TYLER

“I need more time.”

“We thought we’d have a decision a week ago,” Fletcher says. “What’s there to think about?”

“There are options.” I lean across the conference room table and meet his gaze straight on. “We don’t have to build a hotel in town. The airport’s an hour away; what about putting something near there?”

“Been done before.”

“Because it fucking works.” I straighten and move myself to stand in front of the window with my back to Fletcher so he can’t read my face. “Who flies into this shithole and wants to drive an hour to find someplace to stay for the night? A little express hotel near the airport would be in high demand.”

“I don’t think so.” Fletcher’s intent on busting my balls today. “What sort of person flies into this shithole at all? Nobody. Not unless they’re wanting to stay for awhile. It’s not exactly layover central.”

“Then let’s consider building an apartment complex. Or long-term stay facilities,” I offer. “For people like me, stuck here on business.”

“You’re the rare case.” Fletcher’s voice raises in annoyance. “I thought you’d have figured that out. What about the cute little family who wants to get out of the city and stay for a weekend? Where are they going to stay? That little shack where we had to put you up?”

“It’s not a shack,” I mumble, and then catch myself. “It’s not so bad.”

“If it’s not so bad,” Fletcher says, “then why’d you suggest we look here in the first place?”

“I didn’t suggest it,” I remind him. “The analysts found a gap in the market.”

“So fucking fill it,” Fletcher says. “That’s what you do.”

I spin around on my heel and rest my knuckles back on the table. “My company, my rules. I don’t want to build an inn in town, we don’t do it.”

“But—”

“It’s my company.”

“There’s a board of directors.” Fletcher raises his hands. “That’s why I’m here. You asked me to be honest with you. I’m not going to bullshit you, and I think you’re making a huge mistake.”

“Let me make a mistake.”

“Then why am I here?”

Fletcher is my right-hand man, that’s why. I don’t have to spell that out for us to both know it’s true. Without him, my company wouldn’t be where it is today. He’s one of the best lawyers in the business, shrewd and quick, ruthless and loyal. He’s never let me down, nor I him.

“Look, I’ll think about it.” I ease up on him. “You’re right; we came here for a reason. Give me some more time.”

“Why do you need it?” Fletcher stands, snapping shut his briefcase. He’s a lanky guy, sharply dressed because I pay him through the nose. “Something’s going on here, and I don’t like it. What’s gotten into you?”

I rest my hand against my forehead. I’m resistant to cancel the project entirely for several reasons. The first being that I’d no longer have a reason to camp out here, scouting the area, supervising construction, maintaining that hands-on leadership I claim to have. I’d also head back to New York, away from Margaret. I’m not ready for any of that.

Second, there’s a definite business opportunity here. If I don’t snatch it up, surely someone else will. The only reason I’d pointed the analysts to this marketplace gap is because my roots are here. I know this town, I know the people, and I know what they want. I can bring down the competition with my eyes closed.

Which brings me to my last point. Margaret.

If I stomp around here, marching my corporate boots all over Harp’s Haven, it’ll hurt the Lilac Inn, and it’ll hurt them badly. It’ll make things rough for their inn, and if it shut them down, I’m not sure Maggie Marshall would ever forgive me again.

“Believe me,” I mutter. “I didn’t expect things to be this difficult.”

“Well? What the hell is it?” Fletcher watches, his shrewd eyes focused on me.

A lie will get me nowhere. “I don’t know, yet.”

“Well, I can advise you wholeheartedly that you’re wasting a shitload of time and money,” Fletcher says. “Make your decision by the end of the month. November first, we should either be organizing contracts or you should have your ass back in New York where it belongs.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I thought you hired me to tell you like it is.” Fletcher steps around the table and marches right up to me, completely unafraid. “You like my no bullshit policy, which is why I’m not so sure you’re fighting me for all the right reasons. Think about it, Daniels. Have I steered you wrong?”

My fists are clenched by my sides, but he has a point. There’s a very good reason Fletcher’s not intimidated by my mood, and it’s because he’s right. He’s right across the board, and if the situation were reversed, I’d be saying the same things to him.

