Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
I just wonder if I’m up for being tackled and possibly mauled like an overstuffed lion facing down a Bengal tiger—especially when another shit-fight with teeth is not how I’d love to devour every inch of Jennifer Landers.
3
No Lofty Promises (Jenn)
Last night, I walked out onto the balcony deck attached to my bedroom, and a stiletto heel went clean through a decrepit knot in the wood.
Ugh.
I never dreamed it was actually this bad.
I also never thought I’d be contemplating paying out almost a hundred thousand dollars to update all the massive decking with modern composite materials—if only the old house didn’t have several other pressing issues.
It’s still on my mind when I move my morning yoga practice to the downstairs patio. I’m not going down with that deck if I bounce around and shake the wrong rusty screw loose.
No soaring ocean view here, but it’s still gorgeous.
Everything is so lush, so green, so alive. A few tiny hummingbirds flit around the flowering bushes like little jewels in the morning light.
I’m panting away in downward dog position—desperate to get back to the shape I was in before Gram’s funeral—when my phone rings.
I nearly tumble over trying to grab it off the chair next to me.
A new client? I could use a lot of those.
Nope!
The number flashing across the screen is the same one that’s called at least four times over the past three days.
I should have known it was Dracula, once again demanding I invite him into my dumpster fire of a life.
The latest message? “My original offer stands.”
Like he hasn’t made that as clear as a shot to the face.
Like he’s doing this for poor widdle me.
Right.
It’s amazing how Gram never mentioned living next to the prince of all jackasses. I wonder if he only knows the dogs because he went after them for trespassing on his precious kingdom.
I’m sad to say I’m not above doing my own digging.
Know thy enemy, or whatever.
The results that came back from my best Google-fu were all too predictable.
Miles Cromwell.
Media titan.
All around anti-people jerkoff.
Single—no surprise.
Silver-blue eyes sharp enough to cut steel and shoulders wrapped in imported suits big enough to haul around his ego.
And just like the bloodsucker he is, his looks are too good at concealing his shriveled up heart.
Look, I know billionaires are used to getting their way, but he needs to take the L here.
He’s not getting Bee Harbor.
Not for any amount.
I don’t care if he rides in on the world’s cutest pony holding a check for infinity dollars.
His crap reminded me I still have principles, and Gram would spin right out of her grave if she knew I signed the inn over to the devil next door.
Still, I can’t live with these pesky messages forever.
So I reject the call and pull up a text message instead, biting my cheek as I try to type out something more polite than he deserves.
Mr. Cromwell, thanks for your interest, but like I’ve said, I am not interested in selling to you or anyone else at this—
Knock! Knock!
That distant banging is followed by Coffee and Cream barking up a storm.
I guess I didn’t answer the phone fast enough, so Dracula decided to show up on my doorstep.
Cool.
At least I’ll get to see the look on his face when I shoot him down.
Sliding my flip-flops on, I storm inside through the sliding glass door, march straight to the front door with the dogs trotting behind me, and throw it open.
“Let’s cut to the chase, I’m not—”
Oh, crap.
I’ve already started tearing into the guy before I realize it’s not the grump next door. Is it one of his minions coming to do his dirty work instead?
Hmm.
The stranger isn’t quite as tall as Dracula, but probably broader.
He’s my age, not ten years older like Dracula. Muscular. Smiling like it won’t break him.
And he’s wearing a flannel shirt with a toolbelt hanging around his waist.
My asshat neighbor wouldn’t be caught dead in flannel.
“This a bad time?” The man loops a thumb through his belt.
“Uh—no.” I shake my head. “Sorry. I thought you were someone else.” I offer him my hand before I remember I’m still sweaty from yoga, so I wipe it on my leggings with my face burning. “Uh—yoga. Sorry again!”
He laughs loudly and shakes my hand anyway.
“No problem. I’m Ace. I was Lottie’s repair guy. Just wanted to finish a few fixes we were working on before she—well, before—”
I nod warmly. He doesn’t have to say it.
Ace, huh?
It’s even a sexy name.
This day suddenly feels brighter.
“What repairs?” I don’t even know where to begin, and I worry any renovations will eat into my nonexistent fortune. “Listen, I’m happy to go over anything you’d like, but I’m not sure I have the budget right now for anything too major.”
He holds up a hand. “Don’t worry, miss, it’s on the house. I just want to finish a few things we were already working on. Lottie fronted me the money six months ago. Wouldn’t feel right leaving them undone when I already got paid. I wasn’t sure if you’d be keeping me around, but I want to make sure I’ve done what I can.”