Chapter Two Reese
Two
Reese
Reese Spencer had been in boardrooms from Vancouver to Cape Town, had negotiated deals while dodging charging elephants in Botswana, and once closed a seven-figure acquisition via satellite phone from a research station in Antarctica.
But he’d never had someone try to convince him a property was haunted while picking butternut squash out of his shirt pocket.
It was, without question, the most entertaining anti-sales pitch he’d encountered in years.
Not to mention the person delivering that pitch was captivating in a way that caught him off guard.
Blond hair with rebellious pink tips framing a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and a stubborn chin.
Her fingernails were bitten short, the remnants of pink polish chipped and half-gone like she’d been too busy or too distracted to care about upkeep.
Long legs stretched beneath a café apron decorated with cartoon pumpkins, and her blue eyes held a sharpness that suggested she saw through most people’s bullshit on first meeting.
She was magnetic. And now she’d just cut him off mid-sentence and was shoving past his guests, crossing the patio in quick strides to reach a bloodied-up teenage kid in soccer kit rocking an expression Reese recognized.
He’d worn it himself often enough growing up, showing up at the care home his mother worked at after another encounter with the Belanger brothers, who thought poor kids needed regular reminders of their place in the world.
The waitress caught the kid by the shoulders, examining the damage to his face before steering him toward the café’s interior, her arm protectively around him.
Reese had the urge to follow them. Become a fly on a wall and maybe glimpse at the memories of his own childhood.
But before he could figure out what was happening with the pink-haired server and the kid, another woman appeared.
Early sixties, well-put-together in that small-town way—silver hair styled just so, deep purple cardigan that she’d probably knitted herself.
“Oh my stars!” She pressed a hand to her chest, taking in the butternut squash decorating his shirt. “Mr. Spencer, I am so terribly sorry! My daughter Grace is usually the most coordinated person I know. She won Best Server in Washington State, you know. I have no idea what got into her today.”
So the waitress hadn’t been joking around about the Best Server win. And her name. Grace. Not that graceful considering what just happened. Still, it suited her.
“It happens,” he said.
“Well, we’ll cover the dry-cleaning bill.” She put her hand out. “Mabel Sullivan, owner of Blossoms couldn’t risk anyone finding out right now. “Never did like being predictable,” he said.
“That we have in common.” Mabel linked her arm through his like they were old acquaintances. “Well then, let me introduce you to the current owners’ son. He’s just walked in with his husband.”
Reese let Mabel guide him through the crowd like a diplomatic escort at a trade summit, ignoring the way his PA Erika raised her dark eyebrow as he passed her.
“Caleb, Mikkel, meet your host,” Mabel announced as she stopped before two men. “Reese Spencer, the billionaire.”
One of the men—an excitable-looking guy with wavy caramel hair—put his hand to his chest as he looked Reese up and down. “Oh my.”
“Close your mouth, darling,” the blond man with him said.
“I have so many questions,” the excitable guy continued, ignoring his husband.
“Is it true you once bought a private jet just to fly your ex-girlfriend’s dog to a specialized vet in Switzerland?
And did you really buy an entire island just because you liked the view?
And how do you feel about the nickname the New York Times gave you: the Golden Wolf?
Because now I see you up close, I totally get it. ”
His husband looked like he wanted to disappear into the flower arrangements behind them. “Caleb, darling,” he said quietly in a Scandinavian accent, “calm down.”
“What? I’m just being friendly!” Caleb protested.
“Reese is looking to buy your folks’ inn, Caleb,” Mabel said.
Caleb’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up. “The Maple Inn? Oh honey, good luck with that money pit. I keep telling my folks they should burn it down for the insurance money before it slides into the lake on its own.”
“Caleb,” Mikkel protested.
“What? I’m being realistic. It’s like staying in a museum dedicated to structural decay.”
