The Last Eligible Billionaire(104)

I’m getting closer to his voice, picking my way around mud pits and piles of things that I do not want to step in. “You don’t know me well enough for me to be predictable.”

“I know your type. That’s enough.”

The crate’s sitting crooked, like it landed on a rock. I peer inside it.

“There’s a gate that you can open on that thing. Lock it when you get in so you don’t fall out and break your neck on the way up. Or don’t. Your choice.”

I spot the gate in question on one side of the big wooden box. “We can negotiate from here.”

“I don’t negotiate with people who can’t pull their own weight.”

I peer up.

He’s leaning over a deck, bare arms dangling over the edge, one hand holding a mug, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, hair hidden under that ridiculous hat, mouth hidden by his beard, so it’s impossible to judge if he’s proud of himself for making an awful joke or if he doesn’t realize his double meaning.

From what I know of Teague Miller so far, I’ll assume he’s aware he made a joke but also that he assumes I’m too haughty and highbrow to recognize that fact.

As if I didn’t already severely dislike the man. “You want us gone, so I don’t need to negotiate with you at all. You have more to lose here.”

“Maybe I changed my mind. Maybe someone convinced me that it’ll be another profitable venture for the town to leak pictures of you doing things like walking through goat shit and falling out of boats to a few tabloids back in New York. From where I stand, Ms. Lightly, you’re the one with a greater incentive to leave.”

I eyeball the crate again.

It’s hooked up on all four corners to a center pulley above the middle of the crate, and unlike the gate on the fence, the gate on this wooden box has a latch that’s not rusted.

He thinks I can’t figure this out and get up there?

He thinks I’m too precious? Too pampered? Too spoiled?

The man has no idea who he’s dealing with.


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