A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain #1)(22)

“Oh, board for sure,” he says. “Skis are for the oldsters.”

Across the table, I see Reed’s lip curl.

So that topic is off the table.

When the first course is served, at least I’ve got something to do with my hands.

“Why don’t you tell us about your vision for Madigan Mountain,” Reed says as our guests dig in. “How does it fit in with the Sharpe brand?”

It’s an important question, even if I wish Reed hadn’t rolled into town to ask it.

The middle Sharpe puts down his fork. “We believe Madigan Mountain can be the premier luxury destination for skiers who want a big mountain experience with exquisite accommodations. The Sharpe brand is pure luxury. The best food and the best service.” He barely pauses for a breath before continuing his sales pitch. “We have a loyal, wealthy clientele who visit our resorts year after year. There’s the ranch in Texas, where Granddaddy started. We also have a desert spa in Arizona, three golf courses, and a beach resort on the Gulf Coast.”

“But no skiing,” I add.

“That’s right, little girl,” the grandfather says.

Little girl. Jesus.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Reed says. “Where do you see the growth potential here? There are environmental constraints. The owners of the abutting property won’t let you widen Madigan Mountain Road. We tried for years.”

What the hell? I want to kick Reed under the table. Is he trying to scuttle the deal?

“And,” he continues, “you can’t build any more condos without better access to the mountain.”

All three Sharpes just smile. “We’re fixin’ to raise prices,” the middle Sharpe says. “Our customers are in it for quality not quantity.”

Reed sips his wine, watching the three Sharpes over the rim of his glass. “How much can you raise them, though, before you price yourself out of the market?”

Kill me already. This night is going to last a hundred years.





I was wrong. It lasts even longer. The Sharpes like their wine, and they like to talk about themselves. I now know more about ranching than I ever cared to learn.

When the party moves to the bar, I begin to plot my escape. Ten more minutes of schmoozing ought to do it. Then I’ll sneak away.

Mark Madigan proposes a toast. “To familiar faces as well as new friends. I couldn’t be happier to welcome you all to Madigan Mountain.”

I raise my glass right on cue. Reed looks reluctant.

Come on, I privately snarl. Everything is resting on these next few days. The Sharpes are here for due diligence meetings with our accountants and lawyers. Everything has to go exactly right, so that they feel confident enough to prepare the final contract.

I’ve taken it upon myself to plan, host, and cater to their every whim while they’re here. We are going to show the Sharpes a good time if it kills me.

Reed finally raises his glass, and I try to relax.

“I have a good feeling about this deal,” the elder Sharpe says. “Due diligence is going to sail right through. You seem like people who like a job done right.”

“Oh, we do, sir,” I can’t resist saying.

“Yeah, I think Granddad is right,” Trey chimes in. “And you know what that means, right, boys? It’s time for the ritual.”

All three Sharpes cheer.

Reed lifts his perfect jaw. “Someone fill me in? What’s the ritual?”

Grandpa hitches up his trousers by the belt buckle. “We never do a deal without sharing our family moonshine. Get out the bottles, Trey.”

Oh, jeez. I don’t know what moonshine is, and I don’t really want to.

Trey lifts an expensive leather briefcase onto the bar. It has the Sharpe snake logo on it. (Seriously, a snake?) He pops open the gold buckles. He lifts the lid, and I notice that the interior is covered in ostentatious red velvet and molded to perfectly accommodate two cut-crystal decanters.

“Whoa, how’d you get that through airport security?” Melody asks with a grin.

“We chartered, hon,” Trey says with a flirty wink. “Which is how you’ll travel soon, too, am I right? Nobody flies commercial with the masses if they don’t have to.”

Melody gives an uncomfortable chuckle, and Reed looks nauseated.

“Can we get some glasses?” Trey actually snaps his fingers at Halley.

Uh-oh. I wonder if Halley will go off like a bomb at this display of macho rudeness. But she bites her lip and pulls down a set of cut-crystal glasses.

“We’ll need shot glasses, too,” Trey says, without so much as a thank-you.

I make a mental note to buy Halley a gift certificate from the nail salon in town as she plunks down the shot glasses on the bar with a little more force than necessary.

“All right,” the second Sharpe says, lifting one of the decanters. It’s filled with a clear liquid. “This is Sharpe family moonshine, distilled in a bathtub dating to 1862. Trey, pour the shots.”

His son grabs the bottle and pours. “We don’t sell this,” Trey says. “You have to be a friend of the family to ever experience it.”

“I’m honored,” I lie as Trey passes me a shot glass.

Wow, the scent of the liquor is strong. I’m pretty sure it would be useful at the nail salon in town—for removing nail polish.