One Bossy Offer (19)

Usually, it takes a month without a single weekend off before people start adding my name to their list of curse words.

“I was hoping our new understanding meant turning a fresh page,” I say, exaggerating my frown.

Not that I care what she thinks about me.

I promise you, I don’t.

“You know how it goes with first impressions. They’re hard to forget. You’re not that hard to read. One brief meeting was all it took. You think you can buy people and places and the world is supposed to bend to your will. I just want to live and do right by Gram.”

“A noble cause,” I say, paying her a rare compliment.

“That’s what makes this so personal, you know.” She glances away for a second. “Selling you my grandmother’s land she bought with her first paycheck and home she built from the ground up with my grandpa would be like selling you my grandmother. But you don’t care. You only care if you get what you want.”

“For the record, I’d never try buying a human being,” I say, watching as she rolls her eyes right out of her head. “Although I respect your dedication, it’s going to feel different when you’re updating seventy-year-old plumbing and insulating room after room with an asbestos removal specialist. Also, I’ve always been transparent. I won’t wake up to a goddamned subdivision on my doorstep.”

“Why not? At least the developers had the decency to wait until she was buried to start circling like vultures.”

Developers? Shit.

Has she heard from them?

“Has anyone contacted you?” I ask coldly.

“No. You’re the only bonehead who’s tried to come after my house.”

I stop and stare.

This is the first time she’s referred to it as her house. This may be harder than I thought.

“But you’re not special; anyone else will get the same answer. Don’t lose sleep over it,” she tells me, batting her eyes.

“Miss Landers, I sleep like a baby. You’d do well to try it sometime. Now, let’s get going.”

She blinks in horror. “You’re coming too?”

“Of course.”

“What? Then why do they need a tour guide? You’re at least as much of a local as I am. I’d argue more so since I just came back here weeks ago.”

“I promise you in two weeks you’ve seen all the latest changes in this town. Shirley’s Chowder Shop added a Fourth of July special and Max’s Garage works on electric vehicles now.” I give her a cutting look. “You do realize we have to interact since I’m signing your checks?”

“Unfortunately.” She sighs. “This has to violate some kind of rule.”

I snort. “You charged me an extra fifty thousand dollars for dealing with my temperament. I have to make sure you are dealing with me, or you aren’t earning your keep.”

“God, you must be miserable to work for.”

I shrug. “Yet no one ever leaves for greener pastures. Luckily, you work with me, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m working for fifteen hundred Benjamin Franklins. You just happen to be an unfortunate part of the arrangement.”

Inwardly, I’m smiling my ass off at the claws this kitten has.

I just wonder if they’ll wind up scratching my back in all the right places or ripping my throat out.





An hour or so later, we’re standing on the main pier in the marina, staring at a heavenly summer landscape.

Jenn and a couple others alternate between laughing among themselves and taking test shots of the gorgeous seascape.

No matter how hard I try to ground myself, the town cemetery across the street keeps grabbing my attention.

How many fucking years has it been?

I stopped counting a long time ago.

The tall, polished mausoleum—the only one that’s regularly well kept—still looks out of place here, no matter how much time passes.

If I hadn’t always had a soft spot for this town, I wouldn’t be a Cromwell.

Still, I don’t understand why anyone would pick this place to spend eternity. With everyone occupied in planning, I slip away and walk up the street to the florist a few blocks over.

The wreaths here aren’t like the ones Lottie used to make by hand.

She’d clip her own flowers and do the arrangements herself, bright halos of appreciation that reminded the dead they were loved when the living couldn’t.

Thanks to her, every grave had one a few times every year.

This town lost a guardian angel the day she died.

But I can’t come this close to my mother’s grave and not leave something, so I find a simple blue wreath and buy it for later before I walk toward the pier.

Even from here, I can see Miss Landers and the team still taking selfies, videos, and playing around. Smokey Dave becomes as serious as a sniper the second he’s behind his camera, and I remember why I put up with his antics.

They haven’t noticed I’m gone.

Good.

Another reason it’s increasingly hard to care about what happens in Seattle. I’m not needed when the machine runs this smoothly, and if I’m not needed, I shouldn’t be stuck there.

I text Benson to pick me up when I’m sure they’re on a roll. Jenn seems to be doing a good job of handling the creatives, judging by the animated looks and gestures when they all huddle, listening to her advice.