by Laura Simcox
He coughed and stepped around her, walking into the living room. “I’ll stay here.”
Her breath caught, and she watched him as he stared out the bay window into the black night.
Grabbing her purse from the sofa, she nodded at his back. “Oh. Okay,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice before the tears could well up in her eyes.
What the fuck? Had he just been playing her last night? Or had Preston screwed her and said something to Marcus about the potential offer on the bakery? Oh, God.
She hurried past the stairs and into the hallway, trying to keep a hold on her emotions. She made it inside the downstairs bathroom, shut the door, and looked in the mirror. In the glow of the night light plugged into the wall, her eyes were glazed and puffy from lack of sleep. Her bottom lip trembled. This was why she hadn’t wanted to get involved. There were too many complications, too many mixed feelings. Just one slip, and everything could come tumbling down.
“What the fuck am I doing?” she asked her reflection as the tears slowly leaked out.
…
Marcus ate his last bite of omelet and winked at Crystal. “Thanks. That was really good.” He smiled up at her, hoping to kill her obviously bad mood with kindness. Monday morning at the Lovin’ Cup was usually slow, and she often took her time to chat with people. Today, she hadn’t.
“Don’t thank me. It was Chuck who made it.” Crystal cleared his plate, topped off his coffee, and whipped out a rag to wipe down the table. “You still going to want to eat here after you build that Megamart? I know they have food-service counters.” She walked away without looking at him.
His smile froze in place as his stomach dropped. He’d told himself that he wouldn’t be bothered by negative reactions, but Crystal? He really liked her, and her words stung. He hadn’t meant to hurt her.
The door jingled, and Marcus looked over his shoulder. Preston stood near the counter, taking off his coat. He jerked his chin in greeting. Marcus turned back around and poured creamer into his coffee, mentally preparing himself to deal with the little shit.
When Preston had called him the night before, the conversation had been strained and very short. All Marcus knew was that Preston needed to talk to him about Herman and insisted on meeting him face-to-face and as soon as possible. Marcus had almost turned him down, but there was something in Preston’s voice, something both desperate and devious that had made alarm bells go off.
When Marcus had hung up and left Ivy’s bedroom, he’d heard the word “Megamart” float up from the dining room and paused at the top of the steps. The rest of the conversation had made his chest tighter and tighter.
Ivy, the same Ivy who had so blissfully given him her body, was planning to betray him. And her family was in on it. Preston, that little shit, had been in on it all along too, of course. Marcus didn’t even want to think about how else Preston might be involved with her behind Marcus’s back. He really would strangle him then.
“Head in the clouds, Weaver?”
Marcus finished stirring his coffee before looking up. “Just thinking about how wonderful my Big Daddy plate tasted. A fluffy, four-egg omelet slathered in cheddar…crisp, crackly bacon…French toast swimming in butter and warm maple syrup. You should try it, Parliament.”
Preston blanched. “No, thanks. That type of diet will kill you.”
“Not in moderation.” Marcus raised his coffee cup to his lips, trying not to smirk at the rise he’d just gotten out of Preston, and pointed to the empty seat opposite him. “Sit down and start talking.”
Huffing out a breath, Preston grabbed a paper napkin from an adjacent table and dabbed at the seat before gingerly dropping into it. He took another napkin and wiped the table, then placed a leather folio on the surface. After a quick glance around, he adjusted the neck of his starched shirt and shuddered. “This place needs to be scoured with bleach. It’s disgusting.”
Marcus drummed his fingers on his coffee cup. “You finished?”
“Hardly. I could go on for days about what’s wrong with this town.”
“That makes you one hell of a town planner, now doesn’t it?” Marcus asked with a cool smile. He had to resist the urge to reach across and backhand the fool across the face. Thank God Ivy hadn’t married him. Just the thought of Preston touching her made Marcus’s blood boil. Not that it had any right to bother him—she wasn’t his to protect, especially not when she was lying to him. He leaned back in the seat and took another sip of coffee.
