by Lily Kate
“Here,” I say, forking over some money to the girls. “Get whatever you want. Treat day on me. You, too, Jess.”
“Is everything okay?” Maggie murmurs as we settle in line behind the girls. “Did we shop for too long? I’m really sorry—you could’ve said something.”
“No,” I tell her, meaning it. “You were great. Really. Thank you for everything in there with Jess. She really loved it.”
“Oh, I had a blast,” Maggie gushes. “The girls didn’t fight once; they even got matching sweaters. Can you believe how good this day has been for them?”
She nudges me, but even her touch isn’t enough to shake the fog.
“Seriously, Tyler, are you okay?” She tenses, leaning closer. “Is this about before? I meant what I said—I really will think about it. It’s not that I don’t want to try, but I have Mila to think about, and—”
“I’m not upset,” I tell her. “At least, not about you. Thank you for today.”
“Okay,” she frowns. After a long pause, she adds, “You can talk to me about what’s bothering you if you’d like.”
“Thanks.” I offer her a sardonic sort of smile. “I’ll think about it.”
Chapter 15
TYLER
“I need more time.”
“We thought we’d have a decision a week ago,” Fletcher says. “What’s there to think about?”
“There are options.” I lean across the conference room table and meet his gaze straight on. “We don’t have to build a hotel in town. The airport’s an hour away; what about putting something near there?”
“Been done before.”
“Because it fucking works.” I straighten and move myself to stand in front of the window with my back to Fletcher so he can’t read my face. “Who flies into this shithole and wants to drive an hour to find someplace to stay for the night? A little express hotel near the airport would be in high demand.”
“I don’t think so.” Fletcher’s intent on busting my balls today. “What sort of person flies into this shithole at all? Nobody. Not unless they’re wanting to stay for awhile. It’s not exactly layover central.”
“Then let’s consider building an apartment complex. Or long-term stay facilities,” I offer. “For people like me, stuck here on business.”
“You’re the rare case.” Fletcher’s voice raises in annoyance. “I thought you’d have figured that out. What about the cute little family who wants to get out of the city and stay for a weekend? Where are they going to stay? That little shack where we had to put you up?”
“It’s not a shack,” I mumble, and then catch myself. “It’s not so bad.”
“If it’s not so bad,” Fletcher says, “then why’d you suggest we look here in the first place?”
“I didn’t suggest it,” I remind him. “The analysts found a gap in the market.”
“So fucking fill it,” Fletcher says. “That’s what you do.”
I spin around on my heel and rest my knuckles back on the table. “My company, my rules. I don’t want to build an inn in town, we don’t do it.”
“But—”
“It’s my company.”
“There’s a board of directors.” Fletcher raises his hands. “That’s why I’m here. You asked me to be honest with you. I’m not going to bullshit you, and I think you’re making a huge mistake.”
“Let me make a mistake.”
“Then why am I here?”
Fletcher is my right-hand man, that’s why. I don’t have to spell that out for us to both know it’s true. Without him, my company wouldn’t be where it is today. He’s one of the best lawyers in the business, shrewd and quick, ruthless and loyal. He’s never let me down, nor I him.
“Look, I’ll think about it.” I ease up on him. “You’re right; we came here for a reason. Give me some more time.”
“Why do you need it?” Fletcher stands, snapping shut his briefcase. He’s a lanky guy, sharply dressed because I pay him through the nose. “Something’s going on here, and I don’t like it. What’s gotten into you?”
I rest my hand against my forehead. I’m resistant to cancel the project entirely for several reasons. The first being that I’d no longer have a reason to camp out here, scouting the area, supervising construction, maintaining that hands-on leadership I claim to have. I’d also head back to New York, away from Margaret. I’m not ready for any of that.
Second, there’s a definite business opportunity here. If I don’t snatch it up, surely someone else will. The only reason I’d pointed the analysts to this marketplace gap is because my roots are here. I know this town, I know the people, and I know what they want. I can bring down the competition with my eyes closed.
Which brings me to my last point. Margaret.
If I stomp around here, marching my corporate boots all over Harp’s Haven, it’ll hurt the Lilac Inn, and it’ll hurt them badly. It’ll make things rough for their inn, and if it shut them down, I’m not sure Maggie Marshall would ever forgive me again.
“Believe me,” I mutter. “I didn’t expect things to be this difficult.”
“Well? What the hell is it?” Fletcher watches, his shrewd eyes focused on me.
A lie will get me nowhere. “I don’t know, yet.”
“Well, I can advise you wholeheartedly that you’re wasting a shitload of time and money,” Fletcher says. “Make your decision by the end of the month. November first, we should either be organizing contracts or you should have your ass back in New York where it belongs.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I thought you hired me to tell you like it is.” Fletcher steps around the table and marches right up to me, completely unafraid. “You like my no bullshit policy, which is why I’m not so sure you’re fighting me for all the right reasons. Think about it, Daniels. Have I steered you wrong?”
My fists are clenched by my sides, but he has a point. There’s a very good reason Fletcher’s not intimidated by my mood, and it’s because he’s right. He’s right across the board, and if the situation were reversed, I’d be saying the same things to him.
