A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain #1)(73)

If there’s some new type of Sharpe liquor in that case, I will not be responsible for my actions.

But no, it’s just paperwork. Grandpa Sharpe pulls out several sets of contracts, color-coded with those signature flags people use to keep everything straight. He hands off a thick stack to the lawyer he’s brought with him for the closing. Then he hands another document to his grandson. “Trey, can you handle this?”

“Sure, Grandpa.” Trey glances at the documents and then says, “Ava, will you come with me for a moment?”

Oh. “Of course.” I follow him out of the room.

Just outside the door, he hands me the document. “Here’s your employment contract. You can sign it now, but I can’t countersign until after the resort transaction is finished. I can’t employ you here until after I own the place.”

“Makes sense,” I say. “Is everything in here the way Reed had prearranged?”

His shrug seems too casual. “Mostly. We made a few minor tweaks. But I expect you’ll find it satisfactory.”

“Tweaks?” I ask calmly, even though my heart has begun thumping like an over-caffeinated bunny rabbit.

“It’s a one-year contract, because we ultimately felt that two was too long. And a few of the financial details are different.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. “Why don’t you give it a read.”

“Wait,” I say, even though I am dying to move away from his unwanted touch. “Which financial details?”

He smirks. “Doesn’t matter, does it? You make a good wage. And I looked into your résumé. We think you’ll stay on anyway. You’ve got nowhere else to go, right?”

At that, he lets me go and walks back into the Evergreen Room.

Speechless, I follow him. Then I walk as far from the Sharpes as I can and shakily take a seat at the table near the window. I flip open the contract and quickly skim it.

When I find the salary amount, I feel sick. They didn’t raise it by twenty percent. They actually lowered my base salary a little. However, “upon the successful completion of the contract year, the employee will be eligible for a performance-based bonus of up to twenty percent.”

That’s how they handled my raise—by turning it into a bonus I might or might not receive.

And I’m terrified to know what a “successful completion” means to Trey Sharpe.

I feel sick. Because now I have to decide whether or not to make a stink about it. Mark is pouring himself a cup of coffee and chatting with Grandpa Sharpe. This is the day he’s been looking forward too for months. His day of freedom.

Just when I’m halfway to a panic attack, another person steps into the room. He’s wearing an impeccable blue suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark blue tie. He has a head of thick, dark brown hair and the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

Reed Madigan meets my gaze and winks so quickly I almost miss it. Then I lose his attention. “Dad, can I speak to you for a moment?”

“Reed.” His father blinks in surprise. “I had no idea you were—”

Reed beckons, and his father follows him out the door.

They don’t close it, and I practically pull a muscle straining to listen. At first, I can’t hear a thing they’re saying. But after a long moment I hear Mark say, “No, Reed. Not him.” And then just “no.”

The low rumble of Reed’s voice is audible now, if not the words. He’s arguing for something.

“I appreciate that,” his father says, his voice rising. “I do. But it is just too late. I’m sorry, but it’s true. This is happening, and I need you to get your head around that. We’ll talk later.”

Mark reenters the room, and my heart stutters.

I watch the door, half tempted to leap out of my chair and chase after Reed.

But I don’t have to. Reed comes in, his face flushed. He takes the only empty seat at the table, which is beside his father.

Then he looks me right in the eye and mouths two words: I tried.

I hold his gaze to tell him I understand, and I give him a sad little smile.

He tilts his head and gives me a warmer one. Then he mouths: I love you.

And I grin in spite of the crappy circumstances. The Madigans’ lawyer is calling the meeting to order, and I reluctantly turn my attention to him. “Let’s review final changes,” he says, looking at his Rolex. “I estimate about ten minutes for this. First point was section two, paragraph C…”

I look around the table, taking in the faces. The Sharpes look smugly satisfied. As always. Mark Madigan looks fidgety, and he keeps sneaking glances at his son.

Don’t sign, I mentally telegraph. You don’t have to do this.

Then my gaze moves to Melody. I expect to see her smiling, but she looks pale.

The lawyers are doing their lawyer thing, and I feel as though I’ve been strapped into a roller coaster that my friends talked me into riding. We’re slowly climbing toward the first big drop, and there’s nothing I can do about it but hang on and try not to scream.

Maybe I won’t even sign the stupid employment contract. They won’t fire me. Not immediately, anyway. And it would send the signal that I can’t be pushed around.

Hell. Maybe I’ll take a quick trip to California with Reed. There are other hotels in the world I could run. He wasn’t wrong about that.