One Bossy Offer (12)

The latest message? “My original offer stands.”

Like he hasn’t made that as clear as a shot to the face.

Like he’s doing this for poor widdle me.

Right.

It’s amazing how Gram never mentioned living next to the prince of all jackasses. I wonder if he only knows the dogs because he went after them for trespassing on his precious kingdom.

I’m sad to say I’m not above doing my own digging.

Know thy enemy, or whatever.

The results that came back from my best Google-fu were all too predictable.

Miles Cromwell.

Media titan.

All around anti-people jerkoff.

Single—no surprise.

Silver-blue eyes sharp enough to cut steel and shoulders wrapped in imported suits big enough to haul around his ego.

And just like the bloodsucker he is, his looks are too good at concealing his shriveled up heart.

Look, I know billionaires are used to getting their way, but he needs to take the L here.

He’s not getting Bee Harbor.

Not for any amount.

I don’t care if he rides in on the world’s cutest pony holding a check for infinity dollars.

His crap reminded me I still have principles, and Gram would spin right out of her grave if she knew I signed the inn over to the devil next door.

Still, I can’t live with these pesky messages forever.

So I reject the call and pull up a text message instead, biting my cheek as I try to type out something more polite than he deserves.

Mr. Cromwell, thanks for your interest, but like I’ve said, I am not interested in selling to you or anyone else at this— Knock! Knock!

That distant banging is followed by Coffee and Cream barking up a storm.

I guess I didn’t answer the phone fast enough, so Dracula decided to show up on my doorstep.

Cool.

At least I’ll get to see the look on his face when I shoot him down.

Sliding my flip-flops on, I storm inside through the sliding glass door, march straight to the front door with the dogs trotting behind me, and throw it open.

“Let’s cut to the chase, I’m not—”

Oh, crap.

I’ve already started tearing into the guy before I realize it’s not the grump next door. Is it one of his minions coming to do his dirty work instead?

Hmm.

The stranger isn’t quite as tall as Dracula, but probably broader.

He’s my age, not ten years older like Dracula. Muscular. Smiling like it won’t break him.

And he’s wearing a flannel shirt with a toolbelt hanging around his waist.

My asshat neighbor wouldn’t be caught dead in flannel.

“This a bad time?” The man loops a thumb through his belt.

“Uh—no.” I shake my head. “Sorry. I thought you were someone else.” I offer him my hand before I remember I’m still sweaty from yoga, so I wipe it on my leggings with my face burning. “Uh—yoga. Sorry again!”

He laughs loudly and shakes my hand anyway.

“No problem. I’m Ace. I was Lottie’s repair guy. Just wanted to finish a few fixes we were working on before she—well, before—”

I nod warmly. He doesn’t have to say it.

Ace, huh?

It’s even a sexy name.

This day suddenly feels brighter.

“What repairs?” I don’t even know where to begin, and I worry any renovations will eat into my nonexistent fortune. “Listen, I’m happy to go over anything you’d like, but I’m not sure I have the budget right now for anything too major.”

He holds up a hand. “Don’t worry, miss, it’s on the house. I just want to finish a few things we were already working on. Lottie fronted me the money six months ago. Wouldn’t feel right leaving them undone when I already got paid. I wasn’t sure if you’d be keeping me around, but I want to make sure I’ve done what I can.”

When he smiles, he looks like the lead in one of those Christmassy romance specials, and he’s just as charming as any small-town hunk of handy love too.

Okay.

So I get a little googly-eyed and suddenly start thinking this could be my very own rom-com—the kind where Mr. Fixer Upper sails in and helps save my flailing bed and breakfast from total ruin.

“That’s kind of you.” I smile back.

“We were in the cottage last, trying to get it spruced up and functional so she could rent out the spare rooms again. But I could walk you over to the main building, point out the repairs, and explain the larger items that are gonna need some bigger renovations, if you’d like.”

I nod, biting my lower lip as charmingly as I can.

“Yes, thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

“Do you want to start with the cottage since that’s where we left off? We can start out back.”

“Sure.” I follow him around to the back door, wishing it were winter.

It’s easy to let my brain rabbit away, imagining us walking through the snow, making a snowman over hot cocoa, him in a fisherman sweater and me in fluffy pink mittens. Later, we’d get more cocoa, and he’d wipe a bit of foam off my lips before kissing me, and then— I shake my head, clearing my throat as he looks around.

“This was a storage building a long time ago. My grandpa converted it when business picked up like fifty years ago. With everything the inn needs, I’m a little surprised she started with the cottage.”