Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
“Don’t apologize. There’s no need.”
“That’s up for debate, but fine. The fact is, I can definitely afford to go somewhere else if I wanted, but… I don’t. It’s comfy here. It’s away from the city, it’s pretty, and did I mention the bees?”
God help me, I almost smile.
Almost.
“Another two weeks here and I’ll have my life figured out,” she finishes. “I just need time. I swear, I won’t break anything.”
I can’t fucking help it, I raise an eyebrow.
She takes her lip and bites down, hard enough to turn the skin white.
“Fine,” she says. “I might not have everything figured out, but it’ll be a start. We can work from there.”
We? She says it so confidently, like in two weeks we’ll be best friends, hashing out how she’ll reclaim her life or some such shit.
Like she expects me to be involved.
I lean back in my seat next to her, grateful that she’s stopped doing that lip biting thing. The woman is too cute for her own good.
“Also,” she says in a wheedling voice, like she’s revealing the hidden Ace up her sleeve, “if you give me some peace and quiet, I’ve got connections that could boost your company’s profile.”
Bold claim.
Strangely, she says it with confidence, which is unusual for bullshit artists unless they’re really good at bluffing. For all I know, she might be.
I know next to nothing about this woman except for the fact that she came spinning in here in a wedding dress and she’s obsessed with bees.
Still, it’s an interesting claim. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t pique my interest.
“What connections?”
“I was a senate staffer for a while.” Her tone says she isn’t proud of it. “I left on good terms, mostly. I got to know the whole beltway crowd in DC while I was there, and those people are always traveling.”
“Senate staffer?” I blink in disbelief.
Her? Miss Bee Crazy worked for a US Senator?
“Don’t ask and I’ll tell you no lies.” She holds up a single finger. It’s perfectly manicured, though she’s gnawed at the skin around it. “Just trust me. These people, they would die for glamping places like this when they hit the road, even for work. I have no doubt they’d take my recommendation seriously.”
Damn her.
It’s like she’s tapped into what we’re really looking for. Higher Ends wants to expand beyond our Midwestern foothold, recent trouble with doing that in Minnesota aside. We’re always looking for places with affluent clientele and reasonable investment opportunities.
If she’s telling the truth, she has the demographic part down.
It’s like this aura around her.
Her special kind of crazy must be contagious.
Nothing to do with the fact that she might have a good reason for her madness and she just needs a break.
I don’t do breaks.
I don’t do soft.
I just do business.
“Okay,” I growl, pushing up from my seat. “You can stay for another two weeks at the agreed rate. I’ll inform my staff not to accept any calls from your father and your details will remain private, per company policy. Unless—” I hold up a finger. “Unless you give me a good reason to change my mind. Don’t do it.”
“Your policy is mine!” she says cheerfully.
I don’t smile, though the corner of my mouth twitches.
“Don’t push your luck, Winnie.”
She sobers up immediately, lifting her hair off the nape of her neck. I spy a constellation of small freckles there and look away.
“I’m only gonna push one time for this, but… can I get a closer look at the bees?” she asks.
“Are you allergic?”
“Would I ask to look at bees if I were, silly?” She sounds offended.
I snort. “Woman, I think I’ve got to check, seeing as they’re my bees on my land and the last thing I need right now is a lawsuit after you wind up getting stung thirty times. For now, leave the boxes alone.”
“Fine, Mr. Buzzkill.” She slides off her seat and twists around to face me just as I’m preparing to leave, elbows propped on the counter, watching me with hooded eyes. “For the record, I’m not allergic, and yes I know what I’m doing with bees. If I get stung, I won’t sue you.”
I almost crack a smile again. What the hell has she done to me?
“I’ll need that in writing.”
“…was that a joke?”
“Do I look like a comedian?” Fucking never. Except when chaotic redheads push back when I least expect it, maybe. “You can do whatever else you’d like while you’re here. Whatever floats your boat, if you waive all liability and you keep a safe distance.”
It’s obscene how much her face lights up at the thought. Her eyes turn from emerald to peridot, dancing at the thought of her damn bees.
I’ll never understand it.
“Thank you! Thank you so much,” she gushes as I head for the door. “Sorry for sucking up so much of your time. I know you’ve got a kid and probably a wife at home to get back to and oh, it’s the weekend, too…” Her voice trails off.