A Very Merry Bromance (Bromance Book Club #5) (31)

Simon lifted an eyebrow. “It absolutely is. I have snow and salt caked on those boots, and the floors in this house are century-old walnut. You should take yours off too. If we have a chance of salvaging them—”

Chelsea held up her hand to silence him. “I already told you that I have no intention of keeping it.”

“I know you told me that. I’m here to change your mind.”

“No. You’re here to sign off on the sale.”

“Sorry.” He ran a hand over his snow-covered hair, leaving it standing up in spiky layers. “I’m not going to agree to let you sell this landmark property to some greedy Detroit developer who will tear down the house and throw up some cheap condos in its place.”

“This is my property.”

“And this is my job.”

“Look, Mr. Rye—”

“Simon.”

“Mr. Rye, I can appreciate your passion for saving historical sites. But the house is mine to sell. What gives you the right to tell me I can’t do it?”

“I have no interest in stopping you from selling your family house.”

Surprise rendered her speechless for a change.

“What I’m interested in is convincing you to sell to someone who will maintain the property as is.”

“Impossible. I already have a buyer lined up.”

Simon shrugged. “Then I’m afraid we’re at an impasse.”

A scraping sound outside brought them both up short. It sounded like a sled on a hill. Simon sucked in a breath. “Please tell me you set the emergency brake when you got out of your car.”

“I—”

“Shit.”

Simon whipped open the door and raced back outside, still in his socks. He stopped at the top of the porch steps, hands on top of his head, because there was nothing else to do. She ran out and stopped next to him, and together they watched her car slide backward until it collided with his truck.

Chelsea held her breath and prayed that would be the worst of it.

But she already knew how foolish it was.

With a creak, his truck began to slide, too, and then both of them careened over the side of the hill into a deep ditch.





CHAPTER EIGHT


The wait at ToeBeans the next morning was as long as Gretchen’s fuse was short. When she arrived just after eight, she could barely squeeze through the door because the line of sleepy-eyed patrons waiting for their morning dose of motivation stretched all the way to the entrance.

Gretchen stifled a yawn behind her hand. There wasn’t enough caffeine in the world to make up for how little she’d slept last night. Colton and his almost-kiss were only partly to blame. The rest was that book. Apparently, romances were the can’t eat just one of literature. One chapter became just a few more pages until it was suddenly two a.m. Even when she realized that the main female character bore a striking and insulting resemblance to her, Gretchen couldn’t stop reading.

She had way too much to do today to be this tired, not the least of which was emailing Evan to tell him Colton was open to negotiations.

When her phone buzzed in her coat pocket, she pulled it out and quickly did a double take. It was Evan. “I see you found my cell number,” she said in greeting.

“Had to ask my wife for it.”

Of course he did.

“Got some news for me?” he asked.

“I met with Colton last night.”

He snorted. “I know. I’ve seen the pictures.”

A blast of cold air turned her skin to ice, and it had nothing to do with the door opening behind her. “What pictures?”

“You didn’t actually think you could go on a date in public with Colton Wheeler and not have someone post a picture of it on social media, did you?”

She had, actually. She wasn’t a social media person and paid zero attention to celebrity gossip sites. Besides, people took pictures of him, asked for selfies with him. Why would they bother taking pictures of her?

Gretchen’s heart pounded a nervous beat. The last thing she needed was for Evan to think she wasn’t taking the task seriously. “It wasn’t a date, Evan.”

“I don’t care what it was,” he said. “I just care if it worked. What did he say?”

Another blast of cold air behind her forced her to inch forward as much as possible. “He agreed to hearing a proposal about an endorsement deal, if that’s what you mean.”

“Great. I’ll get a meeting set up and—”

“No.”

“No?”

“I mean, he wants me to give it to him.” And since that carried all kinds of embarrassing innuendo, she added quickly, “The proposal.”

“He wants you to deliver it?”

She bristled at the emphasis. “Yes. If you send me the proposal, I’ll give it to him.”

“So you can wrangle another date?”

“It wasn’t a date.”

He made a yeah, right noise. “I’ll email you something tomorrow.”

“I’ll watch for it—”

He hung up. Gretchen pulled the phone away and stared at the screen, jaw clenched. But annoyance at her brother quickly turned to dread. The pictures. She didn’t have an Instagram account and only used Twitter to stay on top of various immigrant news stories. So she had to Google it. She typed, “Colton Wheeler Christmas on the Cumberland.”