One Bossy Offer (23)

Oh God. Oh God.

Oh God.

Of all the things I thought I was ready for today, facing down two handsome, built men who make me feel things was not in the plans.

“I’m obviously missing something, but if you want to make beer, I can teach you. They’ve got two of the craft beers I brew with my brother on the regular menu here,” Ace says proudly, the corner of his mouth quirking up in an irresistible smile.

He’s so warm.

Nothing like the tall, domineering prince of pure ice and arctic frowns next to him, staring with an impudent look that’s asking Ace why he’s daring to run his mouth.

“You brew beer?” I ask, ignoring the bossman.

Ace nods. “In a town this size, everyone and their cat brews. Anyway, just wanted to let you know your roofing fix should be on for tomorrow like we talked about.”

“Oh, thanks! I’m down with anything that stops a leak before it starts.”

Cromwell clears his throat loudly, shoving Ace over a step with his shoulder.

“Can’t you see you’re interrupting a media shoot? She’s on the clock,” he growls.

Why the fuck are you encouraging him? his eyes ask.

I laugh. “Oh, leave him alone. We’re going for candid shots with the locals, remember? Ace lives here.”

“Nothing about social media is candid, Miss Landers. Eighty percent of it is staged. We want carefully planned shots that look natural. You know that much.” There’s an edge in his tone that makes me bristle.

Who the hell does he think he is?

“I must know plenty, Mr. Cromwell, or else your current social media strategy wouldn’t need so much work.” I stare back, my eyes all warning. “Let the people mingle and just be natural. Any unnecessary tension will only wreck the shots.”

His jaw is clenched so tight as his eyes sweep to Ace.

Umm—what?

This feels like more than just being peeved over a business disruption.

Is Miles Cromwell jealous or is it just a very overactive imagination?

But the longer I see that volcanic look in his eyes, I wonder.

...this could be fun.

I stand and step closer to Ace, placing a hand on his bicep. “You’ve been so helpful, Ace. I don’t know how I would have managed the inn without you.”

Ace grins at me like there isn’t a furious bystander staring him down. “I’m happy as hell to help out. It’s what Lottie would’ve wanted.”

“It was a beast to inherit, no question. I’d be a lot worse off if Gram didn’t have great help.”

He’s drinking me in now, a new glint in his eye that says he’s excited about more than the repairs. I definitely don’t mind.

But Dracula might.

His glare is so molten it burns my skin, even as I pretend not to notice.

“It pays to have a strong, smart man around who knows what he’s doing when he swings a hammer. And my, what big hands!” I can’t resist grabbing one of his rough paws and holding it up. “I can see why she kept you around for so many years.”

“Aw, now you’re making me blush,” Ace says with a rough laugh. “Miss Lottie only kept me around because I started working for her when I was sixteen and I barely raised my prices since.”

I giggle like he’s just said the funniest thing in the world.

“Oh, Ace!” I slap his chest playfully. “Are you always Mr. Modesty?”

My eyes flick back to Cromwell and—

Eep.

I may have overdone it.

He gives me a hardened look like I’m insane now, and he wants to have me committed.

It only lasts for two seconds before the flaring silver-blue rage in his eyes abruptly flicks back with something like—is that disgust?

But Ace chuckles and nods toward the back of the room. “Hey, Jennifer, my buddies are here, but I’ll catch you later, all right?”

I nod. “Definitely. And if you don’t, you know where I live. Feel free to drop by anytime.”

I watch him as he walks away, keenly aware Cromwell’s eyes are still tearing at me like hunting hawks.

I’ve been enjoying Dracula’s reaction so much I didn’t notice how full the room is now.

There’s a steady murmur of evening laughter and friends clinking glasses, vibrant greetings and people rowdily narrating their summer adventures.

“You were laying it on thick enough to suffocate the man,” Cromwell snaps when he finally speaks.

“...I don’t know what you mean,” I lie.

“His hands? Are you kidding me, kitten? The man is a bear. He looks like he should be pawing at the ground for grubs or raiding beehives for honeycomb,” he rasps, shaking his head. “That’s fine for swinging a hammer, but hands like that have no control. No poise. No grace.”

Then he sweeps his own hand up and stares like he’s comparing himself.

Oh my God.

“I’ve watched him put them to work. He’s pretty deft. You’d be surprised.”

Crankyface shoots me another glare and opens his mouth, but before he can clap back, Sarah sets a drink down in front of me.

“I brought you a cocktail since you were busy. This is their Northwest Mai Tai. On the house. I think I’ve got some good clips to show you from the kitchen, too.”