One Bossy Offer (76)

The last paragraph catches my attention.



The quiet middle-class neighborhood on the edge of town is the only place insulated from the burglaries. Two founding families of the oldest church rest on one side of the road. Farther up the street is the once bright and beautiful Bee Harbor Inn—and the town’s only billionaire.

You might be tempted to think protection comes from the billionaire, who’s made his slice of Pinnacle Pointe his own private fortress.

You’d be wrong.

Rather, it’s the well-kept, well-lit inn that shelters this side of town from the quiet anarchy pulsing through the streets. Even vacant, Bee Harbor’s peaceful legacy lives on.

For some in Pinnacle Pointe, the porch light is always on.



What the—? That was my grandparents’ old slogan.

Seriously.

Who the hell is behind this, and why are they painting the inn like it’s some special safe space?

It’s like they knew our tourism campaign was coming, and now they want to trash the town before it gets off the ground.

My stomach knots.

Could it be an insider? Who else knew about the tourism project?

When this crap gains traction, everyone in Pinnacle Pointe will hate me for having the only kind word in the entire hit piece.

But they have to know I wouldn’t have agreed to this.

I wonder how far its reach already is.

I go back to the search results page. The next hit has the same journalist holding the microphone for an old lady who looks like she belongs in a Medicare commercial. It’s a video.

“Didn’t you say your home got broken into this summer?” the brunette asks.

“They did! One of those rats broke into my house and stole—get this—my CPAP machine of all the things!”

The other woman makes a face like she’s sucking a lime and pulls the mic back. “What could they want with a medical device?”

“Crank money! What else? The kids who come boating in the spring and summer are always high on something. It’s all over town,” the old woman snaps, shaking her head.

My heart drops into my gut.

Okay. Yeah. Miles is right.

I see the urgency now.

We have to dump some good press, pronto, if we want any hope of burying this dreck.

And with creative still plodding along, trying to come up with content that doesn’t suck, that means it’s up to me.

I don’t get much sleep.

The nightmares come fast and furious.

Bee Harbor, up on the auction block because I can’t afford the property taxes anymore.

An arson attempt that kills my business and wipes out my savings.

Then the new owner, leveling the place and selling off the land to some investor who turns it into a strip mall.

Only, my alarm clock saves me from more punishment.

On my way to the office, my phone rings. Pinnacle Pointe Legal flashes across my screen. “Hello?”

“Miss Landers, it’s Waldo. Is this a good time?”

“I’m almost at work, but what did you find?”

There’s a moment of silence.

Oh, boy.

“I researched your grandmother’s will extensively, diving deep into the property records,” he begins.

“Let me guess. I can’t sell, can I?” I whisper.

“You can. In three years.”

“Great. Maybe I’ll still have a good offer then.” And if miracles still happen, maybe Pinnacle Pointe won’t be a ghost town with a bad reputation.

“There is one exception,” Waldo says quietly.

“What’s that? And why didn’t you mention any of this when you first explained the will?”

“There’s a confidentiality clause. I was only supposed to mention it if you directly asked. Miss Landers, it was months ago, and I do a lot of wills in an aging town like this. That’s why I had to go back and reread everything, especially with a property of this size. But the confidentiality clause stopped me from explaining it up front.”

I sigh. “Okay. What’s the exception?”

“Your grandmother specified a potential buyer. If an offer appears from this specific buyer before the three-year holding period is up, then you’re welcome to sell to Lottie’s preferred buyer at any time of your choosing.”

My stomach drops. “Preferred buyer?”

“Yes, it’s—”

Don’t say it.

Don’t say his name.

I already know.

“Mr. Miles Cromwell. The man who owns the neighboring property. If you’re interested in selling, I could certainly reach out to him for you.”

Wouldn’t that be lovely?

“That won’t be necessary,” I rush out. I should end the call now when I have a million things to do and not enough time. I think Waldo has told me what he knows, but I don’t hang up just yet.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asks.

“I just don’t understand. Why would she do this?”

“The conditions? Well, sometimes when you’re leaving something with significant value to a younger heir, it helps them make informed decisions. Your grandmother probably believed she was protecting you.”

“But the one buyer—why him?”

He laughs. “That part, I don’t know. I’ve seen very few cases like this involving a neighbor, and in my experience, when it happens, the surviving family usually understands the whys better than I do. But Lottie always was eccentric, bless her heart.”