Page 11 of A Good Egg

Armed with this knowledge, I decided to refill my to-go coffee mug and grab a bite at Bayfront Beans, the same place I'd visited yesterday. As I approached, I spotted a familiar figure through the window—a flash of vibrant red hair bent over papers spread across a corner table. Maisie O'Malley, absorbed in what appeared to be floor plans or blueprints, a furrow of concentration between her brows.

An unexpected flutter of anticipation caught me off guard. I paused, considering whether to retreat and avoid another confrontation. The smart move would be to gather intelligence from a distance, not engage directly with the opposition.

But something about her focused intensity drew me forward. Before I could reconsider, I pushed open the door and approached her table.

"Ms. O'Malley," I greeted her. "Planning your counteroffensive?"

She looked up, surprise quickly replaced by wariness. Today she wore a simple green sweater that intensified the blue of her eyes, her hair pulled back in a loose braid with wayward strands escaping around her face. I tried not to notice her loveliness. That was beside the point.

"Mr. Westbrook," she replied coolly. "Funny, I thought birds like you preferred to circle from above, not approach their targets of prey directly."

I smirked but maintained my composure. "I prefer face-to-face negotiations. Less circling, more conversation."

"Is that what we're doing? Negotiating?" She closed the folder before I could get a better look at its contents. "Because from where I'm sitting, there's nothing to negotiate."

"There's always something," I countered, gesturing to the empty chair across from her. "May I?"

She hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. I sat down, noting the half-eaten muffin and nearly empty coffee mug at her elbow.

"Working through lunch?" I asked, genuinely curious.

A flicker of surprise crossed her features—perhaps she'd expected immediate pressure tactics rather than small talk.

"Some of us can't afford to waste time," she replied after a moment.

"Nor resources," I added meaningfully. "Speaking of which, I couldn't help overhearing some local chatter about your plans for the barn. A café, is it?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You've been asking questions about us."

"Information gathering is part of my job," I shrugged. "Just as defending your family's legacy seems to be part of yours."

"It's not just about legacy," she insisted, leaning forward slightly. "It's about sustainability, community, preserving farmland that's been responsibly managed for generations. But I don't expect someone in your line of work to understand that."

"You might be surprised," I replied, thinking of the sustainable development projects I'd championed at Sheffield & Associates—initiatives that unfortunately had been routinely overruled by Victor and the board in favor of maximum profit. "Not all development is destructive."

"Just the kind that paves over hundred-year-old farms without a backward glance?"

I felt an unexpected sting at her assumption. "Our proposal actually preserves significant green space and agricultural elements. It's not wall-to-wall concrete."

"How magnanimous." Her tone dripped sarcasm. "Leaving a few token apple trees while bulldozing the rest?"

The server approached before I could respond, saving us from further escalation. I ordered a Grande double macchiato and a sandwich, grateful for the interruption. When we were alone again, I decided to shift tactics.

"Tell me about your concept," I suggested, aiming for a neutral tone.

She raised an eyebrow. "Why? So you can explain why it won't work?"

"Professional curiosity," I said. "I've overseen several restaurant developments. It's an interesting business model."

She studied me warily, as if searching for the trap in my words. Finally, she sighed. "It's a simple concept. A café servingbreakfast and lunch using our own eggs, produce, and preserves. Honoring the agricultural heritage of the property while creating a sustainable revenue stream. I’m thinking of calling it The Little Red Hen."

"And you think this will generate enough income to address the mortgage situation?"

Her shoulders stiffened. "That's our business, not yours."

"It becomes my business when your financial stability affects the viability of my offer," I pointed out. "I'm not trying to be callous here. I'm trying to understand the full picture."

"The full picture is that we're not selling, regardless," she said firmly. "So you're wasting your time."

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