Secret Billionaire: The Counterfeit Handyman: Part 1 — In Plain Sight

The old Ford Ranger groaned like a dying beast as Cole Sterling wrestled it up the final incline. The engine, which had coughed and sputtered for the last twenty miles of winding mountain road, finally gave a shuddering gasp and settled into a rattling idle.

He killed the ignition, and the sudden silence was filled with the sigh of wind through ancient pine trees.

Through the cracked windshield, Whispering Pines Lodge looked exactly like the photos in the corporate portfolio: a sprawling, two-story structure of dark timber and river stone, its wide porch inviting and its many windows glowing with a warm, honeyed light against the deepening twilight.

The portfolio, however, had failed to capture the soul of the place. It hadn’t mentioned the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth that clung to the air, or the way the building seemed to have grown from the mountainside rather than being built upon it.

It was a fortress of homespun comfort, a bulwark against the encroaching wilderness.

Cole ran a hand over his three-day stubble, the unfamiliar rasp a reminder of the man he was supposed to be.

Cole Sterling, CEO of Sterling Global Hospitality, wouldn’t be caught dead in this rust-bucket truck, wearing jeans worn thin at the knees and a flannel shirt that smelled faintly of mothballs.

But Cal, the new handyman? This was his uniform.

He’d argued against this harebrained scheme. “Just send a regional manager,” he’d told his board.

“Someone anonymous.” But the numbers for Whispering Pines were an anomaly.

Occupancy was down, yet guest satisfaction was through the roof. Maintenance requests were skyrocketing, yet the property manager insisted everything was fine.

It was a puzzle, and Cole Sterling had built an empire on solving puzzles. He’d decided the only way to get a true read on the situation was to see it from the ground up.

He swung himself out of the truck, his work boots landing with a solid crunch on the gravel. The air was crisp, sharp with the promise of a cold mountain night.

He stretched, feeling the ache of the long drive settle into his bones. This was it.

Phase one: embed and observe.

Before he could even grab his duffel bag, the heavy oak door of the lodge swung open, spilling a rectangle of warm light onto the porch. A figure was silhouetted in the doorway, hands on hips, posture radiating an immediate and unmistakable aura of ‘do not mess with me.’

As she stepped into the light, he saw she was younger than he’d expected. Late twenties, maybe.

Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe, practical ponytail, and her face, though framed by a few stray wisps of hair, was all sharp angles and intelligent, assessing eyes.