One Bossy Offer (20)

A short drive later, I’m at the grave.

“I’m sorry it’s not up to snuff. It isn’t bright and pretty like Lottie’s.”

It hits me that I should have picked up a wreath for Lottie’s grave too.

Fuck, I didn’t think about it.

There’s always next week, though.

“Still, you know me. I couldn’t come here without bringing anything. Dad asked about you last month, too,” I say, my voice burning. “It was a good day for him. He thought it was the nineties again, that time we stayed in Wyoming and you roped him into some bull riding thing for charity. He never made it a second, but he remembered how hard you laughed later, when he hugged you and he was still full of mud.”

Pain is a funny thing. Every word stabs me through the ribs, but somehow, by the end of it, I’m smiling.

Wherever she is, I know she’ll appreciate this.

Just like I appreciate the fleeting bittersweet moments when Dad still remembers her.

As I lay the wreath down, a small, shriveled bouquet catches my eye.

It can’t be too old, a week or two at best.

Some of the flowers aren’t completely dried out and wilted. A card almost as large as the bouquet itself is tucked between the flowers.

My pulse stops.

If this is what I think it is, I’m going to lose my shit.

I rip the small card out and scan it.

Goddammit.

God fucking damn the nerve of that woman.

With my throat vibrating, I tear the message into a million pieces and hurl them to the ground as I storm to the car.

Benson stands there, holding the door open when he sees me. “Everything all right? I didn’t know Miles Cromwell was a fan of throwing parties in graveyards.”

“The bitch was here,” I rasp, every word cutting my throat.

His face sinks.

I don’t have to say anything else.

He knows exactly who I mean, and he just nods in bitter sympathy.

Benson knows me well enough to do his job quietly.

Today, though, I can tell he’s worried as he climbs in the driver’s seat and shuts the door. “Is it possible she’s just paying her respects?”

“Fuck no. She wants to make sure I know she’s not done with me yet.”

“The woman is unhinged,” he says glumly.

He’s not wrong.

Psycho batshit bitch from Satan’s waiting room is too mild a description.

“She does it to get a rise out of you, I’m sure. Don’t give her the pleasure, sir,” Benson says gently, looking back in the mirror.

I don’t dignify that with an answer.

If he’s right, I’m giving Simone Niehaus exactly what she wants, and I hate it.

Still, she crossed a line, and she fucking knew it.

She’s not even here to know if I took the bait.

She damn sure knows leaving notes at my mom’s grave is a bridge too far.

I lean into the back seat as a brief rain blows in, the kind that comes without warning and leaves with a blanket of vibrant green underneath.

My phone pings.

Jenn: Are you coming back? We were having content problems and I had to redirect your group. You weren’t joking. Your “creative” strategy needs some work.

Welcoming the distraction, I text back, You’re a pain in the ass. I’m not sure I ever said my team sucked.

Jenn: You didn’t. You manager types are all the same. Mini-royalty. Can’t call a spade a spade.

Miles: And you have no filter.

Jenn: Yeah, but you knew that already. Which is why I’m about to tell you the whole team is pissed at you, and I don’t blame them.

What?

Do I have a mutiny on my hands?

Why? I hit send, clasping my phone like it’s solid ice.

Jenn: You went AWOL. You didn’t tell anyone where you went. We just looked up and you were gone.

Miles: Sorry.

Jenn: Tell them that. I felt like the sun came out when I realized you weren’t leering over us. She sends a row of laughing emojis with the tears.

Miles: It’s raining, Miss Landers. Tell me why my team sucks.

Jenn: It’s not the people, but their ideas... Corporate, bland, and boring. Everything comes off like an ambulance chaser commercial. We’re trying to sell a town, not a class action lawsuit.

Miles: The oldest guy on that team is thirty-six.

Jenn: *Shrugs*

Miles: Where are you now? I know the weather turned.

Jenn: We’re at my place, filming what’s left of the gardens. I think I’ve half convinced them it’s okay to have fun. We were going to make s’mores by the fire pits if the rain lets up, but I’m not sure it will.

I try like hell not to picture this slip of a girl with the glowing light from a campfire splashed across her skin.

I’ve seen her in a bikini, in skimpy sleepwear, too damn little that’s still too much.

You have firewood? I send, hating that I can’t pry her image out of my head.

When we had a week of storms last summer, I dropped by with Benson to leave some wood for Lottie.

Three laughing emojis come back. I was going to send your most annoying employee to find some.

Miles: Dave? Tell him there’s an entire stack under the tarp by the dock.

Jenn: You know the place has firewood?

I don’t answer.