One Bossy Offer (8)

I hold the canvas in place, feathering the extra-fine detail brush against it with my other hand.

This is my oasis.

Sweet tranquility, creating entire worlds with each stroke, untainted by wretched surprises or gorgeous, obstinate women destined to drive me insane.

For once, I’m not even thinking about my father as I stroke long fluid lines across the width of the canvas.

Then my phone vibrates on my desk, tearing me from serenity.

My eyes flick over. My executive assistant’s name flashes across the screen.

Shit, didn’t I just talk to her a few days ago?

Sighing, I drop the brush into a cup of water, grab a paper towel, and wipe the cobalt-blue smudges off my hand, so I can take the call.

“Louise.”

“Hi, I’m just calling with your regular update, Mr. Cromwell. We’ve had an uptick in advertiser revenue driven by special interest groups invested in the Seattle city council race. We should expect to see an upward trend there until the election. As you know, the last debate came to blows. It’s hard to imagine lobbyists backing off with things more heated than a House of Cards episode—”

I should care about this.

I really should when a single change in the council’s makeup could mean regulatory heaven or hell for my company.

Except, I just don’t give a damn.

“Go on,” I say flatly.

“Um, the series of short videos we did on the Bainbridge Seal Sanctuary to attract the younger crowd went viral on TikTok. You asked if we were making progress there...”

“I worry about this new generation.” I sigh.

She laughs. “Boss, take the win! It was pure candy clickbait, just like you wanted. Everyone loves cute animals. And I’d say it did the job because Pacific-Resolute launched a copycat effort with some sea otters a few days later—”

“Don’t use their name—or hers.” My gut clenches. “And why do you think I care?”

“Well, the copycat failed miserably for one...”

Ordinarily, I’d bask in being a trendsetter, even if it’s a bit annoying to watch someone else build their media business off my strategies, but it’s Pacific-Resolute.

It’s enough to know it failed and I don’t have to hear about it.

“Louise, this is my time off. Unless something disastrous happens and needs my immediate expertise, let’s make these calls bi-weekly. Okay?”

“Bi-weekly?” She pauses. “Does that mean like twice a week, or two times a—”

“Less often. Definitely.”

“You’re only checking every two weeks?” There’s a note of fear in her voice.

Last time I checked, I was the boss at Cromwell-Narada Media, and I make the rules. If that means I want to step back from being a workaholic android for what’s left of summer, my people should wrap their heads around it, and fast.

“If the clients want my head on a pike or Mount Rainier blows up, call me. Otherwise, you should see this as an exercise in trust. You run a tight ship like all my senior people. Nothing will go wrong,” I promise, hoping like hell that’s true.

“Can creative at least stop by?”

“Creative?”

“You remember you had them scheduled, right? They’re coming out there to film content about Pinnacle Pointe for—”

“Right,” I throw back.

Right.

The deal I made with the town council here to help drum up tourism. I need a positive local image if I want to be left the hell alone.

I want to be the aloof rich guy who’s viewed like Santa Claus and enjoys North Pole level privacy, too. Apparently, that’s going to cost me a meeting or two with the creative wonks during my summer off.

“Send them over when they arrive. By the way, I need you to comb through anything public you can find about a small Seattle consulting firm owned by a Jennifer Landers in marketing.”

She pauses.

“Are you trying to buy out some small-time marketer? Um, I know our in-house marketing hasn’t been impressive lately, but I didn’t know it was that bad.”

Hardly.

The fact that I’m even wasting time on this ornery spitfire thumbing her nose at my generosity feels like a thorn in my side I can’t extract.

“It’s a personal matter. I want her land, but I need help figuring out what motivates her if I’m going to convince her to sell.”

“Ohhh, I like it. Everybody needs a little turf war drama. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

“Understood,” I say, ignoring her 'turf war' comment.

I throw the phone down and stare out my floor-to-ceiling window.

Outside, it’s a picturesque summer day, illuminating the source of my misery.

Green grass stretches out like an ornate carpet, exploding into wildflowers and the faint outline of an old stone inn with red shutters.

The house next to it is tall, worn, but somehow still as bright as the landscape around it. I think the stone was locally sourced a long time ago, probably cheap to come by when the inn was built.

It’s a cross between a whimsical cottage and the best small-town charm the 1950s had to offer, all odd angles, fearlessly perched on the side of a bluff overlooking the Pacific.

I look at my cobalt-blue canvas.