One Bossy Offer (112)

Royal Cromwell wasn’t in Seattle anytime in mid-June that year.

He was here.

But maybe Wickes just mixed up the dates?

Then again, maybe she didn’t, and there’s something terribly wrong with everything.

I pick up my phone and open my camera app, switching to its document scan function. These receipts are old and a little faded, but the scanner produces clearer images than a photo.

I capture all the Cromwells’ requests and transactions across their stay that month.

Receipts don’t lie.

There is no way he was in Seattle on the days in question. It’s just not possible.

Ava Wickes’ story doesn’t add up, which means—

I swallow a rock of pure tension in my throat, wiping my brow.

Asshat or not, I have to tell him what I’ve found.

So I open a fresh email and pull up a contact I’m glad I didn’t delete.



Miles,

Ava Wickes is either seriously off about the dates she claimed your father met her for the last time, or she’s outright lying.

Royal Cromwell wasn’t in Seattle any time after the first week of June, 2013. He was here at Bee Harbor with your mother. I have receipts to prove it.



I attach the receipts and stare at the email, willing myself to hit Send.

But if I do, what am I inviting?

It doesn’t take back the scorched earth way we left things.

It could also make me a party to a mountain of legal action.

Worst of all, Miles still doesn’t trust me with his problems. I’m never going to be important enough to matter to him.

Ugh.

I want to send it, but I don’t.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Why am I even playing detective for a man I can’t stand?

The last time I tried to help, we saw where that ended.

My head drops lightly against Gram’s old desk and I keep it there, fighting back a blinding headache.

I may loathe that man with a vengeance, but I miss him.

I miss him with every last frayed irrational fiber of my being.

A tear like napalm slides down my cheek.

Yeah.

I’ve got to get out of here before someone wanders in and sees me crying.

So I pack up and flee to the cottage, fling myself on the bed, and burst into tears. The dogs hop up and burrow in next to me like my bodyguards.

He never loved me, and I was a fool for thinking he ever would.

Walking away was the right decision for both of us.

I know it, but I’m just not ready to let go, and this hint of proof shows it.

I cry until my head hurts and my nose is gross. I pop two pain pills, bury my head under my pillows, and try to force my mind to blank out enough so sleep finds me.

Even if I hate Miles Cromwell, if it’s Simone behind this and Royal Cromwell is innocent, none of them deserve this.

I can’t hang on to what I’ve found forever.

But whether I send it or not, it still feels circumstantial. If I’m going to step in, I need more.

Come morning, I’ll figure it out.

But morning is a long way off.

I spend the night tossing and turning through fever dreams where a man with the most mesmerizing silver-blue eyes wipes the bruises off my soul, one smoldering kiss at a time.

And those eyes are so pleading, even as he’s silent, swirling with the same question over and over.

Can you ever forgive me, kitten?

Sometime near sunrise, I wake up with Cream licking her paw and catching the edge of my ear with her tongue. Plus, the terrible knowledge that this is the closest I’ll ever get to Miles Cromwell taking away my pain, begging for forgiveness.

Only in my dreams.





24





No Waterworks (Miles)





I’ve officially hit a fucking wall headfirst.

Dead end.

Nothing indicates my father ever had an inappropriate relationship with either woman, but nothing disproves it either.

With Pacific-Resolute’s stories out in the world now, the gossip mill is spinning like a jet engine.

Hell, the whole company has turned into a rumor mill.

Morale couldn’t be more abysmal, and I’m too damned distracted at the center of this mess to do anything about it.

Forget it.

Live in the moment.

Focus.

I’ve been struggling with this painting for two goddamned weeks, every time I find a second to step away from the fray and try to re-center myself in my art.

There’s an outline of an older home in the background.

I know the color scheme is red, blue, and yellow, but I can’t decide where to start filling in the colors.

The foreground is an intricate summer garden. With each brushstroke, it’s becoming increasingly obvious someone is lying in that garden, small and supple.

People aren’t my thing.

And yet I’m painting them a lot lately—one person in particular.

My phone pings and I throw my brush down on the palette, spattering paint.

It’s a news notification from Pinnacle Pointe. A closeup of Bee Harbor Inn fills the screen, the headline photo of a new travel piece.

Suddenly, I know exactly how to color the building.

Apparently, the inn is picking up some buzz.

After a successful soft opening, they’ve announced a larger reopening just before winter. The locals are excited for fresh blood, especially in a slow season.