One Bossy Offer (38)

“Uh, it’s in your house. Safe to say they knew each other well enough to do art transactions.” She flashes me a satisfied smile.

That’s kind of what I thought.

So, why did she never mention Miles Cromwell being anything but a rich, mysterious hermit? If she ever used his name, it was only once or twice.

I glance around the room and stop on another painting on the opposite wall.

It’s the beach off the downtown strip. I point to it, adjusting my glasses.

“That’s the same artist, right?”

She sits up and follows my finger with her eyes. “I’m no art major, but it sure looks the same. Even the colors are close to identical.”

The mystery deepens.

We grab our wine and start walking, scanning each room. Three other paintings in this house turn up by the only living artist I can’t stand.

“Multiple paintings. She was either a huge fan, or she and your favorite bossman were kinda close. He can’t be too much of a jackass.”

I blink at her. “Why do you say that?”

“Your grammy knew she was leaving you the house next door to his. If she thought he was a jerk, she wouldn’t have done it, or else she would have warned you first.”

I laugh. “You only met my grandma a couple times.”

“Yeah, but she wasn’t the quiet type, and you were her favorite. She wouldn’t have left you a house next door to a royal jerkoff without warning you.”

I take another long sip of wine.

My vision sways, but it’s not the alcohol.

“...I didn’t know they knew each other like this. I’m freaking out. She barely ever mentioned him, but his paintings are all over her house!”

I’m light-headed now.

“Sounds like a reason to go have a talk with your favorite painter.” She bats her eyes, wearing the most perfect grin.

“I do not have a crush. Even if I might have to ask about this.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” she mutters.

The rest of the night, we rehash old times and she talks up her latest adventures with Brock and their weenie dog, Andouille.

But my brain is stuck on Miles, Miles, and also, Miles.

I don’t dare text him while Pippa’s awake.

She already thinks I’m wasting away without this idiot, but as soon as she falls asleep, I snap pictures of his paintings on my walls and open a new text.

Recognize these? I attach the pics.

My eyes burn as I stare at the screen, waiting for a response.

It never comes.

After an hour goes by, I try again. Cromwell, did you get my message?

Nothing.

Jenn: Nice. So if I accidentally text that you’re hot, you respond in thirty seconds. But you can’t answer a legit question at all?

I barely sleep that night, repeatedly checking my phone for...anything.

I don’t get it.

Morning comes with a dull headache and no answer.

Prick.

The only thing worse than developing a horrible crush on your vampire boss is when he turns into a bat and ghosts you.





8





No Turning Back (Miles)





It’s been a solid week since the creative crew returned to Seattle, and with fourth quarter campaigns looming, my calls with Louise have picked up.

“The video work came out like a dream, Mr. Cromwell. Dave really outdid himself! Oh, and those shots on the boat, they’ll grab a lot of eyes for sure. We just need Jennifer here to make sure everything fits her vision. Everyone said she’s a delight to work with.”

Of course they did.

Everyone who encounters Miss Landers experiences an angel—except for yours truly.

My fingers drum my desk.

“Go on, Louise.”

“I was just about to mention that we’re ahead of schedule. We can take our time with this, especially since it’s a nonprofit side project.”

“Agreed.”

“The final review might be a good time for you to check in, too,” she tells me cautiously. “If it won’t disrupt any busy summer plans, of course.”

“I’ll be there. I won’t miss the pre-launch phase. Too many moving pieces and too many opportunities for something to go wrong.” I turn to the window, staring out at Bee Harbor on the horizon.

It’s incredible how something so idyllic can shelter a woman causing me so much grief.

I’m only half listening as Louise updates me on highlights from informal reports.

This company runs so smoothly it barely requires my presence anymore. It’s a well-oiled machine that just needs my ideas, my discipline, my vision.

That should be liberating.

In reality, it’s just annoying.

“By the way, HR needs to update the policy on hiring temps. Accounting has three women going out on maternity leave, and one of them wants to keep working from home so she doesn’t burn her vacation time. The current process is to bring in a temp, which wouldn’t allow her that—”

“Change the policy to three months paid maternity leave for everyone,” I cut in.

“Are you sure? That’s very generous, boss.” She sounds so surprised.

“I’m not hemorrhaging talent over family matters. Plus, our Canadian office already gets more paid leave anyhow. It won’t break the bank to give personnel here at home the same courtesy.”