Chapter 21 Reed
Reed
I’m limping around my greenhouse like some kind of mad scientist-pirate, alternating between euphoric grins at the memory of Eliza’s hands on my body and crushing anxiety about the spreadsheet on my tablet showing exactly how fucked I am financially.
Three weeks. That’s how much operating capital I have left before I’ll be forced to shut down Urban Forest Solutions and crawl to my father’s office with my tail between my legs.
The presentation at Bramblewood was supposed to generate interest, but it generated exactly zero investment inquiries and one very public humiliation.
I am in the midst of the December holiday season with no mass-produced product and barely a spare prototype.
These tiny trees are perfect—healthy, symmetrical, exactly what I envisioned when I started this whole venture.
But perfect doesn’t matter if no one’s willing to fund their production.
At least the Bramblewood folks still want my trees as centerpieces for the gala.
I should head over there at some point and check on the trees…
make sure no more wildlife got loose in the manor or something.
I smile again, thinking of my night with Eliza. All of this is too much, but somehow, it feels approachable, knowing a feisty goatherd is on my side.
“Yo, Reed!” Paolo’s voice echoes through the greenhouse as he pushes through the door. “Can I ask you a big favor?”
“Maybe,” I tease, grateful for the distraction. “What are you doing here?”
“Heading to my cousin’s for Immaculate Conception stuff and thought I’d ask if I could snag one of your trees. My abuela’s been asking about my ‘so-called friends’, and I figured…” He gestures around the lab with a grin.
I wave an arm toward the display area. “Take your pick.”
Paolo examines the trees with exaggerated seriousness before selecting a particularly full specimen. “This one’s calling to me. Very Feng Shui.”
“That’ll be—”
“Don’t even think about charging me,” Paolo interrupts. “Consider it payment for all the times I’ve had to listen to you obsess over pH levels.”
I watch him cradle the small tree carefully, and something twists in my chest. In a few weeks, I’ll be giving all these trees away or watching them die as I pack this place.
“So,” Paolo says, settling the tree on his hip, “how are things with the goat lady? You’ve been suspiciously happy, despite your impending financial doom.”
Heat creeps through my neck. “We’re… we’ve made some progress.”
“Progress?” Paolo’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s the most euphemistic way I’ve ever heard someone describe getting laid.”
“It’s not just that,” I protest, though my face is probably burning red. “We talked. Really talked. About real things.”
“Aw, look at you being all emotionally mature.” Paolo grins. “I’m proud of you, man. Even if your business implodes, at least you won’t be alone.”
The reminder of my failing business makes my stomach clench, but Paolo’s genuine happiness for me softens the blow. “Thanks. I think.”
“Hey, things could turn around. You never know.” Paolo heads toward the door with his tree. “Enjoy the holidays, Reed. And don’t marry your farmer girlfriend until I get back.”
“She’s not my girlfriend—” But Paolo’s already gone, leaving me alone with the echo of his laughter and the space where the tree used to be.
I stare at the gap in my lineup, the way the other trees seem to lean slightly toward the absence. In a few weeks, this entire greenhouse will look like that—empty spaces where my dreams used to be.
My tablet buzzes with an email notification, probably another rejection or my landlord asking about next month’s rent. I’m tempted to ignore it, but procrastination won’t pay my bills.
The sender’s domain name makes me blink twice: North Shore Capital.
I squint at the screen, my insides fluttering with hope I thought was squashed.
Mr. Nicholas,
I apologize for the delayed invitation to your presentation at Bramblewood Manor. I was traveling and have only recently had the opportunity to review the materials you provided.
Your hydroponic forestry concept is intriguing, and I’d like to discuss potential investment opportunities. I’ll be attending the Yule Gala at Bramblewood this Friday and would appreciate the chance to speak with you about your projections in more detail.
Jennifer Martinez, senior partner at an investment group, has asked me for forecasts and sales models. With no mention of my father, his company, or anything related to Nicholas Industries. She’s… interested in my work.
I read the email three times before it sinks in. An investor. An actual investor who wants to see projections and marketing strategies and scaling scenarios.
Holy shit.
I plunge into full panic mode, my mind racing through everything I need to prepare. Financial forecasts, marketing plans, production timelines—none of which I have in the format a serious investor would expect. I grab my laptop and pull up spreadsheets, my fingers flying over the keyboard.
Five hundred units. A thousand. Twenty-five hundred.
The numbers swim in front of my eyes as I try to calculate everything from raw materials to shipping costs to labor requirements.
This is exactly the kind of detailed analysis I should have prepared weeks ago, but I was too focused on a sales pitch for my science to think about the business side.
My phone buzzes. Then again. I glance at it briefly—Eliza’s name on the screen—but I’m deep in a calculation about nutrient solution costs and can’t break concentration. I’ll call her once I get this under control.
The forecasting takes hours. By the time I look up, it’s completely dark outside, and my phone is showing multiple missed calls and texts. My mother called twice, probably to lecture me about missing the ballet and avoiding my father’s job offer. But most of the missed notifications are from Eliza.
I scroll through her texts:
Hey, how’s the ankle?
Call me when you get this
Really need to talk to you
Reed? Everything okay?
I guess you’re busy. Call me tonight if you can
The last message was sent three hours ago. I should call her back, but I’m in the zone now, bar charts and pivot tables sprouting like weeds. I’m finally making real progress on the business materials, and I can’t afford to lose momentum.
My phone rings again—my mother’s number this time. I answer on speaker, barely paying attention.
“Reed, darling, where have you been?” Her voice carries that particular tone of disappointment I’ve been hearing since childhood. “You already missed the Nutcracker, and your father is furious about your continued avoidance of his very generous job offer.”
“I’m working, Mom.”
“Working on what? That little tree thing? Reed, you need to be practical. Your father has been more than patient, but you need to prepare for your arrival at the company.”
“I’m not taking the job.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t live off your agricultural nonsense. Why pass up a sure paycheck?”
The words sting because she’s not entirely wrong. If this investor meeting doesn’t work out, I’ll be exactly where my parents predicted—broke, failed, and crawling to Nicholas Industries.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Reed, we need to discuss—”
I hang up and switch my phone to silent. Then, thinking better of it, I power it off completely. Eliza will understand that I’m working. She runs her own business; she knows how consuming that can be.
Right now, I need to focus. Jennifer Martinez is my last chance to save Urban Forest Solutions, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to blow it this time.
I scratch out a rough calendar on my whiteboard. The gala is on Friday, four days away. Four days to create a presentation that could save everything I’ve worked for. A presentation that’s effortlessly cool while also impactful.
Four days to prove my father was wrong about me. To prove to Eliza and maybe even myself that my idealistic vision matters.