Accidentally Married, page 32
“Smartass,” I say. “I know you have something to say, so out with it.”
“Well, if you insist,” she says.
“I don't really,” I reply. “But, I know that at some point, you're going to say it anyway. Might as well be now.”
“Well, just imagine this guy's surprise,” she says. “He's just out walking his dog –”
“I doubt it,” I reply. “He was sitting on a log up by Rodham's Field. You know that place that overlooks the whole town?”
“Yeah, I'm very familiar with Rodham's Field,” she says and giggles. “I've spent plenty of hot nights under the stars there.”
“Of course, you have,” I say.
As she sits there preening, I can't stop the grin that crosses my face. Skyler is a woman who enjoys her conquests but enjoys bragging about them too. She might enjoy bragging about them even more than the actual conquests themselves.
“Anyway,” I continue, “the way he was sitting there looking at the town – I could imagine how he was carving it up in his head. Putting together a list of locations to buy so he could demolish them and put up another damn Starbucks or something.”
“I hate to say it, but I think you're making a lot of assumptions, hon,” she says. “You came at him pretty strong and maybe, given that you don't actually know his intentions, you read him the riot act for no reason.”
“Yeah, that's exactly what he said,” I reply. “But, what else was he going to say when I caught him in the act?”
“The act of what exactly?” Skyler asks. “Sitting up at Rodham's Field, enjoying the fresh air and the view?”
“I doubt that's what he was doing,” I say. “Those damn vultures don't enjoy views. They figure out the best way to put up big, tall buildings that will obstruct the view.”
Skyler is looking at me, a small, sly grin forming at the corners of her mouth. “This man has really gotten under your skin.”
“Hardly,” I say. “And not in the way you're meaning.”
“No?”
“No,” I say. “I just don't like his kind.”
“And what kind is that, Paige?”
“Opportunistic profiteers,” I say.
She shrugs. “Sadly, that's business,” she says. “All businesses. Everybody's doing what they do to make money. Otherwise, why do it to begin with? Am I a horrible person for wanting to make money down at the Grill?”
“That's different,” I say. “You're not forcing people out of their homes and businesses.”
“To be perfectly fair, and to play Devil's Advocate, of course,” she says, “from what I understand, nobody is being forced to do anything. The developers are coming in and are making more than fair offers for people's houses and businesses. Everyone is choosing to take the money and run.”
I stare at her, my eyes wide and my jaw agape for a long moment, not believing what I'm hearing.
“I can't believe you're taking his side in this,” I say.
“Honey, I'm not taking anybody's side,” I say. “I'm just explaining how the business works.”
“Were you made an offer for the Grill?”
“You bet your sweet ass I got an offer,” she said. “A really fat one too.”
“So, why didn't you take it?”
She shrugs. “Because I'm betting on myself,” she says. “Port Safira is changing, hon, and there's nothing we can do to stop it. They're bound and determined to turn it from a blue-collar town to a more affluent place. And I believe they're going to get there. We're already seeing it.”
“I know,” I say and let out a long breath.
“By turning down their offer,” she says. “I'm gambling that I'm going to make more money from the hipsters and the yuppies moving here than I would have gotten from the developers buying my place out. I'm betting on me because I think my place will make a lot of cash and let me retire early – while I'm still young enough to get my tight ass down to the Caribbean and find myself some hot island man to enjoy.”
I laugh and shake my head. That's my Skyler, always thinking with her lady bits. I understand what she's saying, and I know it makes sense. I know we can't stop the wheels of “progress” now that they have started turning. And on some level, I know I'm probably too attached to a town that just a few short years ago, I wasn't sure I even wanted to live in.
But, Port Safira is my home. It always will be. To see everything that I love about the place being ground under the wheels of “progress” just feels like a kick in the gut. It hits me really hard in ways I can't even begin to understand. Seeing my hometown changing so radically, becoming something I don't recognize, is affecting me on a deep level. And, to be honest – I'm not entirely sure why.
“You know you're the first person to actually ever see Gatsby, right?” Skyler asks.
I laugh softly. “His name is Liam Anderson.”
