Twice Shy, Sarah Hogle [100 books to read in a lifetime .txt] 📗

back of his hand. “Arthritis made it difficult for her to do anything in the kitchen. I did all the cooking, except when I was away on a job, and then Ruth helped out.”

“Oh.” A little sliver of my heart chips away.

“She liked to watch baking shows on TV, though,” he adds thoughtfully. “The holiday ones on Food Network were her favorite.”

I realize he’s sidetracked me from my hotel pitch, and come at him from another angle. I am a confident, capable event coordinator. I deserve this promotion to hotel manager after all the hard work I haven’t been allowed to do. “The hotel will be a reliable source of income,” I point out. “Keep in mind that Violet isn’t here to pay your salary anymore.”

“I make a decent income doing landscaping for businesses. Violet hasn’t paid me in half a year, thanks to QVC, Home Shopping Network, and the catalogs they kept sending. I don’t have many enemies, but if I ever meet Lori Greiner . . .” His face clouds.

Oof.

“Well. Just think of all the money you’ll save on gas if you don’t have to do all those landscaping jobs. From here on out, it’s only the easy streets for you. No effort, no involvement required with the hotel. Simply live your life and rake in a percentage of the profits.” I’m offering him a kingdom here and he doesn’t even appreciate it.

“I enjoy those jobs. Like the golf place one?” He takes a casual sip of coffee. “With that woman, Gemma, who’s the reason you have a picture of me at my brother’s wedding on your phone. The why of which you still haven’t shared.”

I flush, praying to all the Norse gods and a few Greek ones to shield him from reading my mind.

“I haven’t forgotten that,” he finishes impassively.

I do a flawless impersonation of Wesley by opting to ignore what he said. “By the way, I wanted to say thank you for finding me last night.” I bestow upon him my best damsel-in-distress smile. “Saved me from being eaten by Bigfoot.”

“Sasquatch inhabits the Pacific Northwest and eats a vegetarian diet,” he replies mildly. “Like me.”

I.

What.

“What?”

“I’m a vegetarian,” he responds in the voice of a patient kindergarten teacher. And then this man helps himself to another donut. Is he trolling me? I think I’m being trolled, but I can’t tell. My Myers-Briggs personality type is INFP. We give too many people the benefit of the doubt.

“Anyway,” he continues, “you’re welcome. But please don’t make it a habit. I don’t want to attract bears to the house by having food wandering around out there.”

“I’m food?”

“You will be if you keep getting lost in the woods. That’s their home out there, not ours.”

How does he keep rerouting this conversation? “It’s a big house. There’s plenty of living space for us along with the guests.”

“I’ll never agree to it.”

“I’ll never agree to the farm animal sanctuary, then.”

Checkmate. He arches a brow, jaw tensing.

“I know you haven’t factored my opinion into your plans,” I go on, watching in real time as he reckons with my unavoidable influence over his life goals, “but I’m co-inheritor, buddy. Your personal remake of Charlotte’s Web isn’t happening without my consent.”

“These . . .” He sounds strangled. “This isn’t comparable.” Wesley and I are both leaning forward now, nearly nose to nose. A crumpled napkin peeks from his fist. “You want a hotel, which means people in my living space.” He doesn’t hide the pure revulsion such a scenario inspires. “An animal sanctuary won’t affect you at all. They’ll be living outside.”

“I’ll have to smell it.”

He casts a withering look up at the ceiling, grinding his molars.

Maybe I’m playing dirty, but it isn’t fair that he gets to make all the decisions. “Fine. The hotel won’t affect you, either. There’s enough room on the first floor for plenty of guest rooms, which we’ve agreed is my floor. You’ll get to keep the second floor to yourself and be as people-hating as you please.”

He leans back again, mouth turning down at the corners. He’s trying to figure out how to argue this, but he also doesn’t want me interfering with his dream of filling our yard with geriatric goats. This must be what shady blackmail dealings in white-collar offices feel like.

“So you’d be turning the sunroom into a bedroom,” he says shrewdly.

“I don’t know. Probably.”

The frown intensifies, like he’s trying to solve a tricky math equation. I’d laugh if there weren’t so much at stake. “I want the sunroom.”

“Why?”

“Because I want it.”

Leverage! I love leverage. “I’ll give you the sunroom for the cabin.”

Wesley balks. “Why?”

I could do tons of things with this cabin. If I hire another manager, they could live in it. Or I could use it for a bridal suite, since Falling Stars would make an amazing wedding venue. But if I tell Wesley I want to throw weddings at his house, he might flip the table.

“Because I want it,” I reply evenly. His lips press together. I mimic him, sensing I am close to a resolution here, close to winning.

He tries to silent-treatment me into giving up. It almost works, but my discomfort with long silences prompts me to react strangely and I throw both of us off by giving him a wink.

He stares at me, wide eyed, like I’ve grown another head. “What the hell was that?”

“A wink?”

“Winking is weird.”

“You’re weird.”

“That’s a bizarre thing to do, shutting your eye at someone.”

I shrug. “It can be kinda hot, I think.”

Wesley is visibly uncomfortable, but the wink is effective. “Fine, you’ve got a deal. I get the animal sanctuary, you get your hotel. Which is a terrible idea, by the way.” He’s already getting up and leaving.

“Is not!” I sing at his retreating back, counting the donuts remaining. He ate three. I’m taking that as another win.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •

IT’S THREE DAYS AFTER we struck a deal and we haven’t agreed on a single thing since. Also, the manor is trying to kill me. All I want to do is love it, and