One Bossy Offer (45)

I’ve never seen a man who stays this formal after sucking my tongue.

Gotta love billionaire weirdos and their emotional damage.

Dave will email you the initial edits soon. Your feedback will be appreciated and help guide further edits.

Cool. Let Dave email me then when he puts down his pipe.

Jerkoff.

I actually make a stroking motion with my hand, which confuses the eavesdropping Dobermans.

Sighing, I shove the phone in my pocket and scratch Cream’s head. I give her a couple salmon treats from a bag by the door before we head out.

“Good job.” I get Coffee on his leash, treat him, and take off with the only creatures here who don’t drive me insane every waking second.

We’ve barely made it through the gardens when my phone pings again. Another message from hell.



Miss Landers,

If the silent treatment is the punishment you’ve chosen, so be it.

I know you’ll still read this.

See the attached link to a cloud folder with preliminary edits of several videos for the Pinnacle Pointe tourism project. Tell me what you think whenever you stop hating me.

Yours,

M. Cromwell

Chief Executive Officer, Cromwell-Narada



All ass.

All the time.

I use my whole body weight to pull the leashes tight enough to bring the dogs to a halt and hit play on the first video. I need an immediate distraction from Miles and his infinite crap.

The video starts with the company logo that looks like it’s aimed at YouTube or other streaming sites.

It’s a basic montage with the lighting adjusted.

Beautiful places and beautiful people.

Lots of smiles.

Quarter second glimpses of majestic cliffs and decadent Irish pub food.

In other words, it’s fifteen seconds of rapid-fire commercial fluff that flies by too fast to really see anything.

I regret my life.

How? How did they do this?

They got good video. Sarah practically memorized the whole ten pages of editing pointers I wrote up for video. I made sure of it.

So why is this hacked up into some kind of 1990s ad that looks like it’d play between daytime soaps?

My freaking parents would barely bat their eyes.

The name of the town only flashes for three seconds.

“Ugh!” I sputter, cringing as I flip to the next video.

Yep, yep, more of the same.

The same stiff, overpolished corporate commercialism that’s going to bomb on all the big digital platforms and cause brutal costs on the ones where it could work. Barely.

But it does make my response very easy.

I open my email, hit reply, and type a simple answer.



Frankly, the videos suck and so do you.

Never yours,

Jenn



Why does it feel so good to type my name?

Cream whines since we’re not moving, nosing at the little pouch of treats I clipped to my belt. She just wants a fish nugget, I know, but it feels like she’s trying to tell me not to be stupid.

I groan and throw them both treats.

As much as I want to, I can’t send that last part.

I have to stay professional.

I have to muddle through this.

I have to make sure I’m not setting myself up for another apology and another kiss that occupies my brain.

So I delete the last four words and hit Send.

We’re walking again, taking the winding paths between town and the shore.

A few bright butterflies dart past and the Dobermans stomp their paws.

At least they’re happy as the breeze blows in their faces.

I regret everything.

A hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money, but I shouldn’t have taken it.

He was trouble the second he showed up on my doorstep.

I’m still in shock it isn’t just a dream turned nightmare.

Leaving and ignoring me after what he said that night—no one but me ever touches you—it’s more than obvious he played me like a fiddle.

He played me again.

When Ace left in disbelief, Miles won, and the game ended.

I’m so flipping stupid.

A few steps later, Coffee breaks into a jog, and Cream hustles to keep pace, dragging me along.

Probably for the best. There’s no point in endlessly rehashing this.

There’s no undoing it.

The dogs know our route by this point. They drag me past the beach. I’m so stuck in my head I can’t even register its beauty today.

This is why I don’t do relationships—or much of anything with guys.

Pippa’s near disaster proved how messy love gets, and my life is crazy enough with an inheritance I’m not sure I can keep and two giant dogs who need me.

No matter how rough it gets, I don’t want to sell the inn.

But I have to keep in mind the town’s richest, most toxic resident is also my only neighbor.

Maybe I should reconsider if I can’t get the tourists.

I’ll take refuge in one thing, though. The fact that I don’t do much kissing or even dating is probably why that joke of a make-out scene felt like such a big deal.

It has nothing to do with Miles Cromwell.

Nothing.

I’m just starved for male attention, and I can find that with someone else.

Anyone.