One Bossy Offer (41)

“It’s my grandma and my house. I’m not letting you off easy.” She pops out of her chair, takes one step toward me, and stops. “What trade? She got five paintings and you got what?”

A few rough seconds of silence burn by before I answer.

“Honey.”

“Honey?” She shakes her head like it’s a foreign word.

“Honey. For Benson’s tea.”

“From her bees?” she says with disbelief.

“The only honey Lottie ever saw fit to put in jars. Good stuff. Now, if you’re done with this bullshit—”

The anger in her eyes dissipates, and she turns with a heavy sigh. “Whatever, mister. Point made. I’ll just stand by twiddling my thumbs until you need to yell at me for work again.”

“Wait.” I follow her when she starts moving.

“I’d rather die of cyanide poisoning,” she says without glancing back.

Damn.

I shouldn’t have snapped at her, but she just kept pushing. What other option did I have?

The only alternative was to tell her why I knew her grandmother so well, and that would be worse. Anything that provokes a thousand more questions from this hellcat is definitely worse.

Thankfully, she has an emotional skin like an elephant.

She’ll get over being snapped at and come back to hound me before I know it.

I just wish I didn’t have to leave it like this, so I follow her out of my office.

Just smooth it over, you fuck.

Don’t let her leave like this.

But the longer I trail her, the harder it is to find the words. There’s no subject to change, not when anything else involves work that’s done or an inn she’d rather sell to a corpse over me.

When I drag after her to the front foyer, Miss Landers is already out the door, and Benson is staring out the window, watching her start down my long, winding drive.

He turns to face me. “What did you do to her today?”

“What? Nothing.”

“She blew out of here like a rocket, boss. She wouldn’t even stop to talk to me like she usually does.”

“She’s being dramatic,” I snap. “We had a disagreement—a goddamned stupid one. Nothing serious.”

If only I believed my own words.

Benson stares at me like I’m the only stupid thing in the room.

I wonder if he’s right.

“We just argued about the paintings I gave Lottie years ago. Is that so dire?”

“It’s your business,” he answers glumly.

Fucking ridiculous.

And I don’t just mean today, where we went at each other like snapping turtles over nothing.

It’s the fact that I almost kissed her, and we never talked about it. I ignored her for days over a few simple texts, only to lose my shit like a moody sixteen-year-old.

What’s my malfunction?

What does Jennifer Landers do to me?

Obviously, this would be a bigger flaming wreck than it already is if I’d followed through on that kiss. Much less other desires that burn me down every time I look at her.

And today, my choices were either lie to her or admit the hellish truth, and it’s no contest I took the gentle, simpler option.

I’m not reliving the worst parts of my life with this strange siren who wasn’t supposed to blow into my world like a force of nature.

I don’t do secrets and vulnerability anymore.

The last time I did, it cost me everything.





I wake up the next morning drowning in guilt.

Have I mentioned I fucking hate that I’m not the ironclad soulless ghoul the rest of the world sees?

She’s grieving, and I didn’t even try to be nice.

I just barked shit at her until she left me alone.

I could’ve had more tact.

I could’ve shown I had the tiniest heart without spilling everything.

Still, this will blow over. I just need to act casual.

I’ll let you know when we’re heading to Seattle. As soon as I hear from Louise, I send midday, fishing for a reply to judge how pissed she is.

The total nonresponse by evening says very.

Snarling a few curses, I pick up my phone and try again.

I received some interesting ideas to finalize the video montage. Meet me for drinks at Murphy’s so we can discuss?

The fact that I add a question mark—rather than making it an order—tells me how fucked this is.

And I know I’m teetering on the brink of disaster when the cold shoulder continues.

Goddamn.

Before, she always responded to work.

At this stage, I hope she doesn’t abruptly quit. She’s given my creatives the swift kick in the ass they needed to help put this town on the map and build the credibility I need with folks who make the laws here.

I’m going over Dad’s latest bills, contemplating a third round of humiliation by text, when my phone finally pings.

Jenn: I’m off the clock until you need me in Seattle.

Miles: Didn’t you march over here insisting my paintings should be in the promos? Yesterday, you were happy to keep working.

She doesn’t respond to that.

Beautiful.

I don’t hear from her for another whole day, and I can’t bury my ego enough to go chasing her again.