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And it’s not until he’s out the door that I realize a few things.
One, I never told him how many hours I’d need him.
Two, I never told him how much I’m able to pay an hour.
Three, I don’t have any employee details.
Four, he never gave me a resume.
I slump down against the counter. Chances are, he was nothing more than the figment of a lonely imagination. Not that I’m lonely, but it’s been a while, so my imagination is definitely lonely. And if he is real, he probably won’t be back.
Still, I can’t worry about that until tomorrow. Because I’ve a whole day to face, and, as the bell dings behind me, that includes a pile of bills and warding off the vile evil Sinclair empire.
I can’t wait.
Chapter Three
Magnus
Jesus fucking Christ, that woman is something. Bleeding heart, soft as marshmallow, a total pushover. She didn’t even ask for a resume. She gave me some sugar-laden treat, and a coffee.
How the hell my people didn’t get her to sign the building the moment they met her is a mystery. I need to spend a few days with her at the least, to see the best way to get her to sign it over.
Fuck me offering her buckets of money.
She can pay market price. That’s the punishment for getting me hands on level involved in this. I’m going to have to spend time with her. And all her sugar. By that, I don’t mean those cookies and whatever the fuck else she bakes. No, I’m talking her.
Zoey Smith also has a stubborn streak fueled by a Do the Right Thing vibe.
I can get her. I know it. It’s just going to take a while. I tap my pen against the pad on my desk as I stare out at the night line of Manhattan.
Okay, I’ll give her a little more when she finally signs, on account she’s so fucking naïve it actually hurts my black heart. The building is worth less than what it was bought for. I’m not sure how up to code it is, either. And her selling food has gotta be a violation. Especially the homemade variety. I’d thought it was the prepackaged shit, which is another reason why I didn’t look into it.
No one mentioned she was doing that to me, baking shit herself. No doubt on premises as she lives there. And no one mentioned the state of the old place. I had a good idea. The entire block is worth nothing more than the potential of the ground it sits on. But with her there, it means I can’t do a fucking thing.
One reason I haven’t pushed for a harder attack with law is the off chance of it being tied up in court. She can’t afford it, but bleeding hearts abound, and some sucker’s no doubt going to want to shine up their shingle by good deeding her case. If it went there.
Of course, I can quietly call in the health department, but first I want a look at the setup. And often with the health department they want a payout. It all depends on who you get. I don’t normally have to go to this level, so I’m not up to speed. I come in. I lay down money. People give me what I want.
This is different. I feel it. Because she’s soft and stubborn and has fucking beliefs. Honestly, it’s disgusting.
I’m getting off track.
I’ve already made some calls to my people. I want them to keep up the pressure, but not to up the ante.
“You’re plotting.”
I look up. Ryder’s there. I totally forgot we were planning on grabbing a bite as he wanted to talk about the goddamn stupid Sinclair inheritance with me.
“I’ve got a problem I need to solve.”
“Stomp it down like usual.”
“I’m figuring the best way. She—”
“Hot?” He’s suddenly sprawled in a chair in front of my desk looking all sorts of interested. “Stacked hot? Long legged? Blonde?”
“Short, compact, dark-haired, and a bad case of bleeding heart syndrome.”
