One Bossy Offer (10)

Odd Little Bee? That’s seriously her company name?

The stinger fits, I suppose.

Although her advice isn’t bad, this still smells like a textbook startup. A starving one damned near begging for business.

After scrolling through her other social media, I’m convinced.

This must be a passion project for her, even if she appears to know what she’s talking about, and that’s an opportunity.

Maybe offering her flailing business a lifeline will help sweeten the deal to make that land mine. I click over to her website again, clench my teeth, and call the number on the contact page.

Voicemail. Of course.

I wonder if she’s busy torturing other hapless men with her skimpy swimsuits.

My jaw tightens as I wait for the beep to leave a message.

Fuck.

If this doesn’t close the deal, I’m going to be pissed.

“Jennifer, this is Miles Cromwell. My executive assistant found your marketing company, and I have a project I’m hoping you can help us with. Please give me a call back so we can discuss the details. I’d love to forget what happened earlier and start over with a clean slate.”

Surely, I’ll hear from her soon.

From the looks of things, it’s not like clients are beating down her door.

I check my phone before I shower and start to wind down for the night. Nothing new.

Damn.

I gave her the right number, didn’t I?

But she doesn’t call the next day either. Maybe she really didn’t get the message?

Either that, or she’d rather rip my throat out than shut up and take my money.

A thousand other possibilities roll through my head until I can’t stand it.

Grudgingly, I try again.

Another voicemail greeting.

Another message.

Another gaping hole of radio silence.

Miss Landers can’t be as passionate about marketing as she seems, or else she’d rather set her bee-loving heart on playing volleyball with a live wasp’s nest than deal with me.

This is where I question my sanity.

It’s time to rethink my strategy for acquiring Bee Harbor, even if I loathe working through proxies. Except now I’m extra pissed that she’s ignoring my calls for marketing help.

What kind of miracle does it take to pay this woman?

And how can some copywriter who was earning typical Seattle corporate money afford to turn down easy cash from a billionaire?

Money isn’t always the shortcut people think it is, but everyone appreciates a payday they don’t have to sweat for.

Don’t they?

Scowling, I pick up the phone and call her again, drumming my fingers on my desk as I wait for voicemail.

“Jennifer, Miles Cromwell again. I’ll be blunt. If you want my business, this is your last chance. Call me back by the end of the day, or I’ll find someone else. Thanks.”

That last word tastes like ash.

Of course, I’m second-guessing every damn word, and I never second-guess.

Great job, Miles. That’s really going to help you get the land from a lady who already thinks you’re bear vomit.

I’m sure I’ve sealed my fate—until my phone lights up and starts blaring a minute later.

I can’t help the wry smile. My little threat must’ve gotten her attention.

I pick it up before I even check the number.

“Great to see you come to your senses, Miss Landers.”

“Um—it’s not time for our bi-weekly call. Sorry. I was afraid you’d be upset if I called without a true emergency.” Louise.

Dammit.

“I thought you were—never mind. Why are you calling? What’s wrong?”

“Nice to talk to you too, Mr. Cromwell,” she says with a fluttery laugh. “Anyway, one of our tech clients wants to tweak their advertising strategy and—”

“That sounds like a job for Clarence in marketing. He’s the head of the department and deals with our jumbo accounts.”

“Well, yes, but the marketing lead said the guy insisted on talking to you. You know how persistent they get when they’re desperate—and between the stock crashing and that dumb virtual reality thing they’re blowing billions on, they’re hair-on-fire freaked. They want your direct approval for the new campaign setup.”

I cringe, knowing exactly what company she means.

“Send it over,” I clip.

I should be more annoyed with this. Yet it’s only a faint spark against the flaring wildfire coursing through me every time I think of Jennifer Landers laughing at my messages and instantly deleting them.

“Already done. And I hate to dump more on your plate, but they requested you get back to them by end of week.”

Beautiful.

“I’ll take care of it, Louise. It’s not your problem anymore, okay?” I tell her.

“Okey dokey, Eeyore.”

“Eeyore?”

“The donkey. It’s probably none of my business—”

“It isn’t,” I throw back, thoroughly annoyed.

“—you sound a little more tired than usual.” Louise sucks in a deep breath. “Is everything okay, Mr. Cromwell?”

“Never better,” I lie. “I’m away from Seattle and enjoying the quiet when my damn phone isn’t drilling through my eardrums.”