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)
“The bitch was here,” I rasp, every word cutting my throat.
His face sinks.
I don’t have to say anything else.
He knows exactly who I mean, and he just nods in bitter sympathy.
Benson knows me well enough to do his job quietly.
Today, though, I can tell he’s worried as he climbs in the driver’s seat and shuts the door. “Is it possible she’s just paying her respects?”
“Fuck no. She wants to make sure I know she’s not done with me yet.”
“The woman is unhinged,” he says glumly.
He’s not wrong.
Psycho batshit bitch from Satan’s waiting room is too mild a description.
“She does it to get a rise out of you, I’m sure. Don’t give her the pleasure, sir,” Benson says gently, looking back in the mirror.
I don’t dignify that with an answer.
If he’s right, I’m giving Simone Niehaus exactly what she wants, and I hate it.
Still, she crossed a line, and she fucking knew it.
She’s not even here to know if I took the bait.
She damn sure knows leaving notes at my mom’s grave is a bridge too far.
I lean into the back seat as a brief rain blows in, the kind that comes without warning and leaves with a blanket of vibrant green underneath.
My phone pings.
Jenn: Are you coming back? We were having content problems and I had to redirect your group. You weren’t joking. Your “creative” strategy needs some work.
Welcoming the distraction, I text back, You’re a pain in the ass. I’m not sure I ever said my team sucked.
Jenn: You didn’t. You manager types are all the same. Mini-royalty. Can’t call a spade a spade.
Miles: And you have no filter.
Jenn: Yeah, but you knew that already. Which is why I’m about to tell you the whole team is pissed at you, and I don’t blame them.
What?
Do I have a mutiny on my hands?
Why? I hit send, clasping my phone like it’s solid ice.
Jenn: You went AWOL. You didn’t tell anyone where you went. We just looked up and you were gone.
Miles: Sorry.
Jenn: Tell them that. I felt like the sun came out when I realized you weren’t leering over us. She sends a row of laughing emojis with the tears.
Miles: It’s raining, Miss Landers. Tell me why my team sucks.
Jenn: It’s not the people, but their ideas... Corporate, bland, and boring. Everything comes off like an ambulance chaser commercial. We’re trying to sell a town, not a class action lawsuit.
Miles: The oldest guy on that team is thirty-six.
Jenn: *Shrugs*
Miles: Where are you now? I know the weather turned.
Jenn: We’re at my place, filming what’s left of the gardens. I think I’ve half convinced them it’s okay to have fun. We were going to make s’mores by the fire pits if the rain lets up, but I’m not sure it will.
I try like hell not to picture this slip of a girl with the glowing light from a campfire splashed across her skin.
I’ve seen her in a bikini, in skimpy sleepwear, too damn little that’s still too much.
You have firewood? I send, hating that I can’t pry her image out of my head.
When we had a week of storms last summer, I dropped by with Benson to leave some wood for Lottie.
Three laughing emojis come back. I was going to send your most annoying employee to find some.
Miles: Dave? Tell him there’s an entire stack under the tarp by the dock.
Jenn: You know the place has firewood?
I don’t answer.
A few minutes go by before she responds, Okay, I mentioned it. So what did you have to do today that was so important, anyway?
Miles: You were right to show them Bee Harbor. If the rustic look isn’t authentic, then I’m Mr. Rogers. Nice to know you’re more than just a pretty face.
And a nice piece of—land.
A nice piece of land.
Jenn: If I weren’t just your consultant, I’d report that to HR.
I snort at my screen. My lip curls.
Miles: You’re not easy to compliment, are you?
Jenn: I hate it when you’re nice. It’s weird.
Miles: I won’t make it a habit. Relax.
Jenn: What should I do with your people now?
I send two question marks.
Jenn: Trust me, they can’t be trusted developing this content on their own. Starting over is less work than trying to fix what they came up with. I planned to keep them here, snapping selfies and having fun, but my s’more making idea is gone with the rain. And I don’t want half a dozen random strangers in my barely standing house, so what do I do with them?
“Who are you texting so seriously back there?” Benson asks.
I look up, surprised to find I’m almost home.
“No one important, Benson. Business,” I say.
Miles: I’m almost home. When I get there, send the party next door.
Jenn: Will do.
Twenty minutes later, her impromptu party for my creative team moves to my large solarium. We’re there for hours under the pattering evening rain, and once I’ve sent the team back to their hotel, I look at Jenn.