Page 8 of A Good Egg

"It's our only shot," I countered, squaring my shoulders. "I'm not giving up, Gram. Not on the farm, not on us, not on anything."

She studied me with a mixture of pride and concern. "This isn't just about the farm, is it? It's about proving something to yourself after what happened with Brad."

The observation struck uncomfortably close to home. Yes, part of me was driven by the need to prove I wasn't broken, that I could rebuild from scratch, that I was more than someone's disposable girlfriend. But that wasn't the whole story.

"It's about family," I told her, gathering the papers back into their folder. "About honoring what you and Gramps built. About remembering who I am."

A knock at the front door interrupted our conversation. Gram sighed, rising from her chair. "That'll be him again."

"Who?"

"That developer fellow. Westbrook. He left his card yesterday, said he'd be back."

My temper flared instantly. "I'll handle this."

Gram caught my arm. "Maisie, now don't—"

But I was already striding toward the door, anger simmering beneath my skin. This vulture thought he could circle our home, waiting for us to fail? Not if I had anything to say about it.

I yanked open the door to find myself face-to-face with a man in a tailored gray suit, his hand raised to knock again. He was taller than I'd expected, broad-shouldered, with sharp hazel eyes and dark hair that looked expensively cut. Handsome in that polished, corporate way that screamed money and privilege. I hated him instantly.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, surprise registering at the sight of me instead of Gram. "Good afternoon," he recovered smoothly, extending his hand. "Logan Westbrook, Sheffield & Associates. I'm looking for Mrs. O'Malley."

I ignored his outstretched hand. "I know exactly who you are, Mr. Westbrook. You're the developer who thinks our family home would make a lovely spot for cheap high-rises that will collapse when the wind blows."

A flicker of recognition crossed his features. "Ah. You must be the granddaughter. Pretty sure I saw you yesterday, in the barn."

"Maisie O'Malley." I crossed my arms, blocking the doorway. "And you're wasting your time. We're not selling."

His gaze swept over me—taking in my dust-smudged jeans, flannel shirt, and undoubtedly messy ponytail—before returning to my face with renewed interest. "Miss O'Malley, I understand your emotional attachment to this property. But sometimes pragmatism has to override sentiment. Your grandmother is facing foreclosure."

"Our financial situation is none of your business."

"On the contrary." He withdrew an envelope from his suit jacket. "I'm offering a solution. Sheffield & Associates is prepared to pay well above market value for this property. Your grandmother could settle her debts and retire comfortably. You could pursue whatever dreams you have without the burden of a failing farm."

"Failing?" I bristled. "This farm has survived four generations of O'Malleys, two world wars, and the Great Depression. It's not failing—it's evolving."

A hint of condescension colored his smile. "Evolution requires adaptation. Are you equipped to adapt this place fast enough to outrun the bank?"

"As a matter of fact, we are," I shot back. "Not that it's any of your concern."

"I apologize," he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "I don't mean to be harsh. But this property is sitting on prime coastal real estate that could benefit the entire community. Our development would create jobs, increase tourism, boost tax revenue—"

"While destroying a family legacy and paving over farmland that's been sustainably managed for a century," I interrupted. "How many jobs will your corporate overlords create once construction is finished? How many of your fancy vacation homes will sit empty most of the year while locals can't afford housing?"

His expression hardened slightly. "I see you've made up your mind without examining the facts."

"And I see you've made up yours without considering anything but the bottom line."

We glared at each other, the tension between us almost palpable. I noticed, absurdly, that his eyes weren't simply hazelbut a complex mix of green and gold that shifted in the sunlight. I also noticed that beneath his corporate veneer, he looked tired—faint shadows under his eyes, a certain tension in his jaw. Not that it mattered. He was still the enemy.

"Look," he sighed, attempting a more conciliatory tone. "I know this is difficult. Change always is. But the realities of modern agriculture—"

"Oh, please spare me the corporate lecture," I snapped. "I don't need a man in an expensive suit telling me about farming realities. I lived them. We're staying, we're adapting, and we're going to save this farm without selling our souls to developers."

"Even if it means losing everything anyway?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "The bank won't care about your family history or how much dedication you have, Ms. O'Malley. They care about numbers. And right now, the numbers aren't in your favor."

I jutted my chin defiantly. "They will be."

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