One Bossy Offer (11)

“Oh, good. Right,” she adds quickly as it clicks in her head.

“While you’re on the line, you didn’t find out anything else about Jennifer Landers or her Odd Little Bee, did you?”

“I sent you everything,” she says, her voice going up an octave. “Wow, Mr. Cromwell. You must really want this property.”

I can tell by the lilt of her voice that it’s not the property she means, but its owner.

“It would mean a lot more privacy, and that’s invaluable.”

She’s quiet for too long.

“Is there something else, Louise?”

“...with all due respect, sir, you’re holed up in that middle of nowhere town on its own island. How much more privacy do you need?”

“Never enough. Since I haven’t burned my fortune investing in lunar rockets, this will have to do for an eccentric billionaire quest,” I growl back.

She laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard all day.

At least someone appreciates my humor, even when it’s more than half serious.

“Well, good luck with the tech people.”

“Remind me, does my office phone have voicemail or does it route to you?” Maybe the marketing genius called my office instead of my cell phone.

“I check your main voicemail at six a.m. and six p.m. I forwarded you everything pertinent this morning. Do you need me to check it again?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Are you looking for something specific?”

“No. I appreciate your attention to detail, as always.”

By the end of the day, Jennifer Landers hasn’t returned my call.

There’s no way I can call again without looking like a desperate goblin.

When my doorbell chimes and I tap my phone to see who’s at the door, I’m almost praying to the gods she decided to drop by in person. Any negotiation would be a thousand times more interesting face-to-face.

“I picked up your dry cleaning,” Benson says. “Should I leave it in the mudroom for you?”

“I’ll let you in. Hang on.”

A couple minutes later, I open the door, and he hands me a garment bag.

“You want a scotch while you’re here?” It’s not like I have anything better to do tonight except brood. I’m not closing any remarkable land deals anytime soon.

“Would I ever turn down a free drink from your stash?” His smile is timeless.

Aside from his hair going full silver, he’s the same portly, pleasant man I’ve known since I was just a fresh-faced kid.

We walk to my bar and I pour out a few fingers from the top-shelf stuff I never bother saving for a better occasion. I haven’t celebrated anything with expensive booze since the days when Dad had my job.

Those days were very different. Every triumph was warm, full of big speeches in crowded rooms, and dammit, meaningful.

“Where are you tonight, boss? Any reason you’re glued to your phone?” He tosses back the last of his drink with a satisfied sigh.

I shake my head. “I’m trying to close on the place next door, as you know, and I’m having trouble reaching her.”

He smiles, holding up his glass wistfully. “Ah, yes. Lottie’s little tigress. Be careful when she’s already shown you her claws.”

I snort, reaching for the bottle to refill our glasses.

“Haven’t I learned that the hard way? I’m going to get that land, Benson.”

“She does live next door. I know it’s a bit of a walk and we’re too drunk to drive, but you could just pay her a visit.”

I could, I think, drowning a growl in my scotch.

I just wonder if I’m up for being tackled and possibly mauled like an overstuffed lion facing down a Bengal tiger—especially when another shit-fight with teeth is not how I’d love to devour every inch of Jennifer Landers.





3





No Lofty Promises (Jenn)





Last night, I walked out onto the balcony deck attached to my bedroom, and a stiletto heel went clean through a decrepit knot in the wood.

Ugh.

I never dreamed it was actually this bad.

I also never thought I’d be contemplating paying out almost a hundred thousand dollars to update all the massive decking with modern composite materials—if only the old house didn’t have several other pressing issues.

It’s still on my mind when I move my morning yoga practice to the downstairs patio. I’m not going down with that deck if I bounce around and shake the wrong rusty screw loose.

No soaring ocean view here, but it’s still gorgeous.

Everything is so lush, so green, so alive. A few tiny hummingbirds flit around the flowering bushes like little jewels in the morning light.

I’m panting away in downward dog position—desperate to get back to the shape I was in before Gram’s funeral—when my phone rings.

I nearly tumble over trying to grab it off the chair next to me.

A new client? I could use a lot of those.

Nope!

The number flashing across the screen is the same one that’s called at least four times over the past three days.

I should have known it was Dracula, once again demanding I invite him into my dumpster fire of a life.