One Bossy Offer (72)
It woke me up from a dream I never knew I wanted, not before we—
Fuck.
There’s no denying I lose my mind when she’s around. My brain transfers all thought control to my dick.
And last night, nothing made it through my head except how fatally gorgeous she is, how right she feels in my arms, how magnificently she lights up with every kiss.
What people might say about me—or more importantly, her—was the furthest thing from my mind.
The worst part is, I know there’s no hiding this thing we’ve started, if we decide to keep it going.
How could I ever have her in the same meeting room without people noticing how starved I am every time I look at her?
“Mr. Cromwell?”
The knocking doesn’t wait for me to answer before my office door swings open.
Bradley’s face is red and pinched tight, but that isn’t what screams there’s something wrong.
The bearish head of my company’s public relations and my personal reputation manager never blows into my office announced.
What now?
“What’s the matter? Don’t tell me, the charity gala in Medina tonight?” I ask, my mind snapping to the first thing that springs to mind. “We already have two teams covering it and plenty of freelancers for support. Our stations will be the first to report a nipple slip or drunken insult, so you don’t have to worry.”
Bradley just stands there, shifting his bulk uncomfortably.
Not good.
Whatever he’s here to tell me is bad news, the kind with no easy fix.
“It’s your side project and—ahem, Miss Unmentionable.”
Miss Unmentionable?
Is Jenn right? Has the talk about us already started right under my nose?
Damnation.
I’m going to be in damage control very soon, if that’s the case, and I’m not sure even Bradley can help me with that.
“Cut the shit. What side project?”
“Your Pinnacle Pointe tourism project,” he says nervously, bowing his head.
Fuck.
“And Miss Landers has done something to warrant a visit from PR?”
He quirks a brow. “Miss Landers? No. I’m sorry, sir, I should be more specific. Pacific-Resolute just released an exclusive story on Pinnacle Pointe around noon. It’s all over their major channels, and it’ll be trickling into the papers tomorrow for sure.”
Disaster.
I’m just not sure what form it’s taking.
“Damn. I wish we’d beat them to the punch, but any extra coverage for the town will only increase their tourism prospects. Unless...”
It clicks in my head before Bradley meets my gaze and clears his throat.
“Their exclusive trashed the entire town, Mr. Cromwell. Their affiliates are playing up a string of small-scale burglaries this summer, painting it as a second-rate, crime-ridden place to live with crumbling infrastructure and dilapidated houses.”
Shock knifes through me.
For such a tiny community looking for more revenue from outsiders, that’s devastating news.
Hell, with small-time fishing in decline, the mayor believes tourism is the only way forward to avoid the fate of so many other little island towns in Washington.
If Simone cuts them off at the balls, I’m not sure how Pinnacle Pointe survives.
Still, it doesn’t warrant a visit from the head of PR, unless he’s the only senior officer with the balls to tell me to my face.
“That’s grave news for our plans with the town. However—”
“What does it have to do with you? Or this company? Yeah, I’ll get to that,” he promises. “Mr. Cromwell, this is a five-alarm emergency. You either release your content now and say a Hail Mary it outshines Pacific-Resolute’s bullshit exposé—or you wait, and you don’t release it at all.”
My gut sinks.
“What? Why?”
“Because, sir. There’s no reasonable way your content will come across as authentic once her story gains steam. After folks hear about the robberies and see one shot of algae growing on roofs and fishing shacks falling down... well, you know what they say. There’s no second crack at a first impression.”
“Go on.” I tap my pen on my desk like a cat flicking its tail in irritation.
“The Pacific-Resolute people already interviewed one old woman whose house was broken into last spring. She didn’t have much to steal, so they took her CPAP machine. The lady saw it as attempted murder since she can’t breathe at night without it with her sleep apnea and all. How can you publish a story about this charming little town that belongs in a Hallmark movie if Granny goes viral talking about how someone tried to suffocate her in her sleep?”
My hand curls into a fist.
“They were still talking about it at Murphy’s,” I bite off. “Mrs. Smith way overplayed it, but why? The fuck did steal her CPAP. Then someone from the local church put up a fundraiser in no time and it was replaced the next day. Attempted murder? Christ, that’s dramatic. The thief was caught a few weeks later when he tried to sell it on eBay. Some dipshit college kid visiting on spring break. He partied too hard and didn’t have the money for the bus ticket home.”
Bradley goes quiet for a minute, stroking his greying beard. “You’re serious? Fucking aye.”