Page 61 of The Billionaire Invitation

“Whoa,” Honesty said aloud. The structure resembled a museum rather than a magazine’s headquarters, that was for sure. Neat, square hedgerows, decorative topiaries, and white floral bushes were stationed on either side of the structure.

“Whoa is right.” Dante pulled up to the front porch. If one could call it a mere porch. The front door was in shadow beneath a grand stone archway and flanked by gaslight fixtures that flickered away behind wavy glass. Two more large stone topiaries packed with white flowers sat on either side of a rustic jute mat.

Dante parked in a space near the front, rather than off to the side where there were several SUVs, cars, and one shiny red convertible.

“I was expecting a conference room or a bullpen, like at a newspaper’s office,” Honesty said as she marveled at the building. “Not a mansion.”

Outside the car, the air held a clean floral fragrance. There was no sign of tall skyscrapers and the traffic of the city—they’d left those behind miles ago. Instead, the rolling blue waters of the lake gave way to houses on the shoreline, the scene bucolic and wealthy.

He held her hand as they crested the stone stairs. “North Shore Style is an old money magazine, started by Wayne Crawford. Opulence was his standard.”

“Never heard of him.” The sun was shining bright, forcing her to shield her eyes until she stepped under the arch where the temperature dropped several degrees.

When the door popped open, they were greeted by a woman with dark brown hair wearing a measuring tape around her neck. “Hi, guys! I’m Becke Crawford. Come on in.”

Becke’s casual greeting didn’t match the atmosphere outside, that was for sure. Honesty had been expecting a guy named Jeeves to open the door and give them a sour “hello.” Equally relieving was that the atmosphere inside was familiar and approachable.

“Any relation to Wayne Crawford?” Honesty asked, unable to help herself.

“Yes. But back a few generations. My great-grandmother, his daughter, took over North Shore Style after he died.” She lifted the measuring tape off her neck. “I am doubling as a stylist today in addition to being your interviewer. Right this way.” She draped the tape over the staircase’s banister and then crossed to a massive room.

What looked like it used to be a drawing room had been converted into seating areas meant to be interview stations. There were a few gilded frames holding somber looking portraits, but the rest of the room was modern and functional.

The air smelled faintly of freshly brewed coffee from a fancy espresso machine in one corner. Honesty’s heels clicked and then muted as she stepped from the marble floor to a decorative rug. She sidestepped a white backdrop and umbrella lights.

“That’s where we’ll do your shoot, though I’d like for Jorge to snap a few outside too,” Becke said. “The lake is beautiful today, and the water is so calm.”

A woman wearing wide-leg trousers was leaning over a desk, pen in hand. Next to her was a display of jewelry, and behind her stood a clothing rack packed with suit jackets, blouses, slacks, and dresses—no doubt some of the items that Jennifer had called in on Honesty’s behalf.

The woman looked up and offered a friendly smile as they walked by, and then handed Becke the paper she’d been writing on.

“Thanks, Shelley. She’s a godsend,” Becke told them. Next they passed a man with a coiled extension cord over his shoulder who was following a younger, good-looking guy holding a camera—Jorge, most likely.

“We moved here from the city during COVID and never looked back.” Becke gestured to a grouping of plush chairs with a low table in the middle. There were three glasses of water waiting for them. “The estate has been in my family for generations. It was sitting abandoned, gathering dust, until we moved our headquarters here.”

“Jennifer mentioned that you’d updated the entire estate,” Dante said.

“Oh, yeah.” Becke, in a black wrap dress, crossed one leg over the other and waggled one high-heeled shoe. “It being so old, we had a lot of wiring and structural issues to deal with. We worked here the entire time, but relegated ourselves to the kitchen. Now we have this space. Utopia.”

“It’s beautiful,” Honesty agreed. Even with the functional folding tables and large cork boards dotted with swatches leaning on the walls, the room’s history showed through. Like in the carved fireplace and molding, or the narrow, wavy-glass windows overlooking the lush lawn.

“I love it here. My family and I are thinking of leaving the city to move closer, but the price tag on this neighborhood is hefty.” Becke blew out a breath. “Coffee for either of you?”

“No, thank you.” Honesty didn’t need more caffeine. She didn’t want to be overly chatty or shifting back and forth in her seat the entire interview.

“Great. Let’s get started.” Becke began with the easy stuff. She asked how Dante came to run the Moretti Foundation and about his involvement with Refurbs for Vets. She threw in that she was “extremely” interested in interviewing Elijah Crane if Dante could make that happen for her.

Dante offered a smile but promised nothing. He mentioned that his elusive cousin was focused on the mission and rarely took interviews. Then he masterfully steered the conversation to Honesty and how she shared Eli’s passion for a similar mission.

Once the spotlight was on her, Honesty eased into the conversation. She could talk about nutrition and the difference it made in people’s everyday lives for hours. She told Becke how her brother, Christian, had inspired her to do more for the community. While she spoke, she could have sworn she felt him sitting next to her, encouraging her.

“He sounds like he was an amazing man,” Becke said softly.

“He was.”

Then the gloves came off when Becke asked, “Photos of you and Dante circulated in the press a few weekends ago. They garnered a lot of attention. Readers love to speculate about who the Cranes are canoodling with these days.”

“Odd. Most Chicago Cranes are happily partnered off.” Dante’s flat tone didn’t exactly convey displeasure, but close.