One Bossy Offer (21)

A few minutes go by before she responds, Okay, I mentioned it. So what did you have to do today that was so important, anyway?

Miles: You were right to show them Bee Harbor. If the rustic look isn’t authentic, then I’m Mr. Rogers. Nice to know you’re more than just a pretty face.

And a nice piece of—land.

A nice piece of land.

Jenn: If I weren’t just your consultant, I’d report that to HR.

I snort at my screen. My lip curls.

Miles: You’re not easy to compliment, are you?

Jenn: I hate it when you’re nice. It’s weird.

Miles: I won’t make it a habit. Relax.

Jenn: What should I do with your people now?

I send two question marks.

Jenn: Trust me, they can’t be trusted developing this content on their own. Starting over is less work than trying to fix what they came up with. I planned to keep them here, snapping selfies and having fun, but my s’more making idea is gone with the rain. And I don’t want half a dozen random strangers in my barely standing house, so what do I do with them?

“Who are you texting so seriously back there?” Benson asks.

I look up, surprised to find I’m almost home.

“No one important, Benson. Business,” I say.

Miles: I’m almost home. When I get there, send the party next door.

Jenn: Will do.

Twenty minutes later, her impromptu party for my creative team moves to my large solarium. We’re there for hours under the pattering evening rain, and once I’ve sent the team back to their hotel, I look at Jenn.

“I’ll walk you home,” I say. It’s not a question.

“Um, I don’t really need an escort. But sure.”

We walk out the back. With the rain gone, everything smells fresh and alive, and I let her admire the grounds around my place.

“We have some of the same plants,” she says, pointing to a square box of blooming flowers.

“Your grandmother was kind enough to give my gardener a few pointers. The heirloom seeds, too, I believe,” I say.

She looks at me, startled, before settling into a disarming smile.

“I know why you abandoned us at the pier,” she says.

“Yeah?”

I side-eye her nervously.

How could she know? Has she been doing her own research? Snooping into my life?

“Is she hot?”

“What?” I glance at her, taken aback.

“I saw you come out of the store with blue flowers.” Curiosity flares in her eyes.

You didn’t see too well, Miss Landers, or you would have noticed it was a funeral wreath, I think.

“Hot, sure. If you’re into vampires,” I say numbly.

“Oh, I knew that. It takes one to know one, right?” She grins at me.

“Opposites attract. Sometimes. But if it takes one to know one, what does that make you? You’re a little monster yourself, Miss Landers,” I say, loving the way her cheeks heat.

But that grin she’s wearing just widens as she stops and leans in.

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve always been more of a stake driver.”





5





No Getting Out Of Hand (Jenn)





Two days.

Two days of running this gauntlet I’ve agreed to take on to save my inheritance.

It turns out, coaching Dracula’s team to make good shorts is harder than just taking the footage and making them myself.

I’ve thought about commandeering the whole project several times. I could have this town blowing up on every platform in under a week, but the people are friendly and eager, and they’re all so invested in this project.

So later today, we’re staging a little event we’re calling 'Pints at the Pinnacle' for a photo shoot.

Pinnacle Pointe is still the kind of place where a few beers brings out the best in everyone. And there’s nothing cozier than the only rustic tavern in town, Murphy’s, with an Irish tricolor and the faded black-and-white photos plastered on the wall. They show off everybody’s great-grandparents building this little town one fishing haul and giggling toddler at a time.

There’s so much history here.

Unlike Seattle with its busy streets and glass high-rises and ever shifting cityscape, this history is loud and clear. It’s in your face, real enough to reach out and touch in the bright smiles of every neighbor.

But first, the mail.

The mailbox is at the end of the street and the postman pulls away just as I’m driving by. I last checked the mail a few days ago, so I pull over and see what he’s left me.

I fill my purse with junk mail that needs to be recycled and—a handwritten letter?

Hmm.

I don’t recognize the return address, but it’s probably another late bereavement card. Gram had obscure friends everywhere.

I slide my finger under the seal and pop it open to see who’s sending their sympathies now.

But it’s not another card.

It’s a letter with an offer on my property.

Less than Dracula’s eye popping offering, but it looks like he was right about developers being hot on my heels.

There’s no real estate brokerage listed, just a number to call back.

Odd.