I don’t make decisions with my heart, my hormones, or anything else—I make them by the book. I look at numbers, and I get the most from my money. The bottom line has driven me for years, ever since I took the first maintenance job in that crappy old apartment complex. It’s not about to stop now.
“November first,” I say in a gravelly voice. “Fine.”
“Whatever shit you’ve got going on here,” Fletcher says, turning toward the door. “Get it out of your system, and fast. I’ll talk to you tomorrow; I have a plane to catch.”
Without a backward glance, Fletcher storms out of the conference room I’ve rented at the town library. Apparently, this is the only place in Harp’s Haven where one can have a private meeting. Supposedly, the Lilac Inn has some sort of cozy meeting room as well, but something about holding a meeting there while my lawyer and I plotted the demise of that very inn felt sacrilegious.
A major discomfort settles in my gut once the room is empty.
The thought has been gnawing at me for the last few weeks. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be a good answer to my solution. I have been racking my brain since the day I laid eyes on Margaret Marshall, and I’m still at a loss.
I was supposed to live here for a year. That’d always been the plan. I like being hands on with my businesses: scouting locations, managing contractors, watching a construction go from blueprint to operational. Fletcher has never understood that about me; he says I’ve worked hard enough to get to the top, let the grunts do the work.
I tell him it’s in my blood. I built this company with my hands from the ground up. Little maintenance tasks at that first crap apartment complex until I saved enough money to rent it, then buy it. Then fix it up myself and flip it into the hottest retro apartment complex in my corner of New York.
It’s the way I got through those early years of Jessica’s life—I had a small baby counti
ng on me and no wife to care for her. Nobody by my side as I struggled to get a foothold in a brutal city. The only thing constant in my life had been work.
Building, bringing new life to ghosted spaces, turning dilapidated creations into a new shade of their former glory—there is something incredibly fulfilling about seeing new renters settle into their unique space and make it their home.
This is the reason I need to keep one hand in my business at all times. I always do some part of the work myself: help pour concrete, paint walls, put in cabinets—whatever it is, there’s a desperate need for me to leave a piece of myself in these buildings.
Fletcher doesn’t understand it, but he’s accepted it. What he can’t understand is why I’m dragging my feet on a decision. It should be easy. I plant myself someplace new, identify the market need, and get my ass to work.
This waiting around business, debating what to do next—it’s not like me. Fletcher’s right. The need here is a family friendly hotel with all the amenities that Lilac Inn is too small to provide. We don’t need the frills—the lavender towels and popcorn night—we need child care, organized outings, a draw for tourists. We need a luxury resort at affordable prices that’ll blow Lilac Inn right out of the water.
But the longer I stay here, the more I’m unsure of my business choices. Turns out, I like my stupid lavender towel. The coffee and food here is insanely amazing. Better than any pre-prepared shit that we’d serve at a more efficient space. The level of service here might not be considered polite and professional, but it’s intimate and friendly.
How do we compete with that? I pack up my things and stomp toward the door of the library. Maybe I should just build the fucking thing. We’re all adults here, and it’s just business. As a self-proclaimed businesswoman, Margaret should understand.
So far, I’ve avoided the whole what do you do for work conversation with her, brushing it off with an easy answer: I buy things. She seems to understand I don’t want to talk about it, and in true Maggie style, she respects my choice.
I just don’t respect my own choice. The longer I let this linger, the worse the chasm will be when I finally yank the Band-Aid off and come clean to Maggie. There’s no way she’ll take kindly to competition on her home turf, and I’m not ballsy enough to rock the boat yet. Therefore, I avoid the problem.
“How was everything?” the librarian chirps as I storm through the main floor. “Did the conference room fit your business needs?”
“It’s fine,” I mumble, forcing myself to slow down and pause. “Do I owe you anything for it?”
“Owe us? Money? Oh, no.” She laughs. “Services here are free.”
“Thanks,” I say again, stomping out the door.
Maybe if someone here acted like a prick, it would make things easier. Unfortunately, it feels like everyone’s bound and determined to act so pleasant and friendly I feel like a permanent asshole.
This town is making it hard for me to leave, and harder for me to stay.
Chapter 16
MAGGIE
“I really don’t think it’s a good idea that you’re spending so much time with him.” My mother leans back at the tidy little breakfast nook in her kitchen. “How will that look to everyone else?”
I scowl, reaching for a scone which prompts another look of annoyance from my mother. “I don’t care what others think.”
“Apparently not,” she says, “or you wouldn’t be reaching for your third scone.”
There used to be a day when I would’ve put it back, when I would’ve valued my mother’s opinions more than anything in this world, but that day has passed. It passed the day she cut me out of her life when I told her I was having a baby.
Apparently, what others thought had been so damn important she hadn’t wanted to be involved with a daughter who’d gotten pregnant out of wedlock. My dad, had he been alive, would have supported me. He would’ve been the only person who could’ve changed my mother’s mind—he’d always been the only person to make her laugh, to see the light side of dark days—but unfortunately, he’d passed away several years before of a heart attack.
