“What?”
“Really, Linc, you have to be on your cell phone while having breakfast?” Sunny asked, sounding displeased.
“He’s attached to that thing. Every meal, no matter what.”
“Hey,” I objected. “You two were busy. I was giving you some time to get to know each other.”
“Uh-huh,” Sunny stated, crossing her arms. I tried not to notice how that pushed her breasts together. Then I tried not to think about how much I used to love to touch them. How soft and full they were in my hands. The way her nipple—
“Linc!”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
Abby chuckled and stood. “Could I put my bag upstairs? Then I think Mr. Hornball and I had best get to work.”
“Hey,” I protested again. They were ganging up on me already.
I loved it.
Sunny rose. “Of course.”
I grabbed the bags from the car and followed them upstairs. Abby looked around, taking the larger of the two bedrooms. When I glared at her, she rolled her eyes, hitting my shoulder as she went past me. “As if you’ll be sleeping in this apartment much,” she muttered. “We both know you’ll be next door.”
I had no objections to that idea, but I would let Sunny make that decision. Catching Sunny’s eye, I winked, loving how her cheeks flushed, as if she was having the same thoughts as Abby.
That made my day.
My phone rang and I answered, watching as Abby and Sunny walked around the apartment. “Ned. What’s up?”
“My blood pressure. I got news one of the permits was rejected.”
I frowned. “Which one?”
“The permit from the town to destroy the house.”
“What? Why the hell would they reject it? They still get their taxes, and something will replace the building. If I don’t tear it down, it will fall into disrepair, because I’m not maintaining that monstrosity. Did you tell them that?”
“I can’t get anyone on the phone. I’ll head down and deal with it.”
I scrubbed my eyes. “No, I’ll go to the town hall and talk to the mayor. I’m sure it’s simply an error.”
“All right. Get back to me.”
“I will.”
I hung up. “I have to go. Abby, stay here and settle in. There are some emails I need you to address, and once I get this sorted, I’ll come back. Maybe we’ll work from here today.”
She nodded. “On it.”
I walked down the steps with Sunny, stopping her before she entered the bakery. I laid my hand on her arm. “Thank you.”
“I like her. She keeps you in line.”
“You know what?”
She grinned, one side of her mouth higher than the other, giving her an impish look. “What, Linc?”
“I like you.” I bent low and brushed my mouth across hers. Then I went back for more, taking her top lip between mine and kissing it, then doing the same to her bottom lip before covering her mouth and kissing her harder. Our tongues stroked together, long, lazy swirls, curling, tasting, and discovering. When I eased back, Sunny’s cheeks were pink, her lips swollen from mine, and her eyes wide.
“I have been wanting to kiss you since I walked into the bakery,” I murmured and bent again for one last kiss.
“Hope it was worth the wait.”
I dropped a kiss to the end of her nose. “It was.” I enfolded her in my arms. “It always will be.”
The empty corridors of the small town hall echoed with my footsteps. I frowned as I glanced around. The place was almost deserted. I had encountered one person on the way to the mayor’s office. Chuckling, I reminded myself this was Mission Cove, not Toronto. They didn’t even open the building until ten, and it was only a few moments past. Nothing big was happening in the town, and it would seem most employees were not yet at their desks. I hadn’t been in the building for a long time, and it hadn’t changed much, the layout the same as I recalled from past visits.
Not long after my mother died, my father would send me on errands, delivering thick manila envelopes to people. Often it was to the mayor. I would ride my bike down the hill, careful to deliver the package to the right person. I was so desperate for my father’s love and approval that I never made a mistake. I was fast and never gave the envelope to anyone but the person who was supposed to get it. I would rush back to the house to tell my father I had completed my task, always hoping for a glimmer of approval. It never came. He remained impassive and uncaring. Still, I tried.
Until the day after a rainstorm, when he gave me an envelope and I sped down the hill too fast. I lost control of my bike, and my backpack and I flew off, landing in a huge puddle. The papers were ruined, my knees and pants torn, and the front tire of my bike damaged. But that was nothing compared to the pain of the punishment my father inflicted on me. He was furious, screaming at me about my carelessness, wasting his time, and being irresponsible. It was the first time he had used his fists as well as his words, but certainly not the last. It was the day I realized he would never love me, no matter how hard I tried. The day I learned to fear his office as well as the man.
I gave my head a shake, pushing aside the memories. He was dead and could no longer hurt me. I located the mayor’s office and pushed open the door. It looked much the same as I remembered. Neutral colors, uncomfortable-looking chairs, the walls covered in pictures of the town during festivals and tourist season. There was a desk beside a closed door, the last stronghold, as it were, that prevented you from getting to the mayor. I remembered his assistant—the mayor’s wife. Mrs. Tremont was well-groomed, rigid—and to a young boy, scary as hell. She always glared at me, her dark eyes filled with disapproval over my insistence at handing the envelope directly to the mayor. She would make me wait, sitting in the corner on one of those uncomfortable chairs, sometimes for over an hour. But I waited, not wanting to risk my father’s wrath.
