Page 11 of Middle Ground
“I don’t want to hear it right now. What Iwantis for you to tell me he’s wrong. That there’s been a big mistake and this is all a nightmare.”
There’s a beat of heavy silence. “You know I can’t do that.”
I straighten when Meyer comes rushing out of the office. Her head is down, but it snaps up when she nears me, and she stops short.
Gone are her jeans and t-shirt from yesterday. In their place is a poufy-sleeved blouse tucked into a pencil skirt that hugs her hips even better than the denim. She’s mesmerizing.
It doesn’t matter what she wears, though—she’s still my off-limits business partner. And consequently, the woman who hates my guts.
“What are you doing here?” she bites out.
I grin, knowing it will infuriate her. Because feeling her wrath is better than seeing the pain in her expression.
“Like I told you yesterday, we have a meeting.”
She sneers. “If you think I’m going to sit in a confined space with you, you are sorely mistaken. I’d rather chew on glass.”
This pulls a laugh from me. “You have a rather creative imagination, Ms. Ellison.”
Meyer nods, crossing her arms. “You wouldn’t even want to know what I’ve imagined doing to you.”
To this, I can’t help my smirk. “Oh, but I think I would.”
I can see the moment the double meaning of her words hits her because she goes stiff, jaw clenching. Fire ignites in her gaze, and fuck, if that isn’t enticing. These thoughts are dangerous, but I can’t help myself. I want to?—
A throat clears behind us.
We both turn to the older woman standing in the office doorway. She looks to be in her sixties, with silver hair chopped just above her shoulders. The woman in that photo with Cherie, I realize. This must be my grandmother’s friend and business partner.
I step forward, hand outstretched toward her. “Jackson Vaughan. Nice to meet you,” I say.
She returns my handshake with a smile. “Beatrice Ellison,” she replies. “You look a lot like Cherie, you know.”
The comment tugs painfully on my heart, but I push the feeling aside. It’s something I don’t have time for today.
“I presume you are the one I’ve been speaking with over email?”
Beatrice’s gaze flits to her daughter, thenreturns to me. “I am. I apologize for the subterfuge, but I’m glad that we could all be here today to sort everything out.”
Meyer lets out a snort of derision behind me.
The front door opens then, cutting our conversation short. A man in a tan suit comes striding in, briefcase in hand. The inn’s lawyer is here.
Beatrice offers me a strained smile. “Let’s get started.”
“So I think that about sums it all up,” Louis says, leaning back in his chair. “Any questions?”
The business lawyer, whose name I barely caught because I was focused on the way Meyer was glaring holes into my chest, is an older man both short and stout. He talks faster than the speed of light and sports a fedora that he, as far as I can tell, wears unironically.
I shake my head, and then I chance a glance at Meyer. If she clenches her jaw any harder, she’s liable to turn her teeth to dust from the sheer pressure.
She opens her mouth, readying to say something, but her mother places a hand on her arm. A silent reprimand.
“That’ll be all, Louis,” Beatrice says. “Thank you very much.”
Louis replaces his fedora on his head and tips it in her direction. “My pleasure,” he replies. He then addresses me and Meyer. “Once I wade through all the paperwork on my end, I’ll just need your autographs, and then you’ll both be the proud new owners of Dog Days Inn!”
Suffice to say, the lawyer’s enthusiasm isleaps and bounds ahead of ours. And he seems totally oblivious to the pure ire radiating off of Meyer.
