One Bossy Offer (53)

“You’re asking the wrong man. I’m thirty-five years out of the dating game and after my Millie passed, I’m not interested.” He smiles out at the calm water.

Loyal to the end.

It’s respectable and disgustingly sweet and entirely Benson.

“From what I remember, it depends on what you did to piss her off, sir.”

“Dammit, I don’t know.” I’m pretty sure I have an idea.

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

I throw up my hands and storm over to the wet bar. “Do you want a drink?”

“Sure.”

I pour him a brandy.

“Shouldn’t this be the other way around?”

“Not tonight. I need to control something.” It’s obviously not my life right now, spinning its way into a mountain like a falling jet.

We clink glasses and down our drinks in silence. Then I pour us another round.

Benson holds a hand up. “I’m done. I still have to drive when we arrive.”

“Don’t worry, old man. I’ll hire a driver.”

He chuckles. “You’re replacing me on duty?”

“Tonight, you’re designated drinking buddy.” I pour another round and we share a knowing look.

The last time this happened was years ago, and Dad was the one pouring the drinks.

He takes half the shot.

“Miles?”

“Yes?”

“Gifts tend to ease a woman’s wrath. But only meaningful ones. That doesn’t mean she’ll forgive you just because you bought her something nice—but she may quit throwing things long enough to let you speak.”

It sounds too easy.

“It hasn’t come to that yet—throwing things, I mean.”

He laughs. “My late wife had an arm like a Seattle Pilot.”

“I’m sure you deserved it.”

He smiles. “Maybe, but I’ll tell you what. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to have a pillow thrown at me one more time.”

I laugh. “Never knew your wife was that intense, Benson. Not the sort of woman I picture you with.”

“Ah, only just one,” he whispers.

His eyes mist with a longing I’m afraid I’m beginning to understand.





11





No Bones About It (Jenn)





I swallow past the lump in my throat and stare up at the mammoth tower stabbing the sky.

Jesus.

I thought this part of my life was over when I moved to Bee Harbor.

If Winthrope International’s old headquarters was an oversized sugar rush of luxury that made you feel small to enter—and it was—this place is a palace.

I square my shoulders and walk into Cromwell-Narada headquarters. I’m not the same woman who left Winthrope and Corporate America behind, even if it hasn’t been that long.

So begins day two of dragging these creatives into modern marketing practices, hopefully without too much kicking and screaming.

Louise waits outside the elevator when the door opens. She’s a pleasant middle-aged woman with greying hair and an appreciation for high-end, but subtle designer brand clothing.

“Good morning. Your office is ready, Miss Landers, and I apologize for the delay yesterday. I’ll show you over,” she says.

“Office? Will I need one? This isn’t supposed to be long term.”

She casts a glance over her shoulder. “Mr. Cromwell insisted. He wants to make sure you have adequate privacy during your time here.”

How kind.

I almost wouldn’t put it past him to install a hidden camera somewhere so he can enjoy my suffering.

Louise walks briskly and it’s a struggle to keep up in these heels. She leads me to a corner office with a wall of solid glass.

My resistance dies right there, struck down by a view stolen from heaven.

This is the good part about the city and its soaring towers.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Louise flashes a cheery smile.

“Gorgeous. You can see half of Bainbridge from here.” But this doesn’t look like a temporary consultant’s desk. “Are you sure this is necessary?”

“This office has been vacant for a while. Mr. Cromwell suggested you use it—” She pauses. “I trust it’s to your liking?”

“Absolutely.” No joke. I’d like to meet the person not capable of liking this desk.

“If you don’t require anything else, I’ll get out of your hair.”

I turn to answer, but she’s already gone. The view is breathtaking, capturing the busy silver waters below.

But I probably shouldn’t waste more time standing around.

So I move to the sizable mahogany desk in the middle of the room and free my laptop from its bag. As I’m setting it down, I notice a crisp white envelope.

I’m instantly winded, reminded of my first encounter with Miles.

Especially when I see my name scrolled across the front.

Jennifer.

Oh, God. Do I want to know?

Curiosity killed the cat and I’m not immune, kitten puns aside.

Inside, there’s a dull black greeting card with a Bloomingdale’s gift card still in its cardboard container, $2000 printed on the back.