“There,” I say, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing, how my hands are still resting on his coat collar.
Reed’s eyes drop to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Eliza…”
“Yes?”
But whatever he was going to say gets lost as a group of laughing teenagers pushes past us, breaking the moment. Reed runs that familiar hand through his hair.
“We really should get going,” he says.
As we walk through the glittering downtown streets, I clutch the wooden goat in my pocket and try to process what just happened. Reed is not the uptight rich boy I thought he was. He’s passionate and vulnerable and, apparently, thinks I’m extraordinary.
10
Reed
The atrium at Bramblewood Manor glows with holiday warmth and startup anxiety. My trees—all twenty-four we coaxed through despite the odds—serve as centerpieces on the tables, with the extras decorating the buffet. Their wee needles seem to wave under the twinkle lights Eliza helped me rig after our hot nut lunch.
It wasn’t a date, and that’s because I’m in a position of power over her regarding this very estate, and I would do well to remember that.
I adjust my tie for the tenth time, running through my presentation notes. The room is filling with the investors I need: men in expensive suits, women in jewelry that costs more than my hybrid sedan, and nonbinary superstars with exquisite socks—Pittsburgh’s angel investors gathering to see which businesses will get their wings.
I wish I wasn’t staring at my parents at one of the tables.
My mother catches my eye, and her smile feels bright and artificial. My father sits beside her with his face in his phone. I know they sought invitations, always butting in.
“Reed.” Mandy Warnick appears at my elbow, consulting her tablet. “We’re ready to begin whenever you are.”
I nod, scanning the crowd for Eliza. She said she’d be here after she checked on the herd, but I don’t see her anywhere among the designer dresses and perfectly styled hair.
Then a side door opens, and there she is.
She ditched her coat somewhere and looks stunning in a blue sweater, her eyes impossibly dark. Her hair is pulled in a simple ponytail, and she seems right at home among this crowd, even though she said she hates wealthy people. Eliza finds a seat at a table near the back and smiles at me above the polished heads.
I have eyes only for her as I approach the podium, my nerves slipping into an emotion-cocktail of sexual frustration, attraction, and financial terror.
“Welcome, everyone,” Mandy announces. “We are so excited to begin our showcase this evening. We’ve got some incredible budding businesses growing right here in Pittsburgh, and I know you’re all eager to learn about them. Up first, we have Reed Nicholas of Urban Forest Solutions.”
I smile through the polite applause, keeping my gaze locked on Eliza and hoping this gives me an air of studying the entire audience. She is calm and still, her blue sweater reminding me of the evening sky. She’s a friendly face in a room full of vultures who might determine my entire future.
I guess it’s wrong to think of investors as carrion birds, but it’s hard not to feel a bit like roadkill, especially since my first and most perfect batch of trees was eaten by goats in a matter of minutes.
“Good evening,” I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. “Each of your tables features my flagship product.” I pause while people look and nod at their centerpieces. “These aren’t just mini Christmas trees. They represent a fundamental shift in how we think about urban agriculture and sustainable holiday traditions.”
I fall into my rhythm, explaining the hydroponic system, the environmental benefits, the market potential. Every time I start to feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of what I’m proposing, I look at Eliza. She’s leaning forward slightly, focused entirely on what I’m saying, and somehow that makes everything else fade into the background.
I warm up a bit and talk about pesticides, the ways I avoid them, and the benefits of living decorations people can admire year-round.
A hand shoots up in the audience. “What’s your projected return on investment?” asks a man I recognize as one of my father’s golf partners.
“Based on market research and pre-orders already secured, we’re projecting thirty percent growth year over year for the first five years,” I respond, grateful for all the hours I spent perfecting these numbers.
More questions follow. Production costs. Scalability. Distribution logistics. I answer each one with confidence, occasionally glancing at my notes but mostly speaking from months of preparation and genuine passion for the project.
I’m explaining the potential for expansion into other plant products when I hear it—the distinctive sound of my father’s laugh. Not amused laughter, but the condescending chuckle he reserves for ideas he finds naïve.
“Well,” Mandy Warnick’s voice tinkles from the audience, “I think we’ve all heard enough to get the picture.”
She approaches the podium, perfectly coiffed, with an iron-on smile. I nod and back away as she introduces the next presenter. Taking my seat at a side table, I try to listen politely to presentations about bespoke shirts and mineral deodorant. Then I try to tune out and silence the inner critic insisting these presentations are all superior to mine.