Eventually, after Mila’s birth she’d come around—somewhat. Even my mother had her limits, and she’d realized that if she continued to freeze me out of her life, she wouldn’t know Mila. For the sake of her granddaughter, she’d let me back in, and I returned, grudgingly cautious.
“No,” my mother says, daintily slicing her scone into eighths before applying the slightest dollop of lemon curd to it. “You have never cared what others think.”
“Is this why you called me over here this morning?”
“Can’t I have breakfast with my daughter for no reason?”
“Most people can,” I mutter. “I’m still scratching my head about what you need from me.”
“I don’t need anything, Margaret,” she snaps. “I’m your mother. Have some respect.”
It’s harder than I want to admit to keep my mouth shut, and the only way I can go about it successfully is to butter up that scone and shove it into my mouth. My mother watches with disdain.
“If you know what’s good for you,” she says, eventually opening up the argument again. “You’ll stay away from Tyler and keep Mila out of it, too.”
“It’s my business what I do with my daughter, thank you very much. And who I spend time with, for that matter, as well. I don’t have to explain myself,” I say with faux patience. “But if it’d make you feel better, you should know it’s just business. Tyler and his daughter are staying at the inn, and it’s my job to make them feel welcome.”
“Is it your job to take them to the apple orchard?” She sounds too innocent. “What about shopping?”
I glower at her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It was for the girls.”
“Fine. That still doesn’t explain why Mrs. Larson saw you cuddled up against Tyler’s chest,” she says, leaning forward as her voice descends into a hiss. “She said you kissed him.”
My heart is pumping, but I refuse to let my embarrassment win out. “Where I plant my lips is my business.”
My mother inhales a sharp breath. “Watch your mouth.”
“What did I say?”
She squints at me, unhappy. “I thought you were past this phase.”
“What phase is that?”
“I thought you were done looking for boys to fool around with. You’ve done that. Obviously.”
It stings every time she brings up my relationship with Mila’s father. I would’ve married him if he’d asked, for Mila’s sake, but the question never came up. What we’d had could never be called a relationship in any true sense of the word.
“I didn’t come here for this,” I say quietly. “I will not discuss it. When I let you back into my life, into Mila’s life, we agreed to let the past be the past and start fresh. This year, things have been feeling less and less fresh, and I will have no part in it.”
“You’re supposed to learn from the past, Margaret,” she warns. “And if you stumble down that same road, I’m sure as hell going to bring it up.”
My mother never swears, so this little slip is a sure sign she’s furious. I don’t care; I can’t. We had an agreement, and she’s breaking it.
I push my chair back and stand. “With all due respect, I’m going to leave now. When you’re ready to move on from this topic, you know where to find me.”
“Don’t you walk away from me, Margaret!”
I slip my light pink coat on, a dressier thing than I normally wear for a school drop off morning, but something I’d put on to make my mother happy, along with the little black dress underneath. My mother thinks yoga pants are sloppy, and I didn’t feel like giving her more ammunition against me today.
“If you’re not going to think about yourself,” she shoots after me, “think about Mila. If she really is becoming friends with that little girl, what’s going to happen when Tyler yanks her back to the city?”
I freeze, knowing there�
�s a double meaning to my mother’s inquiry. Yes, Mila’s feelings are a concern, but so are mine. My mother must sense my heart is close to getting involved, or she wouldn’t be so furious with me. When my heart is involved, I make bad choices—the track record has spoken.
When I don’t answer, she tries another angle. “What is he doing here, anyway? Have you asked him that?”
“Of course I have,” I snap, but I don’t follow up because I have nothing to say. I’ve asked Tyler a time or two what it is he does, and he always has some piddly answer. I own things, he’ll say. I buy and sell things. As if I can’t understand more than that.
I know he has plenty of money—that much is obvious. What he actually does is a much foggier question that he likes to avoid.
“You can walk out on me, but you know what I’m saying is true.” My mother’s words follow me down the steps. “You’re not a girl anymore, Margaret. You’re a woman and a mother, and you can’t indulge every one of your whims any longer.”
I turn, my furious gaze focused on her. There are no words that I need to say in order for her to catch my drift.
“A man should support his family,” she says, implying Tyler doesn’t do that. “He should work and provide for them, not sit around and diddle himself all day.”
I gape at her language. My mother is in rare form today, and it’s all I can do not to break down and laugh. “Tyler doesn’t diddle himself all day, mother.”
“Then what does he do?” she presses. “Does he go out in the morning and earn a living for his family? Can he provide for you and Mila?”
“I provide for me and Mila,” I say, the volume rising as we reach the crux of the issue. “We don’t need someone to come in and swoop us off our feet.”
“Sometimes, it’s nice to be swooped.” My mother says this bit quietly, and it’s completely out of character for her. “But there has to be something to follow up the whirlwind. Otherwise, it’ll leave you in pieces. Again.”
I freeze right there on the spot, wondering if this is my mother’s way of offering me sympathy. If it’s her olive branch in trying to test out offering motherly advice for once, or if it’s something else entirely.
