Page 4 of A Good Egg

My Audi purred down the coastal highway, the GPS announcing I was fifteen minutes from my destination—some backwater called Starlight Bay. The late March sky stretched endlessly blue above, mocking my foul mood with its cheerfulness. I tapped the steering wheel impatiently as my boss's voice droned through the car speakers.

"Westbrook, this O'Malley acquisition is non-negotiable," Victor Sheffield's clipped tone filled the car's interior. "We've already lined up investors for the Cape Cod Luxury Timeshare expansion. The architectural plans are approved. The marketing team is chomping at the bit."

"I understand," I replied, keeping my voice level. "But the preliminary reports show the owner isn't interested in selling."

"Everyone has a price." Victor's dismissive snort crackled through the connection. "Find hers. That's what we pay you for."

I glanced at the digital display showing my boss's number. Victor Sheffield III—Yale legacy, corner office at Sheffield & Associates Development, and the man who'd plucked me from obscurity five years ago with the promise of partnership if I proved myself. This O'Malley deal would be my final test.

"The property is in foreclosure proceedings," I reminded him. "We could wait for the bank—"

"Waiting costs money. Every day this property sits undeveloped is a day we're not making returns for our investors." His voice sharpened. "Besides, fighting foreclosure could take months, even years. Find her weakness, Westbrook. Make the deal happen."

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I want daily updates. I expect this wrapped up by Easter.”

The call ended, leaving me alone with my thoughts as the GPS directed me to take the next exit. Victor's expectations weighed heavily on my shoulders, not that I'd ever let him see it. I'd built my reputation on being unflappable, on never letting emotion cloud a business decision.

The memory of my parents' divorce surfaced unbidden—my father storming out of the courtroom after my mother's attorney had eviscerated him, stripping him of his dignity along with half his assets. "Remember this, Logan," he'd told me afterward, his voice bitter with defeat. "Everything in this world is negotiable. Even love has its price."

Twenty years later, I'd built my career on that cynical foundation. I'd learned to see value where others saw sentiment, opportunity where others saw tradition. It had served me well so far.

The GPS guided me onto a narrow two-lane road lined with budding trees. My preconceptions of Starlight Bay—peeling paint, boarded-up storefronts, and economic desperation—dissolved as I cruised down Main Street. Contrary to my expectations, the small town possessed an undeniable charm. Quaint shops with freshly painted facades lined the street. Asmall park at the center of town bustled with activity as workers hung pastel Easter decorations from lamp posts. A banner stretched across the street announced an upcoming Easter Egg Hunt and Spring Festival.

I pulled into a parking space in front of what appeared to be a local coffee house—Bayfront Beans, according to the cheerful sign. I needed coffee and information, preferably in that order.

The bell above the door jingled as I entered, and several heads turned to assess the newcomer. I felt immediately conspicuous in my tailored charcoal suit and Italian leather shoes. The locals—mostly dressed in casual wear and denim—returned to their conversations after a moment, but I could feel their curious glances.

"What can I get you?" asked the middle-aged woman behind the counter, her smile pleasant but reserved.

"Coffee, black. And a local recommendation, if you have one." I flashed the smile that had closed countless deals. "I'm looking for accommodations. Somewhere nice, preferably with a view."

"In Starlight Bay?" She raised an eyebrow as she poured my coffee. "We've got the Starlight Inn at the edge of town. Clean rooms, decent breakfast. Nothing fancy, mind you."

I suppressed a sigh. So much for luxury accommodations. "The Starlight Inn it is."

As she handed me my coffee, I casually steered the conversation toward my real objective. "I'm actually here on business. Looking at some property—the O'Malley farm? I understand it's one of the larger holdings in the area."

Her expression cooled noticeably. "The O'Malley place isn't for sale."

"That's not what I heard." I kept my tone light, taking a sip of surprisingly good coffee. "Word is, they're facing some financial difficulties."

The woman's lips pressed into a thin line. "Nora O'Malley's been through enough without vultures circling her property." She turned away to help another customer, effectively ending our conversation.

I retreated to a table by the window, mentally reassessing. Clearly, the O'Malleys had community support—a complication, but not an insurmountable one. I'd faced hostile locals before. Eventually, economic reality always trumped sentimentality.

After finishing my coffee, I followed the GPS directions to the O'Malley farm. The property sat about three miles outside of town, down a winding road bordered by stone walls that had likely stood for centuries. As I turned onto the long gravel driveway, I got my first glimpse of what all the fuss was about.

The farmhouse itself was nothing special—white clapboard in need of paint, a wraparound porch with a slight sag. But the land...the land was exceptional. Gently rolling fields stretched toward the distant shimmer of the Atlantic. An apple orchard, still dormant but clearly well-established, covered one hillside. A large red barn stood a short distance from the house. The property had to be at least fifty acres, with what appeared to be a quarter mile of waterfront access.

I whistled softly. No wonder Victor wanted this place. The location alone was worth millions.

I parked beside the house and straightened my tie before approaching the front door. The screen creaked as I knocked, the sound echoing in the quiet afternoon. After a moment, the inner door opened to reveal a small, silver-haired woman with shrewd green eyes.

"Mrs. O'Malley?" I offered my most disarming smile. "Logan Westbrook from Sheffield & Associates. I believe we spoke on the phone?"

"We did." Her expression remained impassive. "I believe I told you then that this farm isn't for sale. Not to you, not to your company, not to anyone."

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