Wendell sighs, like I’m a child asking why the sky is blue. “It’s simple, Lark. If you don’t want to sell, I need to make sure my investment in this town still works for me. And that means controlling the supply chains, ensuring my businesses—current and future—operate at peak efficiency.”
I stare at him, my pulse hammering. “So this is about efficiency?”
“This is about leverage.” His tone is flat, matter-of-fact. “The Bluebell’s been a big part of Summit Springs, sure, but businesses evolve. Towns evolve. I want to make sure what I’m building here is sustainable.”
I scoff. “You mean you want to make sure you own as much of this town as possible.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just smiles, tapping the folder like it speaks for itself. “It’s good business. All the legal paperwork is in there.”
I finally move, but it’s not to grab the folder. It’s to cross my arms over my chest, to hold myself together as my pulse pounds hard enough to make me feel sick.
He watches me carefully. “Two of your other suppliers are ready to follow suit,” he continues, like this is just another business deal, just another item on his to-do list. “Won’t take much to finalize those contracts. It’s just a matter of time.”
A matter of time.
He says it like it’s inevitable. Like he’s already won.
I reluctantly reach for the folder, flipping it open with stiff fingers. Pages and pages of legal jargon blur in front of me, but I recognize the names, the signatures. The confirmation that he’s not bluffing.
I dig my nails into my palm, forcing myself to breathe.
Losing one supplier would be bad.
Losing three would be catastrophic.
It would mean scrambling to find new ones. Paying more for everything. Risking quality. Changing recipes, menus, reworking costs. It would be a nightmare, and Wendell Tate knows it.
He steeples his fingers and leans forward slightly. “This isn’t personal, Lark. It’s business.”
I finally drag my gaze back up to his, my breath tight in my lungs.
The hell it isn’t.
I keep my face neutral even as my mind races, even as I try to calculate how much time I have before this all collapses around me.
Wendell leans back, his smug smile still firmly in place. “Now,” he says, like he’s doing me a favor. “Would you like to reconsidermy offer?”
I grab the folder, gripping it tighter than I probably need to. “I want to show this to my lawyer.”
Wendell barely reacts. He just tilts his head, like he expected as much. This is amusing to him, watching me squirm. “Of course,” he says smoothly. “But you’re not going to have much time, considering you need to find another supplier within the next few weeks if you want to keep your inventory steady.”
He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. His voice is low, measured. Calm in the way a predator is before it strikes. “I’m being generous, Lark. Letting you reconsider.”
A scoff slips out before I can stop it. “Generous?” I repeat, lifting a brow. “Is that what we’re calling this?”
He grins, slow and knowing. “I knew you weren’t just a pretty face.” He gestures vaguely at me. “Knew you had some fire under there.”
The condescension in his tone makes me want to slam the folder shut and throw it at his head.
He stands, gathering his things. “I never let sentiment get in the way of a good deal. Maybe you should follow suit, and quickly. Clock’s ticking.”
He adjusts the brim of his Stetson, studying me for a beat. Then, just before he turns to leave, he murmurs, “Think about what’s best for your son, Lark.”
It takes everything in me not to flinch.
He strides out of the diner, the little brass bell on the door jingling in his wake, the echo of his words sinking into my skin like a stain.
I sit there. Frozen.
