One Bossy Offer (86)

“Is there something else?”

“It’s just—frankly, lady, I can’t comprehend dating a dude like that. You could do a lot better, media hero or not. But that’s none of my business. All Lottie ever wanted was for her granddaughter to be happy. She must’ve told me a hundred times over the years.”

“That’s all Lottie wanted—first, second, and third.” Miles sits down beside me and slips an arm around me.

“I should go.” Ace gets to his feet.

“Bye,” Miles says, waving him away dismissively.

I elbow him in the side as Ace walks away.

“What? He’s trespassing on my turf,” Miles rumbles.

I might be mortified, but I’m laughing.

“What? What’s so damn funny?”

“You. He actually said you’re not so bad, and you just had to go caveman, didn’t you?”

“I had to make a point. You’re mine, Jenn Landers, and the man blew his chance, no matter how much smoke he blows up my ass.” He pauses. “Is he still pissed he lost?”

“No, he’s a grown-up. But he said I could do better. Might have something to do with your overall demeanor.”

“Eh, feedback is useless unless it’s specific. I can tell you he doesn’t deserve you because he’s never fought for you. Hell, if another man barged in on my date with a beautiful woman, I’d send him packing right away. Not leave her in a room alone with him.”

“He trusted me, Miles.” I smile, still feeling a little bad about it.

“With a woman like you, there’s always somebody else waiting with their dick in hand, drooling at their chance. If this guy’s too stupid to realize that or care, he never deserved you. And you were never that interested.”

My face heats.

I hate how I can’t argue with his Neanderthal logic.

“He’s a nice guy,” I insist. “He’ll find somebody and he’ll make her very happy.”

“Well, what the fuck was Prince Charming doing here anyway, gracing us with his presence?”

“I think he told Simone about the tourism piece.”

“Of course, he did,” he bites off.

“Miles, he didn’t know. Honest. He even asked her if she was working with us and she lied through her teeth.”

“So, he’s gullible, too. Figures.”

I swat his chest—I try.

But Miles catches my hand in midair, leans over, and snuffs out my insult with a kiss.

“Behave,” I whisper, as soon as he lets me come up for air. “Do you really think you still have anything to worry about? I couldn’t make myself think of anyone but you, crankyface. I’ve given up trying.”

He pulls me into his lap with a warmth in his eyes that slays me.

“Truth be told, kitten, the idiot may be right. Sometimes I’m not sure I deserve you.”

“Sucks for you. You’re stuck with me anyway.”





Later, we’re sitting in Miles’ office, working or at least pretending to try.

I’m hunched over my laptop, cobbling together breakfast ideas for the inn, and he’s at his desk doing who knows what. But he has my dogs in thrall.

Coffee lies at his feet, loudly snoring, while Cream rests on the other side, curled into a doughnut and drowsily watching me type.

Her curly tail wags when I pump my fist in the air.

“What’s the word?” Miles looks up from his screen.

“Ten people. Ten people have asked to stay at the inn as soon as it reopens! One couple might even want their wedding here, but I’m not sure we’re ready for that yet. Today I even got a tech startup in Tacoma poking me about a corporate retreat next spring.”

Miles smiles. “I always knew.”

“What? Weren’t you the one who thought I’d want to pull up stakes?”

“That was before I figured out you got the lion’s share of Lottie Risa’s blood, and claws sharp enough to hold on for as long as you’d like.”

This man.

I don’t dare look up and let him see that he’s touching my soul, so I nod my thanks and return to my screen. I need to fire off a response to the couple looking for a wedding venue on my doorstep.

We both go back to work, but when I look up a minute later, Miles is still staring at me intently. But his hands are moving.

There’s a huge calendar on his desk and he keeps pushing something under it.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he throws back.

“You sound like a guilty child. Miles?”

“I didn’t do it. Not yet.”

“Oh, so you’re definitely guilty.”

“Of what?”

“Nothing good.” I return to my email and let them know I’ll be happy to provide a quote closer to the formal reopening, if I think we can manage it by then.

Once I’ve sent the email, I glance over at Miles again. He keeps looking at me, glancing down and shifting whatever it is he’s hiding under that calendar.

“Okay. What are you doing?” I demand.

“Solving the world’s energy problems,” he lies.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“I’m offended you don’t believe in me.”