Preston’s face went red. “I’m doing these people a favor by working my ass off for them, but they let petty squabbles get in the way of progress. Always have.” He reached up and tapped an index finger to his throat. “Case in point. It still hurts where you strangled me, by the way.”
“Bullshit. I didn’t touch you there,” Marcus said in a pleasant tone. “Now let’s cut the crap, shall we?”
Preston didn’t respond other than to unzip his folio with short, jerking motions and tap a finger on piece of paper. “Here’s a list of what Ivy requested: two snow forts filled with snowballs for the kids, a hot chocolate and doughnut stand, caroling on the steps of city hall.” Marcus raised an eyebrow, and Preston continued. “Wait, that’s not all. A wreath-decorating contest, an appearance by Santa Claus, and at dusk, the lighting of the Celebration tree in the gazebo.”
Marcus just stared at him. “Are you talking about the Christmas Festival? I swear to God, Parliament, if you don’t get to the point of why we’re here, I’m leaving.”
Preston fiddled with his pen for a moment. “All right. I have some information about your uncle that might be of benefit to both of us.”
Marcus leaned forward. “Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t give a shit about that old man, and I’m not going to help him.”
“Help him? Oh, that’s rich.” Preston scoffed.
“Look, Parliament. I’m barely interested in this conversation as it is.”
“Would you be interested if I told you that he never actually sold that land you wanted to buy?” Preston smiled. “I can prove it,” he added.
Marcus stilled. His first instinct was to call Preston a liar, but his second instinct told him to listen. He kept a level gaze on Preston. “Then let me see some proof.”
Preston reached under the legal pad in his folio and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers. He slid it across the table to Marcus. “Go ahead and look it over.”
Marcus unfolded the document and glanced at the top sheet. It was a photocopy of a deed transfer for the land Marcus had intended to buy. The seller: Herman Weaver. The buyer: Mustang Investments. He knew that already. He flipped the page, and the anger he’d bottled moments before roared to the surface. The CEO listed for Mustang Investments was none other than Herman Weaver.
Marcus refolded the document and passed it back to Preston. “How did you get this?”
“It took some digging, but it helps that I work at city hall. I’d rather not get into details.” Preston secreted the document back under the legal pad.
Marcus took another swallow of his coffee and set the cup aside. “Fair enough. The question now is why do you care about this information?”
Preston smiled. “Because I have an ax to grind with Herman, too. A big one.”
Marcus folded his arms across his chest. “Keep talking.”
“Herman has skeletons in his closet.”
“I kind of figured that.”
“And I want to haul one out and rattle it around,” Preston continued.
Marcus just waited, his expression blank.
Preston sighed and rolled his eyes. “Four years ago, my dad’s bakery failed and everyone thinks it was because it was mismanaged, but it wasn’t. Herman Weaver was selling insurance at the time, and I was working for him. My dad wanted to throw some business my way so he bought a liability policy from me.”
“And you screwed up?” Marcus asked.
“No! It wasn’t me. I was twenty-two years old, for Christ’s
sake, and I’d been in the insurance game for a grand total of three months. I checked and rechecked the policy before my dad signed. But even so, something went wrong. Herman had managed to move around some numbers in the fine print, and although my dad was paying top dollar for the policy, his coverage was next to nothing.”
Marcus still didn’t react.
Preston rubbed his face. “Neither my dad nor I knew about it for months, but when a worker had an accident and sued, we found out pretty quick. My dad lost almost everything, and the only way he could start over was to take what little cash he had left and buy a foreclosed property in Alabama. The bakery operation there is not even half what it had been here in Celebration.”
“Didn’t you tell your dad the truth?” asked Marcus.
Preston snorted. “Of course I did. But Herman got to him first. He told my dad that it was all part of my master plan to take over the bakery and that he could help fix it.” He slumped in his seat. “You see, when my dad found himself in dire straits, Herman swooped in with the cash and bought the place. Herman ruined my life—my father will barely talk to me.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows. “So Herman owns Parliament Bakery?”
