One Bossy Offer (16)

“I’m making it impossible, you mean. And why does this feel like some weird tit for tat game? Does taking your money mean I’m on the hook to sell my place to you?”

He’s too quiet.

“If I were really that devious, wouldn’t your grandmother have warned you?”

“Leave Gram out of this!” I hiss.

But I’ve been wondering the same thing.

“Think about it. Surely, she would have mentioned living next door to a scheming bloodsucker, right?”

“She was a sweet old lady. She tried to see the best in everyone. Maybe she just didn’t realize who you were.”

“She knew me better than anyone else in town,” he says cryptically. “Frankly, you’re nothing like the late Lottie Risa.”

Ouch.

Low blow.

I’m not even sure why it hurts.

“You did not just say that to me,” I throw back.

“Miss Landers, I didn’t call to bicker, and perhaps that was too harsh. Your grandmother brought my driver honey from her bees twice a week. She was practically the only person in town I opened the gates for. You have my apologies.”

“No need to pretend you have a heart. You don’t.”

We’re locked in cold silence again until he clears his throat.

“Regardless, will you consider my offer? I pay generously and I’ll make you a proper contractor, so you can work on your terms. If you want benefits, they’re yours.”

“I should go,” I say, shaking my head sharply.

“So you can call your friend and tell her how the big bad vampire tried to give you a job when I suspect a cash infusion would do you a world of good?”

My hand clenches.

I hate this man with the force of a thousand suns.

“My life is none of your business. Neither are my problems.”

“No, but there’s one thing you should know.”

“What?”

“I’m not walking away until you agree to at least consider the offer. Give me a goddamned ’maybe,’ Miss Landers, and mull it over.”

“...I think I’ll just hang up instead.”

“I’ll call back,” he throws back.

“And I’ll block your number.”

“You remember I live next door, right?” he snarls.

“And I can get a restraining order.”

Sweet silence. He makes a strangled sound before he says, “You wouldn’t dare. Nothing I’ve done resembles harassment.”

“You think so, huh? You don’t know me.”

“I do know I’m ‘flipping hot’ and I can buy you some precious time. For fuck’s sake, I’m offering to help you keep that place against my own best interests.”

It’s my turn to be choked. I don’t know what to say to that.

“Goodbye, Dracula,” I manage, pulling the phone away from my face.

“Listen, kitten—”

“That’s not my name.”

“Will you consider it?” he says, his voice so small as I peel the phone away from my ear.

“Bye.”

I end the call and hang my head, totally boneless.

“Fine, you dick. I’ll think about it,” I mutter to myself.

Next to me, Cream gives me a puzzled look, her big white head creased with worry. I scratch her neck until the look eases.

Then my phone chimes with a new text.

Dracula: Call me every filthy name in the book. Write erotica about me with your friend. I don’t care.

Just think about my offer, Miss Landers.

Good God.

He’s going to drive me stark-raving looney.

My finger hovers over Pippa’s number—who I now have four missed texts from, because she was texting me the whole time I was arguing with Dracula—but if I do that, he’s right.

The terrible realization sets in that he’s predicted my next move.

The only thing left to do is give him the shock of his life.





4





No Slow Burn (Miles)





It’s been a couple of days, and I haven’t heard from the auburn beauty next door who only speaks in words that drip venom.

I should storm over there and confront her, dammit, but my home has been invaded by the highest paid “creatives” in Seattle.

Smokey Dave walks up to me—a man who smells like he’s thirty percent cannabis, but never fails to impress with his videography—and grins like I’ve just offered him a ten-pound pan of magic brownies.

“You wanna lead the grand tour, Mr. C? It’d be hella cool if we can get a local to show us around. The younger kids you’re after love authenticity, y’know.”

I’ve never heard any professional label people in the 25-40 age bracket 'kids.'

Also, since when do I look like the town’s social butterfly?

The whole point of departing Seattle for the summer was to avoid people. CEOs don’t babysit camera crews.

“You have a visitor, sir,” Benson cuts in before I can lay down the law.

Clenching my jaw, I scan the crowded room and meet his eyes. “We’re in a meeting.”

“I believe you’ll want to see this visitor, sir. You’ve been waiting for a response for days. If you’re too busy, though, I can simply inform her to get on your books.”