I glanced around, not surprised to see how little had changed. The town outside these walls was prospering, but inside, it looked as if time stood still.
The door by the desk opened, and a woman strode out. She stopped short, seeing me, our gazes locking, and for the second time that morning, I was a kid again. Cold, dark eyes met mine, a frown appearing on a face that was older but still familiar. Mrs. Tremont crossed her arms, a frosty glare etched on her expression. She recognized me, and it was plain she wasn’t happy to see me. When she spoke, her voice was cold and formal.
“May I help you?”
I straightened my shoulders. “I’m here to see the mayor.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
She knew damn well I didn’t.
“No.”
“Then, young man, might I suggest you make one?”
I refused to let her intimidate me. “I don’t have time. Tell the mayor Lincoln Webber is here to see him.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Webber?”
I smirked. “Yes. Lincoln Webber.” I crossed my arms, mimicking her stance. “He will see me.”
She sniffed. “Too good to keep your father’s name?”
My indignation rose. “That, Mrs. Tremont, is none of your business. Tell your husband I’m here to see him about an urgent matter.”
She didn’t back down. “He is not here. As deputy mayor, you can discuss your matter with me.”
Deputy mayor? Her?
Good god, the people here needed help more than I realized.
“Fine. A permit I require was refused. I assume it was done in error, and I need that rectified. Immediately.”
She didn’t pretend not to know what I was talking about. “The one to level your father’s house.”
“It’s my house now. I’m having it demolished.”
She didn’t meet my eyes as she deposited some files onto the top of her desk. Her tone became almost gleeful as she responded, “No, I don’t believe you are. The permit was denied.”
“On what grounds?”
She lifted her gaze, pure hatred blazing from them.
I stepped back at the blatant hostility. “On the grounds that your father did a lot for this town and his house was a symbol of his commitment to Mission Cove. It and his memory deserve to be respected.”
I wanted to laugh. Commitment? His memory?
Was she insane?
“We decided, in the best interest of all parties, not to allow the demolition.”
“I disagree. It’s my property and your decision is certainly not in my best interest. I want an audience with the council. As soon as possible.”
She clucked her tongue. “That won’t be possible for a while. We don’t meet for another month.”
Anger, red and hot, filled my chest. I stepped nearer to her desk, my tight fist resting on the wood as I leaned close. “Then I insist you call an emergency council meeting.”
Our eyes locked, furious blue meeting cold brown. “Step away from my desk, or I’ll call security. I don’t appreciate your intimidation tactics.”
Seething, I stepped back. “Call for an emergency council meeting,” I repeated, my voice cold, but calm.
“I’ll take that up with the mayor and get back to you.” She glanced around her desk. “I’m sure your number is here somewhere. A staff member will be in touch.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m doing what is in the best interest of the town, Mr. Webber.”
“And an empty, ramshackle building on top of the hill is in the best interest of the town? I’m not maintaining it.”
“Then it will be maintained and the bills sent to you.”
We were locked in a war of wills. One of the things I had learned was when to stay and fight and when to walk away. I had no idea what her motivation was behind this, but I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.
I turned and headed to the door. “My lawyer will be in touch.”
Her triumphant cackle followed me down the hall.
14
Linc
I parked at the country club a couple of miles outside Mission Cove. After I’d stormed out of the mayor’s office, I had paced the hallways trying to get my anger under control. At one point I stopped, leaning against a wall. I concentrated, counting between long inhales of air until I felt calmer. My ears perked up when I heard a conversation occurring in the office next to me.
“Another bill from Sandy Hooks,” a voice muttered. “I swear the mayor spends more time on the putting green than in his office.”
“Probably getting away from the dragon of a wife he’s got,” another voice replied.
I glanced out the window. It was sunny and warm—the perfect day for a game of golf. He and my father used to play a lot of golf, and obviously, things hadn’t changed. I headed to my car, making a call after I slid inside.
“Sandy Hooks Golf Club,” a voice answered.
“Yes, I’m calling from Mayor Tremont’s office. Has he already started his round?” I asked. “He left his cell in the office, and I wanted to bring it to him.”
“Oh yes, about twenty minutes ago. Would you like me to get a message to him?”
“No, thank you. I’ll handle it myself.” I hung up.
I had a message, all right.
I approached the small group, waiting patiently as they all teed off, then crossed the tee box to the mayor.
“Mayor Tremont.”
He turned, his face confused as he took me in. “Yes. How can I help you, son?”
I turned on the charm, recalling the mayor’s like of alcohol—any kind. I shook his hand. “Lincoln Webber.” From the blank look on his face, I knew he had had no idea who I was, or to whom I was related. “I’m sorry to bother you on a well-earned day on the course, sir, but I am in urgent need to speak to you. May I buy you a drink at the bar?” I indicated the outdoor roll cart, one of the many set up along the course.
