Chapter Nine
Liam
“That's fine,” I say. “Just have the contracts emailed over to me. I'll look them over and if it all looks good, I'll sign off and send them back.”
I'm sitting in front of the computer in my office, skyping with Ted Arnold, one of my project managers. We just acquired a large strip center in downtown Seattle and are in the planning stages of building a larger mixed-use structure with a row of shops on the bottom and high-end lofts above. It's a project that I feel pretty strongly about, and think will go over big.
“You know, this would all go a lot quicker and smoother if you were here in the office to look everything over,” Ted says.
I shrug. “I'm pretty sure the time it takes to shoot an email over to me isn't overly burdensome, Ted,” I say. “Last I checked, email moves pretty fast. Christ, it's not like I'm asking you to send it on the back of a mule.”
“I just don't understand what's going on with you lately. I don't get why you're working from home now rather than coming into the office,” he says and laughs. “I guess you prefer lounging around all day in your pajamas sipping cocktails? Finally given into that fat-cat, CEO lifestyle, have you?”
A surge of white-hot anger rushes through me as I stare at the man through the computer screen. Ted is a good guy and an excellent project manager. I know that he's joking with me, but I don't appreciate having my work ethic questioned. Not by Ted, not by anyone.
I do not want people within my company getting the idea that I've become lazy, and that in turn, it's okay for them to slack off and do the same. I work hard, and I expect my employees to work just as hard. I pay them very well to do just that. I don't want to be in the city for a while and I don't need to be there to run the company. And I don't feel the need to explain to anyone working for me why that is.
“I will come into the office when I need to be there,” I say. “And I don't need to justify myself or my work habits to you.”
“No, Liam, that's not –”
“I do not appreciate having my work ethic questioned,” I say, my voice growing colder with each syllable. “Furthermore, I am still very much involved with every detail of every project. I know everything that we are doing inside and out. Probably better than you, Ted. Nothing is overlooked, and everything is done in a timely manner.”
“I know, Liam,” Ted stammers. “I was just –”
“How I choose to run my company is up to me,” I cut him off again. “And it is not for you or any of my other employees to question that. If you do not like how I'm running my company, I'll be happy to provide you with a reference on your job search.”
“I apologize, Liam,” Ted says, sounding incredibly uncomfortable. “I didn't mean to offend you. It was a poor attempt at a joke. I'm sorry.”
“Have the contracts emailed to me,” I say and end the call.
I lean back in my seat and let out a long breath. Hemingway pads over and lays his head in my lap, so I scratch him behind his ears. I'm not all that angry with Ted. Like I said, I know he was joking with me, and ordinarily, I can take it. I like to keep things a little loose around the office and I'm fine with people having some fun. I don't believe the workplace needs to be a silent, solemn place where people spend eight hours a day, dreading each minute they're there.
I want my office environment to be a place that people can enjoy. Where they can have fun – within certain limits, of course. But, in my experience, people who enjoy their job, and enjoy their workplace, are far more productive and more likely to give you one hundred and ten percent.
So, no. I know that my anger at Ted was misdirected. I lashed out at him and I shouldn't have, and as a result, I feel like a bit of an ass. But, it's not like I can take it back now.
Hemingway looks up at me with his soulful eyes and gives me a wag of his tail. His presence comforts me and always calms me down. It's crazy and I know most people don't understand, but Hemingway helps restore the balance in my own mind and keeps me on an even level.
Usually, anyway.
I know my frustration and anger with Ted is a result of my encounter with the bookstore owner the other day. Paige Samuels. The way she lashed out at me had surprised me. The woman was rude, arrogant, and condescending. She was also presumptuous as hell and spoke as if she knew me – when in fact, she doesn’t know the first thing about me.
It's been a couple of days since that run-in, but it's still irritating me to no end. I know I should let it go. That, in the grand scheme of things, it means nothing. I shouldn't care what somebody like Paige Samuels thinks of me. She obviously has issues with people in my industry, but it has nothing to do with me.
I should let it go and move on. I know this. And yet, for some reason, I can't quite seem to do it. It's like a splinter that's stuck under my skin – a constant irritation.
I run a hand over the stubble on my chin and look down at my dog. I should probably shower and shave it all off. Though, going the other way and growing a full lumberjack beard is tempting as well.
“What do you think, buddy?” I ask Hemingway.
He licks my hand and whines but offers no other insight into the great facial hair debate. I reach into the jar on my desk and pull out one of Hemingway's treats.
“Sit,” I say and hold up the treat.
Hemingway immediately sits down, and his eyes light up at the prospect of a treat.
“Good boy,” I say.
I ruffle his ears again as I feed him his reward. There's a soft knock on my office door that causes me to look up.
“Come in,” I call.
The door opens and Janice, my house manager, peeks her head inside. Janice has been with me for a long time. She worked for me at the Seattle house, and when I told her what my plans were and offered her a glowing recommendation as well as a generous severance package, she declined. Instead, she volunteered to come here and continue working for me.
Janice is a little older – probably in her mid-forties or so. She's got blonde hair that I've never seen in anything but a polished bun and green eyes. She's only about five-foot-two, but the woman has a personality that's well over six-feet tall. She's incredibly effective, organized, and runs my house – everything from having my meals prepared, to making sure the housekeepers are doing their jobs, to making sure Hemingway keeps grooming appointments – with a brutal efficiency.