Preston nodded.
“But that doesn’t explain why you’re the one trying to find a buyer for it then.”
“I…You know about that?” Preston muttered. “How?”
“I pay attention.” Marcus was silent for a moment and then he smiled. “Jesus, Parliament. How long did you think you were going to be able to keep up the pretense that your family still owns that property? And why isn’t it public knowledge?”
Preston gripped the edge of the table. “Herman never filed the deed transfer. Believe me, I checked,” he hissed. “And time is running out because my friend George wants to buy the bakery. From me.”
“How’s that going to happen?”
Preston clenched his fists. “Well, obviously it can’t. Everything just…slipped out of my control. I took that job at city hall so I could find a way to bury Herman and get that bakery back. I was hoping to find stuff on him, something I could use to my advantage.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Yeah.” Preston looked up with a sneer. “You.”
Marcus smiled. “Why don’t you tell me what you want, and I’ll let you know if I’m interested.”
“I want you to go to Herman and twist his arm. That old man doesn’t care about anything except his reputation. Force him to sell you the land and the bakery.”
Marcus snorted. “Why the hell would I want the bakery?”
“I can think of one very good reason,” Preston said slowly. “If you own the bakery, how can Ivy use it as a bargaining chip against your Megamart? Hang onto the bakery until you get approval to build your store, and then sell it.”
Marcus stared at him, his mind racing. Preston was right, but holy shit. Was Preston’s desire for revenge so great that he would he do that to Ivy? She had broken their engagement, but this was low. Really low. And even as guilt buzzed through his brain, Marcus realized that it was the perfect option. The only option to protect the Megamart. And once it was secured, he’d do something about the bakery. Ivy would never have to know.
“What do you think?” Preston asked. “And Ivy won’t find out,” he added. “I’ll just tell her the deal with George fell through. That way, when your proposal comes to a vote in front of the town council, there won’t be any other options on the table.” He looked like he was about to cry.
Marcus was unmoved. There was only one way to find out if Preston’s story was true and that was to confront Herman. And to do that he’d have to go along with Preston’s deal. That old bastard had told his last lie to Marcus Weaver.
Preston was right about one thing. It was payback time.
“Okay, Parliament. I’ll buy the land and the bakery property.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I assume your family still has some money, right?”
Preston frowned. “Yes, but not what we used to have.”
“The only way I’ll do this is if you take some of the responsibility. I’ll cut you in on half on your dad’s old place. We can discuss selling it to your buddy later. After the Megamart is secured, of course.”
Preston’s head snapped up. “But George is seriously interested and—”
“If he is, he’ll wait. Take it or leave it.”
Marcus held his breath. He didn’t have the cash for the land, the bakery, and the Megamart. Even if Preston agreed to pay for half the bakery, money would be tight.
Preston hesitated and then slumped into his seat. “I’ll talk to my dad. And I can cash in some certificates of deposit.”
“Good.”
The sleigh bells on the door jangled, and Marcus looked over his shoulder. Two teenage boys barged through the opening and skidded to a halt in front of the counter.
One of them, a scrawny kid with skintight jeans and shaggy, black hair, bounded around the counter to the swinging door leading to the kitchen and cracked it open. “Hey, Crystal!”
“What?”
“I gotta tell you something.”
Crystal appeared in the doorway and pushed the kid backward. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in school?”
“Freshman skip day,” the boy answered, grinning. “So guess what?”
“What?”
“That new mayor, you know the one who’s, like, hot. I mean, smokin’ hot?”
Crystal shook her head. “Brandon, ew. You’re my brother. Don’t talk about women that way around me. Actually, don’t talk about women that way at all. You’re a freakin’ kid.” She smacked his shoulder. “Her name is Miss Callahan. And yes, I know her. We went to high school together.”
“Right on. So, me and Danny were hanging out downtown seeing what’s up with the new stores and stuff and we saw a crowd outside the tattoo parlor. You know, for that ribbon cutting. So we just followed them in.”
