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“Of course. Leave the tray outside the door, and we’ll pick it up later.” She left the room, casting a quick glance downward as she passed him.
Hunter closed the door and thunked his head against it. Small towns were not for him. He needed the anonymity and distance only a city could offer. As soon as his work was done in Bliss Cove, he’d be back in Manhattan, immersed in a world of twenty-year-old scotch and six-million-square-foot developments.
No little old lady innkeepers bearing stuffed French toast and boysenberry syrup. No artichoke festivals or streets with secrets. No falling asleep with Aria’s soft body nestled against him as if she were made for—
Shutting off the direction of his thoughts, he finished getting dressed. As he was fastening on his watch, his phone buzzed with a call from Bruce Sinclair.
“How many commitments do you have so far?” the CEO asked. “I told you I want verbal agreements from all the association members before they go in for their vote.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“What about that girl who owns a café…what’s it called? Something to do with cats. Ariadne Prescott.”
Cold snaked down Hunter’s spine. “What about her?”
“She emailed saying she wasn’t going to sign. You change her mind yet?”
“I’m working on it.”
“That means you’re not getting itdone,” his boss snapped.
“You want to come do this yourself?” Hunter gripped the phone tighter. “Not my first time locking down a deal. In case you forgot.”
Bruce barked out a laugh. “Yeah, I know. Just not the kind of procedure we’re accustomed to, you know? The investors are pumped about Oceanview, so I want to make sure nothing happens to fuck it up.”
Hunter ended the call, smothering his unease. He didn’t want Bruce knowing the first damned thing about Aria. He wasn’t accustomed to his boss interfering. Imperial Properties always went full-force when launching a buyout strategy—or any other plan—but Bruce always left Hunter alone to do his job.
So why was his boss checking up on him now, especially for a relatively small project? Bruce knew he’d get the job done, regardless of theprocedure. Hunter smothered the urge to call Juliette and dig for more information.
Close the deal. Get the promotion.
Whatever else was going on, he’d handle it when he was in charge of all of Imperial’s West Coast properties.
He checked his laptop, which was open to the documents he was compiling about the Mariposa business owners. Over the past two weeks, he’d learned a lot about them simply by asking casual questions. Small-town folk were chatty by nature, and his presence as a property developer hadn’t stopped them from telling him their life stories.
He skimmed the pages, rereading everything he’d recorded about Nico Calozzi, the owner of the pizza restaurant whose father had started a restaurant in Sarconi, Italy, before immigrating to the States.
Nico’s pizza recipe, handed down from his grandmother, was a delicious, thick, chewy crust that he topped with only basic ingredients of sauce, cheese, and meat. People went to Nico’s for an authentic pizza, not one topped with arugula or salmon.
Hunter clicked on another document. Lois and Ray Howell had owned The Bloom Room for years. Without telling his wife, Ray had bought the shop before they were married. After the wedding, he’d brought her to the building and unveiled the Bloom Room sign as a present.
He’d told her she was his eternal flower and their love would never wither.“Not only did it not wither,”Lois had told Hunter,“it grows stronger and more beautiful every year.”
It was a nice story—cute, even—but Hunter wouldn’t let it soften his resolve.
The Howells were ready to retire, and Nico was amenable to the idea of reopening closer to the college. Gus and Martha Mortimer, the proprietors of the Vitaphone movie theater for forty years, were still on the fence. Annie, the owner of the thrift shop, wanted to get out of retail altogether so she could travel. Gary, who had inherited the Corner Store from his father, would consider opening closer to downtown.
Hunter closed the laptop, ignoring a pang from his conscience that he was making records of people’s stories.
Business. That’s all it is.
He never felt guilty about doing his job. He’d told Aria the truth that he didn’t play dirty. He also didn’t get emotion involved—least of all guilt.
Taking his briefcase, he headed out to his car. The sun had already dissolved the gray marine layer covering the sky, and the downtown streets bustled with locals and tourists.
Much as he wanted to see Aria again, he put work first. He stopped at the town hall and spent the morning checking the revised Oceanview plans against the city codes and zoning ordinances.
Close to lunchtime, he drove to Mariposa, parked, and walked toward Meow and Then. The street had a few customers—two college-aged girls sat drinking coffee in the window of the Cat Lounge, an older couple was coming out of the Corner Store, and a mother was leading a little boy toward the beach.