Employees like Janice are few and far between, and I know how fortunate I am to have her. She's been an absolute God-send and I honestly don't know how I'd function without her. She's my right-hand and I appreciate the hell out of her.
“Yes, what is it?” I ask.
“There's somebody at the front gate,” Janice says. “A woman. She says her name is Paige Samuels?”
Speak of the Devil and the Devil does appear, I think to myself. I'm pretty surprised that she has the nerve to show up here after the tongue-lashing she gave me. What in the hell could she possibly want? To take another crack at me?
“Show her in please, Janice,” I say. “I'll be on the back deck.”
“Very good, Mr. Anderson,” she says and disappears.
I stand up and stretch my back a bit before starting for the door to my office.
“C'mon, Hemingway,” I call over my shoulder.
My dog falls into step beside me as we pass through the house. I stop at the bar in the living room and grab a cold bottle of water from the refrigerator before continuing on toward the back deck. Pulling open the sliding glass door, I step outside and take a deep breath, relishing the scents of pine and ocean that are thick on the slight breeze.
The day is overcast and a bit on the gloomy side with a thick blanket of clouds covering the sky and obscuring the sun. Hemingway paces up and down the deck, holding his head high as he sniffs the air. He lets out a low whine and then barks as a fat squirrel scampers out onto a tree branch not too far from us and starts chittering, making a noise that sounds angry as hell. I half-expect it to raise its fist and start shaking it at us.
“Mr. Anderson,” Janice says. “Ms. Samuels is here to see you.”
“Thank you, Janice,” I say without turning around.
I hear her feet on the deck behind me, but I don't turn around. I stand there, overlooking the town of Port Safira down below me. With so much development going on down there, the town is beginning to sprawl a bit. It's growing quickly, there's no question about that.
Paige clears her throat behind me. “Mr. Anderson?”
I turn around and give her a smirk. “Sorry, just surveying my kingdom and all of the peasants in it,” I say. “Trying to decide which piece of your beloved town I want to carve up next since I'm such an evil son of a bitch.”
Color flares in her cheeks and she looks away for a moment. But she straightens up, looks me in the eye and holds my gaze. In that look, I can see the hidden core of steel in the woman before me. I can tell that she is not one who is easily intimidated or pushed around. She thrusts a bottle of wine out in front of her towards me.
“I brought a peace offering,” she says.
I look down at the bottle and am impressed by her selection. “Merlot is my favorite,” I say. “Opus One is a very fine winery.”
“It's for you,” she says. “As a way to say I'm – sorry – for going off on you like that the other day. It was unfair and uncalled for. I was out of line and I apologize, Mr. Anderson.”
I take the bottle from her and look at it for a moment and then turn my eyes up to her. I have to say I'm incredibly surprised by her apology. I can see the sincerity in her eyes – and I can see how difficult this is for her. Hell, it's difficult for anybody. Admitting that you jumped the gun and behaved badly isn't easy. And for being able to do that, I have to respect her.
“Please, call me Liam,” I say. “And thank you – for the apology and the wine. Both are very much appreciated.”
We stand there staring at each other in an awkward silence for a minute, neither of us sure what to say to each other. Thankfully, Hemingway intercedes and defuses the tension – at least, some of it – by stepping between us and leaning his head against her legs. His tail wags and he looks up at her with an expression of adoration on his face.
Paige kneels down and scratches him behind the ears, talking softly to him. Hemingway's entire body wags as he enjoys the scratches and attention.
“If he has his way, you'll be stuck there giving him attention all day,” I say.
“Oh, there are far worse ways to spend a day.”
As she loves on my dog, I start to see Paige in a different light. At least, a little bit. The other day, when she was in my face yelling at me, I didn’t get a chance to notice her. But now I can see that she's an attractive woman. A very attractive woman, if I’m being honest.
Her smooth, alabaster skin looks soft to the touch and is a stark, striking, contrast to the midnight black of her hair. Her eyes are dark and bottomless – the kind of eyes that you can lose yourself in if you're not careful. She's got generous curves, beautiful hips, and full breasts. Judging by a body that looks firm and toned beneath her clothing, I'd guess that she was an athlete at some point in her life.
Paige Samuels looks like a woman who takes care of herself but doesn't seem to be obsessive about it. She's fit but doesn't look like somebody who's in the gym twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. She seems real. More down-to-earth.
She really is a knockout and the polar opposite of Brittany – which can only be a good thing. I wouldn’t say she’s the kind of woman I'd usually date, but I honestly don't know who I should date anymore. I was with Brittany for so many years – well, at least, it felt that way – and now that I'm not, now that I'm a free agent, so to speak, I don't even know what sort of woman draws my interest anymore.
Not that I should really be thinking about that.
I tear my eyes away from the raven-haired woman and look down at the town again, collecting my thoughts. I'm not currently looking for somebody to date, so sizing Paige up against my preferred dating profile – or lack thereof, actually – is pointless. Right now, I need to focus on my company and getting my own head right.
The absolute last thing I need at the moment is a romantic entanglement. In my current state, I know that I am not good for anybody and any sort of relationship I found myself in wouldn't end well. And that is something I'd like to avoid.
“Would you like some coffee?” I ask.
She stares at me for a beat and then gives me a small smile. “Sure,” she says. “That sounds great.”