“Why didn’t you tell me you’re heading here next?”
He sighs. “Was going to. Figured you’d have the hotel foundation wrapped up by now.”
I shift in my seat, stare out at the street where a family walks by holding fresh bread and paper cups of cider. “Still waiting on final zoning approval.”
A beat. Then, “That wasn’t supposed to be an issue. I told you to grease whoever needed greasing.”
“I did. Lockwood’s dragging his feet. Local politics are a mess. The demolition stirred people up and he’s afraid of losing votes.”
“Christ.” He curses again, louder. “We should’ve just gone with South Carolina. Or Vegas. This better be resolved soon,Julian. I’m not wasting more time or money chasing a dead town with pretty porches.”
“It’ll get done.”
“You said that a month ago.”
“I’m handling it,” I grit out.
“You better be.” His voice hardens. “Because if this drags much longer, we pull the plug. Walk. Find a town that knows how to play ball.”
I rub my eyes, fingers digging into my brow. “I’ll get it done.”
“You’ve got ten days.” He hangs up.
I stare at the phone for a long time. Ten days. Ten fucking days to fix this mess.
To put up with Lockwood. To survive this goddamn town.
To stop thinking about her.
Her laugh when she’s talking to Elias. Her smile when Noah carries her coffee through the door like he’s trying to win points.
The way she hums when bakes, how the smell of vanilla and warm sugar clings to her skin even hours after she’d left the kitchen.
I hate that she lingers like this. That even now, when my world is on fire, she still gets to live rent-free in my head. I dig the heel of my palm into my thigh and let the silence settle.
Then I turn the engine over and drive.
Not toward her.
Not today.
Two daysafter that phone call, I wake up to an email from my father. No greeting. Just a subject line:It was handled.
No body text. No details. Just those three words.
It’s not unusual. Alec Vance is a man of few explanations. When he says something’s handled, it usually is. The only issue is that “handled” can mean a dozen different things, most of them brutal.
I sit up slowly, scrolling the email again as if something new will appear. Nothing. I toss the phone onto the sheets and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
My jaw’s tight through the entire morning routine—shower, shave, suit. Black tie today. It’s the kind of morning that calls for armor.
I plan to head straight to Lockwood’s office, demand to know what kind of deal he and my father made in the shadows. I figure there’s been some payoff, some corner-cutting.
Maybe permits were forged. Maybe the final signatures were bullied through. Wouldn’t be the first time.
But I never make it to City Hall.
Not with the crowd that’s gathered downtown.