“Well you shouldn’t have. You’re not eighteen,” retorted Crystal, popping him with a dish towel.
“Ow. So anyway, the hot mayor lady—I mean, Miss Callahan—was getting her tat, and guess what?”
“What?” Crystal sighed.
“She got pot leaves on her ankle!” Brandon crowed.
Marcus stood up as Preston snickered.
“Son, they aren’t pot leaves. They’re ivy leaves. Her first name is Ivy,” explained Marcus.
Brandon looked at Marcus. “Hey, who are you? Are you her boyfriend?”
“No. I’m her…I am the investor that made the tattoo parlor possible,” Marcus replied and frowned at the kid. Even to his own ears, his explanation sounded lame.
“Man,” Brandon said. “I could look at her all day long.”
Marcus stepped forward. “You’re skating on thin ice.”
Brandon hopped onto a bar stool. “Yeah I hear that a lot. But listen, she really did get pot leaves. I mean, how cool!”
Preston stood and approached the boy. “How do you know?”
Brandon rolled his eyes. “Dude, come on.” He fingered his hemp necklace and glanced sidelong at his friend, who, despite the snow, was wearing flip-flops. They both erupted into giggles.
Marcus closed his eyes. “Ivy is a smart woman. I’m sure there’s an explanation for this,” he said in a level voice, looking around the room at anyone who dared to challenge his statement.
Crystal hefted a bus tub full of silverware onto the counter. “Yeah. And unfortunately for her, that explanation will be on the front page of the Celebration Crier tomorrow morning.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Ow. Ow. Peas and carrots. Sharks and snakes. Oh, squirrels. Ow. Rusty robots!” Ivy clenched her teeth together in a pained smile and lay perfectly still on the padded reclining chair.
“What’s she talking about?” whispered a tiny old lady wearing a knit beret with a pom-pom ball on top.
“I think she’s trying not to curse. Now hush, Mother,” said Alber
ta Fields as she peered through her thick glasses. “You’re doing great, Mayor Callahan,” she added in a raised voice.
Ivy caught Alberta’s eye and gave her former teacher a shaky thumbs-up. It was all she could manage because her leg was on fire just below the rolled-up cuff of her jeans. A thousand bees were stinging her ankle and next to her thigh sat what looked to be a Dumpster’s worth of crumpled towels. With dots of her blood on them. So gross.
But her publicity stunt had worked, because Skinnovations, Celebration’s first tattoo parlor, had appointments booked until three p.m. today. That was worth the pulsing needle pounding permanent ink into her ankle and a crowd of people watching her writhe in agony. Besides, she’d always wanted a tat. Kind of.
“How ya doing, Ivy?” asked Ben Lambert, the owner of the new tattoo parlor and the man currently torturing her to death.
Ivy glanced up at him and blinked. At least he had kind eyes. Big and brown and full of empathy. He looked about thirty—Marcus’s age—but that was where the resemblance stopped. Through the tears swimming in her field of vision, she looked across at the skull-and-crossbones flag splayed across his biceps. His forearm was covered in an intricate tapestry of old-fashioned ships locked in a sea battle. Lower, a mermaid on his wrist disappeared into the surgical glove encasing his hand. Not her style at all, but it was fascinating and beautiful. And something to focus on.
“I’m okay,” she said in a small voice. “I like your, uh, sleeve. That’s what it’s called, right? So you’re fond of pirates?”
He smiled. “Yarr.”
“That’s fun,” she replied and took a few deep breaths. The pain was mercifully diminishing to a dull sting, and she looked at the crowd hovering ten feet away. Her mother waved enthusiastically from her place in the front. Ivy lifted her hand in acknowledgment and widened her eyes in a mock plea for help.
Delia chortled, her giant earrings swinging. She looked to either side, a proud smile puffing up her plump cheeks. “My daughter,” she declared. “So brave.”