“Details, details. Gatsby is a little flashier,” she says. “Adds an air of mystery about the guy.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she says. “So, what's he like?”
I arch my eyebrow at her. “You really want me to go into that whole diatribe again?”
She chuckles. “Not really,” she says. “But that’s also not what I meant. What does he look like?”
“Google his name.”
“Just tell me.”
I let out a long breath. “I don't know, he's a little over six feet tall,” I say. “Dirty blond hair, really light blue eyes. He's big. Fit. Looks like he played football or something. He's got dimples when he smiles and has that stylish scruff on his chin –”
Skyler is smiling wide and I don't know why, but I stop talking because I get the feeling that I just walked into some sort of a trap. A moment of awkward silence hangs between us while Skyler looks like she’s trying to hold in a laugh so badly she’s about to burst.
“What?” I finally ask.
“And you say Gatsby didn't get under your skin,” she giggles. “Sounds to me like you've got a bit of a crush.”
“Oh, shut it,” I say. “I do not. You're off your rocker.”
She shrugs. “Normally, in my own experience, if somebody just pisses you off, if their very presence and existence bothers you, a person doesn’t notice details like cute dimples or stylish scruff.”
She's laughing, and I feel the heat flooding into my cheeks. I can't deny that Liam Anderson is a handsome man. He's ruggedly good looking. I wouldn't say otherwise. But, that's hardly the point. It's what he stands for and what he does that bothers me. It bothers me down to my very core.
“You're really reaching, Sky.”
Her grin only widens. “Am I?”
“Yes, you are,” I say. “Like, a lot.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Fine,” she says, still grinning. “No need to be so defensive and worked up about it.”
“I am not –”
I close my mouth and look at her, trying to stifle the laughter that's begging to burst out of me. The last thing I want to do is encourage her. A moment goes by though, and I can't contain it any longer. The laughter erupts from my throat and all I can do is roll with it. Well, that, and give her the finger, which I do.
“Fine,” I say when my fit of laughter finally subsides. “He's a good-looking man. Happy?”
“Not nearly as happy as I'll be when you bed him.”
“Skyler!” I gasp. “That's so not happening.”
She shrugs again. “Okay,” she says. “But, maybe if he's as good looking as you say he is, I'll give him a go myself.”
“You do that,” I say. “Have at him. He's all yours.”
“I just might.”
“I think you should.”
Skyler laughs and jumps off the stool. “I have to get back to the Grill,” she says. “I'll leave you to your daydreams about Mr. Gatsby. And just so you know, if your little fantasies get to be too much, call Marcia. She can hook you up with some amazing vibrators.”
“Get out,” I say, through another burst of laughter. “Go back to work and get out of my shop.”
She heads for the door, blowing a kiss over her shoulder to me. “Love you, girl.”
“Love you too,” I call back. “Thank you for lunch.”
“Anytime, hon.”
The bell over the door tinkles and like that, she's gone. I watch her head up the street toward her restaurant, her long, lustrous hair swaying as she walks. As I stand at the front windows, I feel my eyes moving of their own accord. Knowing where they're headed, I try to stop them, but can't quite seem to make it happen.
My gaze settles on Sapphire Hill in the distance and the house that sits upon it. Liam Anderson, or Mr. Gatsby, is in that house. I think back to my exchange with him. Maybe Sky is right, and I came at him too strong. Maybe, I read the situation all wrong. Maybe, he was just a convenient target for me to unleash all my bottled-up frustration and anger on.
All of that is possible, of course. I'm a big enough person to know that I make mistakes. He hasn't come around to the store, trying to get me to sell to him. And I guess, if I'm being completely honest with myself, the fact that Mayor Goodrich hasn't brought him around to try and strong-arm me into selling should tell me that I might be wrong about the situation.
Maybe, it's like I said to Skyler before – he's just a guy that wants some privacy and quiet.
I sigh and tug on the ends of my dark hair. The more I think about it, the more I start to think that I was in the wrong up on that trail. That I shouldn't have jumped to the conclusions I did without knowing his story. Not that I'm all that interested in hearing his story. But, still. He probably didn't deserve the tirade I unleashed on him.
I guess I'm going to have to suck it up and apologize.
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.