He regarded me, then waved to his group. “Play on. I’ll take par on the holes I miss.”
The group all looked amused. “You never make par here.”
He glared. “Well, today, I did. One of my constituents needs to talk to me.”
They moved away. “Leave the cart,” he barked. “My knee is acting up.”
Lazy bastard. But I kept my smile in place. I needed to play this right. We strolled to the makeshift bar and placed our order, then sat on the bench located close. He took a long drink of his beer—probably not his first one of the day.
“Now, how can I help?”
I chose my words carefully. I didn’t know if the mayor had any idea of how my father had double-crossed him for all those years. My father played the game so well that he made sure the mayor shared some of the wealth, but the lion’s share went to my father. Always.
“My lawyer sent in the paperwork for approval on a house demolition. Somehow, the paperwork was lost,” I fibbed, deciding to play this a different way than accusing his wife of treachery. “I have all the other necessary permits but lack this one. I came to see you directly.” I had to pause before I uttered my next lie. “My father always told me to go directly to the source of power.” I clenched my fist so tight, my nails dug into my palm. “His praise for your take-charge handling of things was limitless.”
More like scathing contempt for what a spineless bastard you were, but potato-potahtoh, I added silently.
He frowned. “Webber isn’t a name I’m familiar with. Who was your father?”
I swallowed, barely able to push out the words. “Franklin Thomas.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You’re Frank’s son?”
“Yes.”
“Why the name change?”
I was prepared for his answer. “Out of respect, sir.”
Not for him, I thought silently.
“Ah, not riding on his coattails.”
I nodded, taking a sip of my water in order not to speak.
He stroked his chin. “I don’t recall seeing any paperwork come across my desk.”
I knew it. There had been no discussion. That cow of a wife of his must have hidden it. But why?
“It somehow has been lost in transit, I think.” I waved my hand. “It happens.”
“What are you planning on pulling down?”
“My father’s house.”
“Why?”
I waited for a moment to answer him, as if I was having trouble finding the words.
“I cannot bear to look at that house without him in it, sir.”
Because I wish he were alive so I could blow him up with it.
“What are your plans?”
“I’m working with my team to decide,” I lied smoothly. “Something benefiting the town.”
“Your team?”
“Webber Holdings Inc.”
His eyes widened. He had heard of my company. He knew the power I had. What I could do for him if I chose to do so. I could feel his mind racing—wondering how to leverage this for himself.
“I plan on spending more time and money here,” I murmured. “As long as things go according to plan. Otherwise, the house will sit, empty and abandoned.” I tsked. “An eyesore.”
“Why don’t you sell it?”
“No,” I snapped, then backpedaled as his eyes widened. “Too many memories.”
“Ah. I always wondered why you never joined your father’s company. He said you had other aspirations.”
He was digging. I held my temper in place and chose my words carefully.
“I couldn’t compete with his image,” I explained.
He grunted. “The master.”
I barely withheld my snort of derision. “Something like that.”
“Let me call my office.”
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to look abashed. “I was there, sir. I’m afraid your wife misunderstood me and thought I was threatening her. I was simply upset. Dealing with all this is very personal, as I’m sure you understand.”
He clapped his hand on my shoulder. “Of course. Your father was your idol. Let me make a call or two. That’s what we do, right? I scratch your
back, you scratch mine.”
“Of course,” I lied again. The only thing I planned on scratching was an item off my list.
Three hours later, I had my permit. I refused to leave until I knew it was complete. We moved inside to the clubhouse, and I spent three hours listening to the man drone on about my father. All the great things he’d done for the town. Then he went on about the way the town was prospering. “Business is up, rent is down, and the occupancy level is high everywhere,” he boasted. “Even better than when your father was around. We’re very solvent.”
He neglected to tell me it was due to the mysterious benefactor, instead making it sound as if it were his doing. I let him ramble, the alcohol he was imbibing loosening his tongue. There was no doubt who ran the show here—and it wasn’t him.
He tapped his head. “I’m constantly projecting expansion. I have more great things planned.”
I crossed my legs. “I would be interested in hearing them.”
He floundered, then waved his hand. “My group is coming. We’ll have to put that off for another day.”
“Uh-huh.”
The mayor’s golfing party reappeared, not seemingly put out he hadn’t rejoined them. I made sure to keep him plied with an endless supply of rye and water, followed by lunch. His wife had not been happy on the phone. I had heard her loud argument from where I sat on the bench, sipping a bottle of water. Not the actual words, but the tone of her voice was enough to let me know she was furious. Still, somehow, the paperwork was miraculously found and approved. When I received a message from Abby telling me she had the paperwork in hand, I was grateful I could leave. I’d had quite enough of the mayor, his wife, and his stories to last me a lifetime.
I stood and shook his hand. His eyes were clouded with all the alcohol, his words slurred. “Remember, you owe me,” he said, pointing his finger at me. “I’ll be in touch.”
“You do that.”
The Summer of Us (Mission Cove Book 1) Page 12
