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)
Dammit.
“I thought you were—never mind. Why are you calling? What’s wrong?”
“Nice to talk to you too, Mr. Cromwell,” she says with a fluttery laugh. “Anyway, one of our tech clients wants to tweak their advertising strategy and—”
“That sounds like a job for Clarence in marketing. He’s the head of the department and deals with our jumbo accounts.”
“Well, yes, but the marketing lead said the guy insisted on talking to you. You know how persistent they get when they’re desperate—and between the stock crashing and that dumb virtual reality thing they’re blowing billions on, they’re hair-on-fire freaked. They want your direct approval for the new campaign setup.”
I cringe, knowing exactly what company she means.
“Send it over,” I clip.
I should be more annoyed with this. Yet it’s only a faint spark against the flaring wildfire coursing through me every time I think of Jennifer Landers laughing at my messages and instantly deleting them.
“Already done. And I hate to dump more on your plate, but they requested you get back to them by end of week.”
Beautiful.
“I’ll take care of it, Louise. It’s not your problem anymore, okay?” I tell her.
“Okey dokey, Eeyore.”
“Eeyore?”
“The donkey. It’s probably none of my business—”
“It isn’t,” I throw back, thoroughly annoyed.
“—you sound a little more tired than usual.” Louise sucks in a deep breath. “Is everything okay, Mr. Cromwell?”
“Never better,” I lie. “I’m away from Seattle and enjoying the quiet when my damn phone isn’t drilling through my eardrums.”
“Oh, good. Right,” she adds quickly as it clicks in her head.
“While you’re on the line, you didn’t find out anything else about Jennifer Landers or her Odd Little Bee, did you?”
“I sent you everything,” she says, her voice going up an octave. “Wow, Mr. Cromwell. You must really want this property.”
I can tell by the lilt of her voice that it’s not the property she means, but its owner.
“It would mean a lot more privacy, and that’s invaluable.”
She’s quiet for too long.
“Is there something else, Louise?”
“...with all due respect, sir, you’re holed up in that middle of nowhere town on its own island. How much more privacy do you need?”
“Never enough. Since I haven’t burned my fortune investing in lunar rockets, this will have to do for an eccentric billionaire quest,” I growl back.
She laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard all day.
At least someone appreciates my humor, even when it’s more than half serious.
“Well, good luck with the tech people.”
“Remind me, does my office phone have voicemail or does it route to you?” Maybe the marketing genius called my office instead of my cell phone.
“I check your main voicemail at six a.m. and six p.m. I forwarded you everything pertinent this morning. Do you need me to check it again?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Are you looking for something specific?”
“No. I appreciate your attention to detail, as always.”
By the end of the day, Jennifer Landers hasn’t returned my call.
There’s no way I can call again without looking like a desperate goblin.
When my doorbell chimes and I tap my phone to see who’s at the door, I’m almost praying to the gods she decided to drop by in person. Any negotiation would be a thousand times more interesting face-to-face.
“I picked up your dry cleaning,” Benson says. “Should I leave it in the mudroom for you?”
“I’ll let you in. Hang on.”
A couple minutes later, I open the door, and he hands me a garment bag.
“You want a scotch while you’re here?” It’s not like I have anything better to do tonight except brood. I’m not closing any remarkable land deals anytime soon.
“Would I ever turn down a free drink from your stash?” His smile is timeless.
Aside from his hair going full silver, he’s the same portly, pleasant man I’ve known since I was just a fresh-faced kid.
We walk to my bar and I pour out a few fingers from the top-shelf stuff I never bother saving for a better occasion. I haven’t celebrated anything with expensive booze since the days when Dad had my job.
Those days were very different. Every triumph was warm, full of big speeches in crowded rooms, and dammit, meaningful.
“Where are you tonight, boss? Any reason you’re glued to your phone?” He tosses back the last of his drink with a satisfied sigh.
I shake my head. “I’m trying to close on the place next door, as you know, and I’m having trouble reaching her.”
He smiles, holding up his glass wistfully. “Ah, yes. Lottie’s little tigress. Be careful when she’s already shown you her claws.”
I snort, reaching for the bottle to refill our glasses.
“Haven’t I learned that the hard way? I’m going to get that land, Benson.”
“She does live next door. I know it’s a bit of a walk and we’re too drunk to drive, but you could just pay her a visit.”
I could, I think, drowning a growl in my scotch.