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I just can’t see it.
But my phone rings, dashing my thoughts.
I swipe the green icon absently, hoping it’s not a stupid robocall.
“Hello?”
“Jennifer—”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up the second I hear his voice.
“I’m Jennifer now?”
He clears his throat.
“Miss Landers.” His voice hardens to cold professionalism. “I think you should come over, if you’re free, so we can discuss your comments about the campaign in person.”
“Considering how things went the last time we were alone? No. Hell no.”
“I crossed lines I shouldn’t have. I know. Unfortunately, there’s no way around our contractual obligations, so I suggest we try to put it aside like civilized people and—”
He must hear my teeth grit and stops mid-sentence.
Oh, I’ll show him civilized.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I say. “I’m not your pawn. I don’t mind telling you your creative team lacks creativity, or that you suck, because I’m providing a service until my contract expires. That’s it.”
He’s quiet for a minute.
I wonder if I’ve caught him off guard.
“I just want you to understand it shouldn’t have happened. That’s not what I typically do with—”
I laugh out loud. “With what? Contractors? Or did you mean women like me? Look, I know I’m good enough to stage your photo shoots and help your video editors. But if you think it should end there...”
“Are you through?”
I bite my lip. “Actually, Miles, I’m just getting started.”
“I was going to say that’s not what I do with employees.”
“Well, I’m not your employee. Technically, I’m a free agent.”
“Technically, we still have a close working relationship. You know what I mean, just like you know it was highly improper.”
“Whatever. You want feedback? Here it is. The team rocks at piecing together commercial-grade videos. The problem is, a social media campaign isn’t supposed to look so polished. You’re running into the same problem we had at Winthrope before we brought Pippa on board. If you want to reach the younger, trendier crowds, you need flaws. You need honesty. People don’t like being sold to. Millennials were over it, and Gen Z thinks commercials are Boomer relics. I know you’re trying to sell this little town, not ad space on your stations, but it’s the same thing. This campaign has to be organic. Things like old bee boxes and honey and homey Irish pubs are what Pinnacle Pointe is all about. So are walking trails and the quiet little shops in town. This is as picturesque as the Pacific Northwest gets. Small-town bliss meets windswept beaches. Sailboats and solitude. Good company, when you actually want it. That’s it. That’s the whole town. No one walks around looking like a sun-kissed model here and there are no luxury resorts worth thirty one-second slides thrown together in a collage that’s so fast, it hurts to look at.”
He’s quiet for a moment, taking it all in.
“Well?” I press him.
“You’re right. Painfully right. That’s why you should be in Seattle. You need to coach them, lay this all out for the team as clearly as you did for me. Without that insight in their faces, I think we both know we’re doomed for a lackluster finish.” He sighs. “I’ll have them clear their schedules tomorrow for you. This is top priority.”
“Tomorrow? Um, I do have a life here, you know? I can’t just pack up and leave.”
Frick.
Maybe I should have just agreed to his office sit-down. Dealing with the devil in person has to be better than being sent to Seattle on a whim.
“Since you were so good about reminding me you’re a contractor, you’re contractually obligated to be in my offices at my request, Miss Landers. You leave tonight.”
The world starts spinning.
“But—”
“Don’t worry, I won’t leave you stranded to figure out arrangements. I’ll have Benson take care of whatever you need, whether it’s paying Mr. Fix-It to continue his renovations or a dog sitter for your lovely hounds.” His words are sincere. Like he actually cares he’s making my life insane on such short notice.
Like he actually cares about me.
I almost smile, but I remember he’s the reason I’m being exiled from paradise in the first place. And after the last two incidents, I know better than to smile—or believe anything Miles Cromwell says.
“Just give me some time to think about this,” I say, finding my voice. But the line has gone weirdly silent and I look at the screen. “Hello?”
The screen blinks.
Disconnected.
Holy hell.
If I hadn’t agreed to his terms, I’d fly through his door and curse him out. But he’s right about one thing—I only have myself to blame.
Looks like I’m going to go to Seattle after all, and I’m getting this horrible job done.
At least if this torture session drives more visitors to Pinnacle Pointe, I might be able to ride the coattails and snag a few guests for Bee Harbor.
Only, I can’t stand the thought of leaving my dogs here alone with some rando stranger.
