A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain #1)(29)

“Not me,” I grumble, my mouth full of bagel. “Must have been some other girl.”

“I wonder.” Then she gives her head a shake and bounces off the bed. “As much fun as it is to gossip about my hot but emotionally stunted boss, I have to get downstairs and set up a conference room for this meeting.”

“Oh hell! I was—”

Sheila holds up a hand. “I got it. Just put on my track suit and go run home to make yourself presentable. See you down there!” Then she disappears to do my job for me.

That girl really deserves a raise.





Forty minutes later, I’m freshly showered and hurrying back into the hotel. My hair is up in a bun. I’m wearing a dress and enough makeup to hide my hungover pallor.

I’m not even late, so I force myself to skid to a stop outside the Evergreen Room and take a slow breath. The morning won’t be easy. I’ll have to look Reed in the eye today and apologize for being his crazy drunk ex, barfing in his hotel room, and generally making myself look like an incompetent drama queen.

Three days ago, I honestly thought of myself as a woman who had her shit handled. Then he showed up and everything went off the rails.

“Everything okay?” asks a Texas drawl. “We didn’t pour too much moonshine down you last night, did we?”

I startle, turning around to find the youngest Sharpe behind me. “Oh, hi! I’m fine!” I lie. “Just wondering if I needed to return any calls before this meeting. But I think they’ll wait.” I open the door to the room and hold it for him.

He shakes his head. “I would never let a woman hold a door for me, ma’am. Ladies first.” He grabs the edge of the door and nods, letting me know that I should walk in first.

I do it, because I’m not in the mood to argue. I’m not a fan of their weird-ass chivalry.

“Morning!” I say to the room.

“There she is!” Grandpa Sharpe says. “Hope your head isn’t aching. Our style of celebrating can be a little much.”

Jesus, they relish the idea of my suffering. “Oh, I’m fine! It’s nothing that a buttered bagel couldn’t fix.” Plus three Advil and a whole lot of water.

Reed lifts his eyes to mine, his expression unexpectedly soft.

Ouch. I used to really enjoy those glances. But now I turn away and choose a spot at the table that might keep me at a safe distance from him.

There are more chairs around the table today. We’ve got two accountants and a lawyer—even though the legal review isn’t until tomorrow—and of course, the Sharpes also brought their finance team.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” asks a man in a cowboy hat. “We’d like to start with the balance sheet and then move into cash flow.”

“Works for us,” Mark Madigan says.

Our CPA opens his binder to the balance sheet, and off we go. It’s a lot of very dry discussion of revenue and expenses.

The Sharpes don’t ask a lot of questions until we get to the portion on capital expenditures. And then they spend a lot of time asking about the ski-mountain operation. They want to hear all the details about how much ski lifts cost to build and operate and the constraints to building them.

It’s not a quick discussion, and my head is still throbbing. I drain a glass of water and pine for more. But the pitchers on the table are nearly empty, and if I get up to fill them, I’ll look like the waitress and not the executive manager. And something tells me that optics count for a lot with this crew.

I surreptitiously text the chef and ask her to send someone with more water.

The financial questions drag on forever. “All our lift equipment is quite new,” I say at one point, fearing we’ll never move on. “You won’t have to reinvest for years.”

“We are very thorough, little lady,” the middle Sharpe says. “Got to dot the I’s and cross those T’s.”

Holding back my sigh, I vow to suffer in silence.

When talk turns to the revenue side of operations, it’s Reed who starts asking all the questions. “I still would like to understand your basic earnings assumptions,” he says. “By my calculations, you’d have to raise room prices by six times to justify the valuation.”

I hold back my gasp, but just barely. I’m not the only one who’s irritated. Across the table, Reed’s father looks like he’s about to explode.

“You leave that to us,” Sharpe says. “I’m sure you know the ins and outs of squeezing revenue out of an app, but we have the fastest growing luxury brand on the continent. Your mountain has a lot of potential, and we know exactly how to exploit it.”

“Exploit,” Reed murmurs. “Interesting choice of words.”

His father gives him a death glare.

I don’t understand Reed. I really don’t. I have loved this man. I have been left by this man. I have pined for this man, and now I’m just irritated by him.

And I still need to apologize for last night.

Just when I think I might die if I don’t get a break from this meeting, a knock on the door announces lunch. One of the servers enters, pushing a cart loaded down with platters of sandwiches, fruit, and cookies.

I have never been so excited for a break before in my life. Reed looks relieved, too. He rises from the table and heads for the door.