"Any particular reason?" Jackson asks, pulling away from the curb.
"She's going to put up a fight."
"Ah." His lips curve into an amused smirk. "It's been a while since anyone tried that."
I grunt instead of responding, but he's right. Aside from the usual protests and complaints that always come when we're hired to make improvements, it has been a while since anyone actually fought us. Most people don't bother. If you throw enough money at a problem, it stops being a problem. Even those who don't want to sell usually roll over when the price is right.
Her landlord certainly jumped at my offer. If they didn't have an agreement that gives her the right of first refusal, Gary Brady would have happily kicked her to the curb to take my money. The prick had dollar signs in his eyes like some fucking cartoon character when I made the offer. The building isn't worth what I'm willing to pay. But the block will be worth fifty times that when I'm finished.
"You want to bury her?" Jackson asks.
"No," I growl, a little too quickly. His brows climb. Shit. "I just want to know her story. Who she is, where she came from, her family." I pause. "Who she's associated with."
"Right," he says, smirking. "And by associated with, I assume you mean, you want to know who she's fucking."
I shoot him a dark look, but he just chuckles in response, unbothered. Nothing ever gets to Jackson. He's been my right-hand man since I started Hanover Group. We roomed together all four years at UCLA. In the beginning, we were just two broke scholarship kids, surviving on Ramen and dreams.
I used every penny I saved working two jobs in college to buy and flip my first house during our junior year. I purchased two more with the profits that year, and three the next. By the time we graduated, I wasn't a broke college kid anymore. Hanover Group was officially real, and Jackson was my first hire.
Two decades later, I own the largest real estate development group in the state. We no longer flip houses. Our projects are more highbrow now. And Jackson is still right by my side, handling all the shit I don't want to deal with. When shit gets messy or complicated, Jackson steps in. My hands are clean because his aren't.
"I just want the facts," I tell him. "Nothing else."
"You like her."
I growl wordlessly.
"You do."
"Maybe," I relent, staring out the window. "She has spirit. She basically told me to go fuck myself before she threatened to chain herself to her store and then kicked me out."
His loud laughter booms around the car. "It's been even longer since anyone told you to fuck off."
"No kidding." I smile despite myself. "She's interesting. They were dancing around, chanting about sex toys like they were summoning a goddamn orgy when I got there."
Jackson cracks up again. "You're fucking kidding me."
"I'm not."
"Jesus Christ. Now I'm curious as a motherfucker, too."
I shoot him a withering look, but he just chuckles again. "Yeah, you fucking like her."
I do, but it doesn't matter. As far as she's concerned, I'm the enemy. We're on opposite sides of this thing. But part of me almost hopes she does come up with the money to make an offer on the building. As Jackson said, it's been a long damn time since anyone fought back.
I want her to fight.
Going up against her for a while would be a nice distraction from the monotony that's become my life.
"I've got that background report on Lilah Davis, and you're never going to believe it," Jackson says, stomping into my office in San Francisco with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his tie undone around his neck. He's got a file folder in his hand and a worried look on his face.
I sit forward in my chair, my heart leaping. If he tells me that she's married, I might start breaking shit. It's been two days since I asked him to look into her, and I've spent every spare second trying to talk myself out of heading back to Santa Maria just to see her again.
Burying myself in work isn't helping. Nothing is. Every second thought is of the way she lit into me like I was a misogynistic asshole who'd prefer women barefoot and pregnant than reading. I even dreamed about her last night. She was bent over my desk, telling me off while I drilled into her from behind.
Good times.
Jackson takes his sweet fucking time dropping into the chair across from my desk before he slides the folder across to me. "Lilah Davis has a degree in library science and worked as a librarian in Nashville before moving here," he says, hitting the highlights. "Her sister is married to Oliver Goodson, partial owner of Goodson Vineyards."
