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“Don’t sound so surprised. I’ve already contacted the event planner who’s in charge of the gala. Here are the confirmed attendees and sponsors so far. You’ll notice it includes the entirety of the town council. We’ll have two hundred people in attendance. They’re planning on building a small stage right there” —I pointed to the small recess across from the ticket booth— “which is where we’ll make our speeches.”
“New carpets, paint, and a refurb of the chandelier,” he read off my notes. “Along with the marquee and exterior paintwork. New, period-appropriate sconces for the walls, and a deep clean of all areas that will be used for the gala.”
“If we add Rex’s requirements, I think we can turn this around within four weeks. The event planners need two full days to set up before the gala.”
Anderson leaned over to pluck a sheet of paper from my notes, and his shoulder brushed mine. Seated as we were on the stairs, I could feel the heat of his body all down my side. “A quote for the carpet,” he said, brows arched. He rested his elbows on his thighs to hold the sheet of paper between his spread knees, causing his thigh to press against mine. “You’re very efficient, Reeves.”
There was a note in his voice that almost sounded like admiration, and I hated how much it made me want to preen. When he wasn’t being an insufferable ass, he wasn’t the worst person in the world to be around. “I got that quote just over a year ago, so we’ll need to contact them to find out if it’s still valid,” I said, leaning over to point at the date at the top of the sheet.
“You did?” He turned toward me, surprised, and his lips nearly brushed mine when he did. Time stopped. We sat there, frozen, with me reaching over him and his lips just a couple of inches from mine, in the silence of the empty theater.
For a moment—an instant, really—I thought Sebastian Anderson was about to kiss me. His gaze flicked down to my lips, and a puff of breath left his mouth. I felt the warmth of it skate across my skin and resisted the urge to lick my lips.
The last thing I wanted to do was kiss him—but it still took me far too long to pull away.
I made a mental note to have someone check this place for black mold. My brain wasn’t working right.
“Yeah, your grandmother’s lawyer contacted me, actually. She was wondering about the cost of restoring this place.” I shuffled my papers, ignoring the pounding of my pulse and the heat snaking low in my belly.
Anderson cleared his throat. “Right, yeah.” He spun to look at me again. “Wait, what? My grandmother wanted to restore this place?”
I glanced over to see the scowl to end all scowls on his brow. I snorted. “Maybe she just wanted to get a cost estimate to see if it was worth it. Maybe being a mercenary runs in the family.”
The sharp words had the intended effect: the weird energy between us popped like a soap bubble, and the property mogul beside me was back to being the remote, arrogant man I knew him to be.
“You’re right. I am a mercenary. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m right about this place. You think a simple spit and shine will bring this pile of junk back to its former glory, but you’re wrong, and everyone will be able to see that you’re wrong when this gala happens. Soon this place will be ushered into the twenty-first century.”
“And then you’ll leave and never come back once your pockets are lined to your liking.”
“That’s the way of the world, sweetheart.” He grinned at me and slapped his hands on his thighs. “On that note, I’ve got a meeting with a local demolition contractor. You’re not the only one soliciting people for quotes.”
I gritted my teeth, and he smiled at my reaction.
We walked out of the lobby into the sunshine outside. I watched him lock the place up before he flashed me a smile and gave me a little salute, then sauntered over to his sleek Maserati. He’d parked right beside Ted, and my twenty-five-year-old car looked sad and forlorn next to his vehicle. As his engine roared to life, I wondered if I even had the slightest chance of winning against him.
I had a horrible, sinking feeling that I didn’t. A new coat of paint and a polished chandelier might not be enough to convince people to pour millions of dollars into making our town everything it could be. Maybe people would look around at the old building and decide that they really did want a giant hotel—and all the tourist dollars that such an establishment would bring. The sun’s rays soaked into my skin as Anderson’s engine faded in the distance, and I wondered if all my efforts would be in vain.
Heart heavy, I did the only thing I could: I pointed my feet in the direction of Cardinal Spring Road. Sophie’s treats were calling to me, and it was late enough that she’d probably have time to listen to me complain about the man who seemed intent on ruining everything I loved.
TWELVE
ABIGAIL
These days, it felt like I was living the same day over and over again. I woke up to my alarm at seven. Got to Magnolia Café by eight for my hazelnut latte and bagel breakfast sandwich. Arrived at my office before nearly anyone else so I could work in peace. Walked across the street to Sullivan’s at noon to pick up my chicken garden salad and raspberry sweet tea. Ate at my desk, or got really wild and sat at the end of the bar to scarf the food down. Then spent the rest of the afternoon tending to home buyers and sellers and praying for new contracts and effortless closings. By six thirty, I walked into my own empty house, scrounged around the fridge, and fell asleep on the sofa watching TV while nursing a glass of Pinot Grigio.
It was so damn boring.
No wonder I’d been so enthralled with Charlie’s butt-splinter fiasco. She thought she was in the middle of her worst nightmare with her troublemaking neighbor turned theater-restoration partner. But at least her life was getting interesting. At least she had something to share with all of us at Hooker’s Paradise.
I glanced at my desk clock—12:01 p.m. Well, would you look at that? It was time to pick up my lunch. I grabbed my black leather tote—the one large enough to carry my laptop and my latest crochet project, not that I ever ended up working on it in the middle of the workday. But it was like my mama always said: idle hands are the devil’s workshop, so you should always keep them busy. I stepped outside and took in a deep breath of the fresh, warm air. Perhaps spring would bring with it something exciting.
“Ah-choo!” I sneezed.
Never mind. The only thing spring brought was pollen dust that settled on everything and turned the cars yellow.
Chatter filled the dining room up to the wood-beamed ceilings at Sullivan’s as I made my way to the bar. Sunlight streamed in through the wide windows on the corner eatery, and my heels clacked along the herringbone-patterned flooring. Two men sat at my usual spot at the bar, and I recognized one of them—Patrick Beaman, who ran a financial services business and served on the city council. He sent me a brief smile and quickly returned his attention to the other gentleman in my seat.
I took the stool next to him and grabbed the bartender’s attention. “Hey, Gabe!”