I don’t make decisions with my heart, my hormones, or anything else—I make them by the book. I look at numbers, and I get the most from my money. The bottom line has driven me for years, ever since I took the first maintenance job in that crappy old apartment complex. It’s not about to stop now.

“November first,” I say in a gravelly voice. “Fine.”

“Whatever shit you’ve got going on here,” Fletcher says, turning toward the door. “Get it out of your system, and fast. I’ll talk to you tomorrow; I have a plane to catch.”

Without a backward glance, Fletcher storms out of the conference room I’ve rented at the town library. Apparently, this is the only place in Harp’s Haven where one can have a private meeting. Supposedly, the Lilac Inn has some sort of cozy meeting room as well, but something about holding a meeting there while my lawyer and I plotted the demise of that very inn felt sacrilegious.

A major discomfort settles in my gut once the room is empty.

The thought has been gnawing at me for the last few weeks. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be a good answer to my solution. I have been racking my brain since the day I laid eyes on Margaret Marshall, and I’m still at a loss.

I was supposed to live here for a year. That’d always been the plan. I like being hands on with my businesses: scouting locations, managing contractors, watching a construction go from blueprint to operational. Fletcher has never understood that about me; he says I’ve worked hard enough to get to the top, let the grunts do the work.

I tell him it’s in my blood. I built this company with my hands from the ground up. Little maintenance tasks at that first crap apartment complex until I saved enough money to rent it, then buy it. Then fix it up myself and flip it into the hottest retro apartment complex in my corner of New York.

It’s the way I got through those early years of Jessica’s life—I had a small baby counting on me and no wife to care for her. Nobody by my side as I struggled to get a foothold in a brutal city. The only thing constant in my life had been work.

Building, bringing new life to ghosted spaces, turning dilapidated creations into a new shade of their former glory—there is something incredibly fulfilling about seeing new renters settle into their unique space and make it their home.

This is the reason I need to keep one hand in my business at all times. I always do some part of the work myself: help pour concrete, paint walls, put in cabinets—whatever it is, there’s a desperate need for me to leave a piece of myself in these buildings.

Fletcher doesn’t understand it, but he’s accepted it. What he can’t understand is why I’m dragging my feet on a decision. It should be easy. I plant myself someplace new, identify the market need, and get my ass to work.

This waiting around business, debating what to do next—it’s not like me. Fletcher’s right. The need here is a family friendly hotel with all the amenities that Lilac Inn is too small to provide. We don’t need the frills—the lavender towels and popcorn night—we need child care, organized outings, a draw for tourists. We need a luxury resort at affordable prices that’ll blow Lilac Inn right out of the water.

But the longer I stay here, the more I’m unsure of my business choices. Turns out, I like my stupid lavender towel. The coffee and food here is insanely amazing. Better than any pre-prepared shit that we’d serve at a more efficient space. The level of service here might not be considered polite and professional, but it’s intimate and friendly.

How do we compete with that? I pack up my things and stomp toward the door of the library. Maybe I should just build the fucking thing. We’re all adults here, and it’s just business. As a self-proclaimed businesswoman, Margaret should understand.

So far, I’ve avoided the whole what do you do for work conversation with her, brushing it off with an easy answer: I buy things. She seems to understand I don’t want to talk about it, and in true Maggie style, she respects my choice.

I just don’t respect my own choice. The longer I let this linger, the worse the chasm will be when I finally yank the Band-Aid off and come clean to Maggie. There’s no way she’ll take kindly to competition on her home turf, and I’m not ballsy enough to rock the boat yet. Therefore, I avoid the problem.

“How was everything?” the librarian chirps as I storm through the main floor. “Did the conference room fit your business needs?”

“It’s fine,” I mumble, forcing myself to slow down and pause. “Do I owe you anything for it?”

“Owe us? Money? Oh, no.” She laughs. “Services here are free.”

“Thanks,” I say again, stomping out the door.

Maybe if someone here acted like a prick, it would make things easier. Unfortunately, it feels like everyone’s bound and determined to act so pleasant and friendly I feel like a permanent asshole.

This town is making it hard for me to leave, and harder for me to stay.