A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain #1)(66)

“I would fight if I were him,” Sheila declares. “I’m ready to take up a pitchfork right now.”

“You deserve that raise,” I insist. “Drinks are on me tonight.”

She grins, lifts her martini glass to mine, and we toast.

“Can I ask you a question?” I ask after a healthy gulp of liquor. “What would Reed do if Madigan Mountain were one of his VC investments? How would he defeat the Sharpes?”

Sheila’s clear eyes turn guilty. “Well, you’ve already seen him in action. A little corporate espionage is not beneath him.”

“I know. And I have to say it was fun.”

We share a smile, but then Sheila’s fades. “I actually poked him about this. I suggested that he leak the details of that awful development to the town council. And he’d already thought of that.”

“Oh.” I can see it now. “It might slow down the sale of the mountain.” If the town mounted a campaign against the Sharpes, the state land conservation authority might refuse to transfer the long-term lease of the skiable land to the new owner of the resort. “Bad press could endanger the whole transaction.”

“That’s right.” Sheila runs a finger around the rim of her glass. “But Reed asked me not to try anything. He thought you could get in trouble for it.”

“Oh, hell.” I swallow hard. “Mark would never forgive me if I leaked it. Or if he thought I did.”

“Right,” Sheila says gently. “Reed doesn’t want to hurt you.”

Then where is he?

“Somehow this is going to end up okay,” she declares. “It’s not over yet.”

“I guess.” I take another sip, and then say something I’ve been thinking about since before Reed even left. “I want to put an idea in your ear.”

“What’s that? More ginger martinis?”

I shake my head, because I’m being serious now. “If you were serious earlier about working somewhere fun, I would hire you here in a hot second.”

“Here?” She sits up straight on her barstool. “Really?”

“Really. When Mark retires—however that comes to pass—I’ll be the manager, doing his job. And I’ll need an assistant to do my old one.”

Sheila’s eyes go wide. “An assistant,” she repeats slowly.

“That’s right. The hours are a little goofy, but we have a good time. And the skiing is great. I love it here, and I think you could, too.”

She covers her mouth with her hands. “Oh my God. If you poached me, Reed would be so angry.”

“He thinks you’re leaving next fall anyway, right?”

“Sure. For business school. That’s how it’s done on Sand Hill Road.”

I shrug. “Just think about it, okay? But when the dust settles, I’ll ask again. You can let me know if you’re considering it.”

“Wow, okay.” She drains her drink. “This is the most interesting trip I’ve taken in a long time.”

“I’m glad.”

Halley scoots down the bar toward us. “Another one, Ava?”

“No thanks.” I shake my head and throw down my credit card. “It’s been a long day. But Sheila’s tab is on me.”

“We could charge it to Reed,” Sheila says.

“Now there’s a plan,” Halley sniffs.

“No, I got it.” I push the card toward Halley, who takes it reluctantly. “I should try to get some sleep.”

“Was it tense today?” Sheila whispers. “With Mark?”

I nod quickly. “I can’t tell which of us was grumpier. Probably me. I mean—he’s getting what he wanted. What does he have to be mad about?”

“No idea,” Sheila says in a low voice. “Unless he feels guilty.”

“Maybe,” I grumble. “I think he’s ashamed of himself, but he’s too stubborn to say so.”

“He should be ashamed,” Sheila says loyally.

I don’t disagree. Mark and I spent many uncomfortable hours together today. The Sharpes’ visit had disrupted our routines last week, so we had a lot of ordinary resort business to settle together. Payroll, scheduling, and so on.

It was so awkward. I could hardly look him in the eye, and I’m sure I wasn’t good at hiding it. This tension won’t die, either, until he signs the resort over to the Sharpes and takes off to travel with Melody.

That’s only a couple of months away. I can grit my teeth until then.

My phone rings, and my heart leaps immediately. Reed. I pull it out of my pocket, and I’m immediately disappointed. The caller is Bert.

Hell.

I answer the phone. “Don’t tell me the raccoons are back.”

“No,” he says slowly. “But I got a situation. The big boss got bombed, and he’s crying on a peak lift chair.”

I run that sentence back through my head, and none of it makes sense. “The big boss… You mean Mark?”

“Of course I mean Mark. Haven’t seen ’im messed up in maybe ten years. But he used to do it on the regular.”

“But he doesn’t drink,” I insist.

Bert’s silence tells me everything I need to know.