One Bossy Offer (62)

“She left a note at my mother’s grave—”

“Wait. She was buried in Pinnacle Pointe, right?”

“Yes.”

“Is she a local there?”

“No, it’s Simone Niehaus.”

Again, that gaping silence that makes me feel like a crazy man.

Hell, maybe I am.

“If there was no valid reason for her to be in the same town besides wanting to harass you and making a claim on the neighboring property... Now, we’re getting somewhere. Send me a full account of what happened, and if you still have the note, that’s better.”

“I’ll work on it, Martin.”

I hang up, already drumming my fingers on my desk and hating what an absolute joke my life has become.

Even after all these years, the bad blood with Simone still costs me everything—or nearly enough.

Can I really afford more bad blood with Jennifer Landers?





13





No Turning Away (Jenn)





I effing hate Mondays, and knowing the bosshole is back in town isn’t helping anything.

Seriously.

What kind of elephant prick just shows up out of the blue and tells me I can’t even entertain an offer for my property? And all because he has some beef with the person who made it.

Of course, I agreed to the contract when I took the job.

I have to give him first option. But still, a girl can look, and she can certainly dig deeper to find out why people keep offering so much freaking money for an old inn on a scenic slice of land that’s seen better days.

What does this Simone really want, and what did he do to her?

It’s typical Miles Cromwell.

He just comes barreling in, all snarls and bared teeth, and then he disappears. To be fair, I haven’t made any effort to reach out since the dogs ran him off my parents’ porch.

Still.

I’m so sick of it I could scream—and knowing I have to deal with him for at least the next eight hours is enough to make me want to break this contract and run off to the other side of the country. I hear Maine is nice for an ocean view.

But I can’t honor Gram or myself in Maine.

Like it or not, Bee Harbor is quickly becoming home.

The sooner you suck it up and finish the job, the faster you’ll be home with the dogs, I tell myself, clinging to that nugget of hope.

So I sit in my office, reviewing one short video after the next, hoping my face doesn’t get stuck from cringing too hard. I tap my glasses against the edge of my desk.

I haven’t worn them since my Winthrope days, but if I’m marooned in Seattle playing girlboss, I’ll look the part.

Just how? How did they do this?

Some of this content feels so comically inauthentic I don’t know how they botched it.

It’s almost like someone said, 'Hey, this looks too real. Let’s cheese it up.'

Ugh.

I drop my head to my desk with a thunk! It’ll be easier finding the unedited footage and starting all over than explaining how to fix some of this mess.

It’s time for a break anyway, and I need to get word to Miles that he needs to step in and let me have full production control of the Pinnacle Pointe videos.

So I push my glasses on and step out of my office, heading for the private elevator to the executive floor.

For a polished corporate heart, there are more people working in cubicles than you’d think, and they all like to chatter. Louise’s desk is right in front of Cromwell’s office.

She’s on the phone when I walk up and doesn’t see me. “Yes, that’s right. Everything you have on Miss Niehaus, including any recent interest in new personal acquisitions.”

Oh my God.

He’s really not letting this go, is he?

I tell myself I don’t care, but that’s a lie.

Whatever.

If he wants the inn that stinking bad, he can make a better offer. Not that I’d actually sell Gram’s pride and joy off to either one of them.

I don’t have anything against Niehaus personally, though. She just doesn’t seem right for Bee Harbor, and I’m not sure I trust her promise to keep the property undeveloped.

On the other hand, I hate Miles more than a jellyfish sting—and I hate him even more for turning my own lips against me.

No matter how awful he is in my heart, the rest of me can’t resist another kiss.

Confusing much? Pathetic?

Yes.

But whatever.

“Can I help you, Miss Landers?” Louise peers over her spectacles once she realizes I’m standing there.

I shake my head like I’m clearing my thoughts.

“Can you please email Mr. Cromwell and have him notify the entire creative team not to make any more changes without my approval? I thought a note from the big boss versus little old contractor me might go a long way.”

“Certainly,” she says cheerfully, already typing.

Then I notice the chatter from the surrounding cubicles has stopped.

The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

“Um, did something happen?” I whisper.

The silence is so intense just using a normal voice feels deafening.

“He’s been holed up in a meeting for the past hour and a half. He must have just stepped out. They tend to get quiet when he’s out on the floor.” Louise doesn’t whisper.