Page 96 of A Little Too Late
“Miss Ava! Always a pleasure,” Grandpa says in the lobby. I bear up under his handshake. To my relief, I see Mark and Melody entering the lobby, too. At least I won’t be alone with all the Sharpes.
I reach out to shake the middle Sharpe’s hand, but instead of reciprocating, hehands me his coat. As if I’m the hostess at a restaurant he’s visiting. “Put this up for me, would you, doll?”
Too stunned to reply, I just freeze in place, the coat in my hands.
Mark has noticed this little maneuver, and his mouth twists into a grimace. He looks from the coat, to me, to Sharpe. Then he strides over and takes the coat out of my arms, as if that could solve the problem. “Let’s go into the Evergreen Room, shall we? There are some coat hooks on the wall.”
Grandpa leads the way, carrying a cognac-colored leather briefcase that probably contains the contracts. Dread pools in my stomach as I follow him through. He puts the case on the table, pops the brass latches, and opens the lid.
If there’s some new type of Sharpe liquor in that case, I will not be responsible for my actions.
But no, it’s just paperwork. Grandpa Sharpe pulls out several sets of contracts, color-coded with those signature flags people use to keep everything straight. He hands off a thick stack to the lawyer he’s brought with him for the closing. Then he hands another document to his grandson. “Trey, can you handle this?”
“Sure, Grandpa.” Trey glances at the documents and then says, “Ava, will you come with me for a moment?”
Oh. “Of course.” I follow him out of the room.
Just outside the door, he hands me the document. “Here’s your employment contract. You can sign it now, but I can’t countersign until after the resort transaction is finished. I can’t employ you here until after I own the place.”
“Makes sense,” I say. “Is everything in here the way Reed had prearranged?”
His shrug seems too casual. “Mostly. We made a few minor tweaks. But I expect you’ll find it satisfactory.”
“Tweaks?” I ask calmly, even though my heart has begun thumping like an over-caffeinated bunny rabbit.
“It’s a one-year contract, because we ultimately felt that two was too long. And a few of the financial details are different.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. “Why don’t you give it a read.”
“Wait,” I say, even though I am dying to move away from his unwanted touch. “Which financial details?”
He smirks. “Doesn’t matter, does it? You make a good wage. And I looked into your résumé. We think you’ll stay on anyway. You’ve got nowhere else to go, right?”
At that, he lets me go and walks back into the Evergreen Room.
Speechless, I follow him. Then I walk as far from the Sharpes as I can and shakily take a seat at the table near the window. I flip open the contract and quickly skim it.
When I find the salary amount, I feel sick. They didn’t raise it by twenty percent. They actuallyloweredmy base salary a little. However, “upon the successful completion of the contract year, the employee will be eligible for a performance-based bonus of up to twenty percent.”
That’s how they handled my raise—by turning it into a bonus I might or might not receive.
And I’m terrified to know what a “successful completion” means to Trey Sharpe.
I feel sick. Because now I have to decide whether or not to make a stink about it. Mark is pouring himself a cup of coffee and chatting with Grandpa Sharpe. This is the day he’s been looking forward too for months. His day of freedom.
Just when I’m halfway to a panic attack, another person steps into the room. He’s wearing an impeccable blue suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark blue tie. He has a head of thick, dark brown hair and the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.
Reed Madigan meets my gaze and winks so quickly I almost miss it. Then I lose his attention. “Dad, can I speak to you for a moment?”
“Reed.” His father blinks in surprise. “I had no idea you were—”
Reed beckons, and his father follows him out the door.
They don’t close it, and I practically pull a muscle straining to listen. At first, I can’t hear a thing they’re saying. But after a long moment I hear Mark say, “No, Reed. Not him.” And then just “no.”
The low rumble of Reed’s voice is audible now, if not the words. He’s arguing for something.
“I appreciate that,” his father says, his voice rising. “I do. But it is just too late. I’m sorry, but it’s true. This is happening, and I need you to get your head around that. We’ll talk later.”
Mark reenters the room, and my heart stutters.