“Maybe Mr. Spencer can change that?” Mikkel turned to Reese, putting a slim hand out. “Mikkel Hansen. A pleasure to meet you. Are you moving to the area as well?”
Reese shook his head. “That’s not the plan right now.”
“Oh, I read Mr. Spencer doesn’t have a fixed home,” Caleb said. “He’s the kind of man who never stays still—one week in a luxury hotel, the next in some remote Airbnb or safari tent, then a cave in Tibet for good measure. Tell me I’m wrong.”
He wasn’t. Reese had tried to own a place once.
Had a house built from the ground up when he made his first million years back.
A place meant for him and his ex-wife. But that all ended in ways he still didn’t like to think about.
Taught him staying in one place and putting down roots only led to bad stuff happening.
Also taught him letting himself love again would be… inadvisable.
The nomadic lone-wolf lifestyle suited him now. Set something up, hand it over, move on. That was the pattern. And as soon as he got the new inn up and running, this place would be no different.
“Ah, look who’s just walked in!” Mabel said, looking toward an elderly couple. “The owners of the inn.”
Reese took the couple in. He’d studied their photos from the inn brochure Erika had shown him.
The older man had the kind of military bearing Reese recognized from base commanders he’d dealt with in northern territories.
Had to be mid-seventies, white beard trimmed to regulation standards, shoulders that hadn’t forgotten how to stand to attention.
The woman beside him had her silver hair up in a matronly bun, wearing a floral dress, a walking stick by her side.
Mabel beckoned the couple over.
“This is Reese Spencer,” she said when they stopped before her, “the Canadian billionaire who’s going to buy your inn!”
Reese flinched at her use of the billionaire label again, as if his bank balance was the only thing worth knowing about him.
“Abraham Blackwell,” Abe said, extending his hand to Reese. “This is my wife, Margaret. Understand you’re sniffing around our property.”
“Yes, I’m interested,” Reese said, shaking his hand. “It’s good land.”
“Been in my family for generations,” Abe said. “My great-great-grandfather built that inn with his own hands.”
“That’s solid history. A history I plan to honor if my bid is successful.”
History. Honor. The kinds of words he’d brainstormed with Erika that would appeal to these people.
Abe’s expression soured. “Unlikely it will be. Don’t want no billionaire taking over. You people show up, wave money around, ruin everything for the folks who actually live here.”
“Father,” Caleb hissed as Mikkel grimaced.
Reese had heard variations of this speech before. “I get the concern,” he said. “But I’m not here to build up a resort that drives out the neighbors.”
“Sure you’re not,” Abe said as his wife smiled awkwardly. “They all say that. Six months later it’s helicopter pads and fifty-dollar hamburgers. You rich kids have no idea.”
“I didn’t grow up with money,” Reese said. “I was born in Thunder Bay in Canada with a single mom who worked extra hours just to keep food on the table. I know what happens when outsiders move in and decide the locals don’t matter.”
“Then why be one of those outsiders?” Abe shot back.
Caleb cringed and turned away.
“Because sometimes the best way to protect a place is to make it pay for itself. Conservation funding, local hiring, supporting what’s already here instead of replacing it.”
“Hmmm,” Abe said, face unreadable. “How’s your fancy development team gonna handle it when the power goes out for three days straight? When there’s no way on or off that island because the lake’s throwing up eight-foot swells?”
Reese thought of Grace and her storm warnings.
“I’ve been through worse,” he said. “Spent two weeks in a research camp in northern Manitoba when a blizzard knocked out everything electronic for fifty miles. And rode out a typhoon in the Philippines that even had the local guides convinced we were all going to die.” He kept his tone casual, not trying to impress but just stating facts.
“Weather’s weather. You prepare for it, respect it, and work with what you’ve got. ”
Abe’s expression didn’t soften, but something shifted in his eyes. “Maybe. But respect and a few million dollars don’t mean much when you’re sitting in the dark eating cold beans from a can, wondering if your generator’s gonna hold out another night.”