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“No need,” she replies, her tone icy. “The answer is the same.” For a moment, I’m baffled. Yes, I’ve seen her assertive side, but this coldness is on a whole other level. While Jess argues, and damn, argue she does, she usually maintains a touch of playfulness. Here, there’s exactly zero of that.
“I’ll see you at the charity auction in two weeks.” He looks from me to her then back at me.
“Of course.” I nod. “As is the tradition every year.”
“Bye, Jessie.” He faces me. “Mr. Blackwood.”
“Have a good day, Mr. Rutherford,” I say.
He gives me a curt nod and heads out.
My happy mood isn’t an act. I’m ecstatic that my competitor bit the dust. The match is 1:1. Clearly, I won this one—the easiest win I’ve ever achieved. Somehow, the most amusing too.
As soon as he’s gone, Jess quickly shuts the door and turns to me. “I’m so sorry, Sean. He surprised me, and this was the only way to make him understand that I’m not interested. And never will be. Thanks for playing along.”
Not interested in…what? Selling the hotel? Dating him?
“You’re welcome. Any time. How do you know him?” I ask.
“We were engaged at one point, and it didn’t end well,” she says curtly. “It’s not my favorite conversational topic.”
Talk about a plot twist. That, I didn’t see coming.
At least the whole fake fiancé thing makes sense now. There seems to be a pattern in her picking her fiancés. Slowly, the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place. He is the “missed wedding” she referred to, the rebound, the reason she found herself drowning her sorrows at Swayze’s.
“Did he make you an offer for the hotel?” I ask, getting down to the interesting part.
She shifts away uncomfortably. “He did.”
“How much did he offer you?”
She turns. “A lot.”
I remain standing where I am, watching her walk to her desk. “How much?” I press.
She shrugs, indicating this conversation is done, that she’s ready to get back to her duties. When I don’t make a move, she looks back up. “Not enough. It’s not important. Also, none of your business. I’m not selling to him.”
“Well, good. You shouldn’t.”
I’m relieved, even if not calmed. “Not enough” won’t deter a man like Richard Rutherford. Somehow, he’s caught wind of the chain’s immense potential and expressed interest, most likely upon learning of Norman Whitman’s retirement. I doubt that was his final play. My presence won’t dissuade him—if anything, it will embolden him. Like the shark he is, he has detected blood, and individuals like him thrive on challenging deals.
I must stay vigilant. Unlike me, he doesn’t have a board to answer to.
“You should have called security on him,” I joke (not really).
“Right?” She smiles, unbuttoning her jacket. “I should have. Next time, I will.”
“Be right back.” Snapping my gaze away from her curves, I walk to my office, grab her coffee and head back.
When I return, she’s already sitting at her computer, quietly getting into her morning duties. It’s the first time I’ve had a moment to take in her office. It’s cozy, not the typical hotel manager setup like Norman’s, with two plush armchairs decked with green pillows. The walls are painted in soft greenish tones. The heavy pine desk bears traces of its previous life, and is covered with a jumble of documents and folders. My eyes land on a photo of her standing between her folks, in front of what seems to be the family hotel in a woodland area, with two Great Danes playing around. It’s impossible to overlook the striking resemblance between Jess and her mother, although her mom sports glasses, and short brown hair with numerous grays. Standing firm, her father wields a quiet authority and a noticeable robust physique.
I place the French vanilla on her desk, and she looks at me with surprise. “What’s this?”
“I thought it was obvious.”
She looks amused by my response and lets out a chuckle. “I know what it is. I meant why did you get me coffee?”
“A fiancé can’t get his fiancée a drink?”
