kind of cute, sitting there on the ground.

“I’m a conservator,” I say flatly. My grandpa was the actual artist.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re a fine conservator,” he agrees, “but from the looks of it, you’re also a great painter.”

I try to take a deep breath. Being here makes my chest feel tight. “Anyway,” I say, mostly to myself, “where should I start?”

Where would I find information about a debt he owes?

I walk over to his desk and pull out drawer after drawer. Official documents are tossed in with paintbrushes, spatulas, newspaper clippings, glue, and plenty more junk he collected over time.

Ben watches as I get more and more exasperated. I can feel his eyes on me. When I’ve skimmed every letter and document I can find, I kick the last drawer shut. Of course guys like them don’t send last notices.

Ben’s new friend looks toward me but is quickly lured back to sleep by some cooing and gentle strokes.

In a bold move, Ben uses the small disturbance to get up and to carry the gray furball over to the bed, where he puts it down onto the blanket, continuing the massage treatment a little longer while I check the shelves in the living room area for… something. Any clues.

After a while, Ben tiptoes over to me, his eyes remaining fixed on his furry friend.

“Alright, I think we’re in the clear,” he whispers.

“Let’s get to work then. Here’s what we’re going to do.

” His gaze shifts to me. “You’ll make three piles: discard, donate, keep.

I’ll pack everything up into boxes and bags and bring them down to the RV.

” He nods decisively. “And try not to wake our baby. I just put him to sleep and he’s been cranky all week. ” He cocks his head with a smirk.

“Our baby?”

“Psst.” Ben puts a finger on my lips. “I know this is a big adjustment for all of us, but let’s not fight in front of him.”

I swat his hand away. “You sure it’s a him?”

“No teats. It’s a boy.”

I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not ready to be a mother.”

“Too late.” Ben glances fondly at the snoring ball of fluff and puts his hand around my shoulder. “We’re in this together now.”

I take a deep breath. And, to my surprise, it actually fills my lungs properly.

The first one all evening. It’s a small relief.

A second breath follows. “Well, I hope you know I’m not changing any raccoon diapers,” I say, and get back to work.

Following his instructions, I start forming three piles by the door while Ben is looking at all the paintings adorning my grandpa’s walls, taking them in with a slow sweep of his gaze.

There are a lot of them. I’m not sure I can even store them all in my apartment.

Maybe if I stopped using my shower and stacked them in there.

Maybe I could even sell a few. They wouldn’t add up to a hundred grand, but possibly a few thousand.

It might buy me some time—though my extortionists didn’t strike me like the type of gangster willing to negotiate either.

The sorting is slow, mostly because every other item feels like a memory grenade waiting to go off by a mere touch or even just a closer look.

After some deliberation, the painting I did of his corpse goes into the trash pile.

Luckily, Ben keeps me from sinking too deep into sentimentality with his steady stream of unsolicited commentary.

“Oh, look at this,” he says at one point, holding up an old, half-torn T-shirt that was likely used to wipe paintbrushes. “Now, this is a statement piece. You think I can pull this off?”

“Without a face tattoo? Doubtful.” I shake my head, unable to suppress the small grin tugging at my lips as we keep packing.

Ben moves with efficiency, gathering canvases, old sketchbooks, and an assortment of things my grandpa hoarded over the years. I focus on sorting while scanning every single scrap of paper for clues about the debt. After a while, I notice Ben lingering over one painting.

“Something catch your eye?” I ask, watching him study a piece I’d placed in the keep stack.

I follow his gaze. It’s a copy of that painting. The one my grandpa got arrested for forging. It had been all over the news back then, which is probably why Ben recognizes it.

I sigh. “That’s the one that got him incarcerated. He made several versions. They didn’t find all of them.”

Ben hums, something unreadable passing over his face. “A Gentileschi. I remember when it happened. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“That it’s coming back to the museum in the exhibition? Yep.” I nod. “The irony wasn’t lost on me. I was looking forward to smuggling my grandpa in after hours to take a look at it.”

Even more careful than before, he wraps it in a piece of bed sheet and carries it downstairs along with about a dozen other paintings, while I go back to sorting.

My last glimmer of hope that my grandpa had hidden away some secret fortune, or at least something to make all of this make sense, vanishes as we load the final box of folders and books into the RV. It would have been too easy.