One Bossy Offer (63)

She’s used to this. Mr. Iron Fist and his choke hold on this office so tight it curdles the whole atmosphere.

At least I’m not the only one who hates working for him.

I scoff to myself, but Louise must hear me.

She glances up. “What’s wrong, Miss Landers? I sincerely hope creative hasn’t been causing you too much grief—or a certain curmudgeonly boss.”

I blink, unsure what to say. For all I know, she’s testing me and he put her up to this.

“It’s no big deal, Louise. Just send the message, please?”

For a second, I wonder if he had another motive for chasing me down the other evening.

If Simone Niehaus hadn’t been there, and the dogs hadn’t lost their cool, maybe things would have gone very differently.

Maybe we could have sat down and had a conversation like normal human beings.

Not two crazies torn between peeling each other’s faces off, or tearing off our clothes instead.

Yeah, no.

I never should have kissed a boss-client in the first place. Stupid me.

I definitely shouldn’t be holding on to this vague hope that we could ever reach a normal understanding.

One where he sets his own greedy ambitions aside and explains why it’s the end of the world if I even dare to entertain another offer on my place.

But unless I know the ins and outs of the inn’s real value, I’ll never understand it, will I? It’s time to do some digging.

Back in my office, I call Waldo, Gram’s old attorney.

“Pinnacle Pointe Legal. This is Waldo. How can I help?”

I smile. This is why I love Pinnacle Pointe. In Seattle, no attorney answers their own phone during business hours.

“Hey, Waldo, it’s Jennifer Landers. Lottie Risa’s granddaughter?”

“I remember you, Miss Landers. What can I do for you today?” he says pleasantly.

“I’ve had two offers on the inn recently. One is twice the amount of the other offer—”

“Ah, that’s news, all right. We’re talking a range just north of two million then? I know the Pointe can’t claim SeaTac area charms or its market values, but it’s still a huge house and a lot of land with an ocean view. Glad to hear any potential buyers are taking that seriously. How about the competing offer?”

“Above three,” I whisper.

“Three million?” He lets out a long whistle.

“Yes. I know it’s a lot, but I kind of wondered what I’d be looking at after taxes...”

“I’d have to crunch some numbers, but it would certainly still be a very nice chunk of change. Wow. I’m sure we can minimize the tax bill, if you’re moving forward with a sale. There’s also a structured settlement option where the money comes in over time, if the buyer is interested.”

I can’t help grinning, even if actually signing off on any sale feels as strange and unthinkable as getting married.

“I’m glad Gram hired the right attorney,” I say.

“I do what I can. It’s been a little while since the estate was settled, so I’ll also need to research the provisions in your grandmother’s will about when you can sell.”

“When?” I’m not sure what he’s getting at.

He clears his throat. “I don’t remember anything off the top of my head specifically, but sometimes with inherited properties, there are clauses about when you can sell and who you’re allowed to sell to. It’s rather common out here, where some folks get awfully attached to their old houses. Just give me a few days and I’ll get right back to you.”

My stomach twists oddly.

I never imagined Gram herself writing any restrictions into her will.

“No problem. Thank you, Waldo.” I end the call there.

Great timing since my cell buzzes.

Miles: I received Louise’s message. I’ll have a note out to creative this afternoon. We’re still not talking?

I don’t respond.

The whole point of not talking to someone is to not talk to them.

But he’s persistent, and my phone vibrates again an hour later.

Miles: I’ve instructed the team they need your approval for any additional edits. Satisfied?

Nope.

No insult.

No backhanded compliment.

No smartass remark dripping with innuendo.

I’m honestly surprised—and a little disappointed.

I never expected Normal Miles to feel so dull.

So I start typing back several times, but snark seeps out in every message. I go back and delete them, frowning at the screen.

Eventually, I decide to check my inner bitch and send him a simple thank you.

So, this is progress.

Resisting Miles Cromwell in all of his stupid sex-charged glory.

But why does it feel like two steps back and less than a half step forward?





It’s almost nine o’clock and you can stick a fork in me, I’m done.

My eyes are red and bleary, watering from way too much screen time with Sarah, piecing together one new video short after the next.

I should have left hours ago, but putting in more time now means this hell ends sooner. I’ll pull an all-nighter if it means being through with this.

With him.

If I’m lucky, maybe Waldo will turn up some clause that says the inn can’t be sold for the next century, and the grumpiest boss alive can go pound sand.