But my soggy foot is begging me to get in my car and leave.
And I’m not sure a healthy working relationship is even possible with her.
She’s unwilling to listen, demanding—at least from what I saw at the town meeting—and pushy.
And… she just caught me openly staring at her house.
Fuck me.
The curtain on the second floor flies shut almost as quickly as it opened.
My only consolation is that, just like I was staring up at her, she was peeking out of that window looking for me.
But now I have to convince her that I’m not an assholeora stalker, and she’s at least already convinced of the former.
I let out a long breath as I make my way to her front door, mentally preparing myself for some kind of emotional negotiation. I can argue with the best of them when it comesto money or lawyers or other superficial things, but there’s a part of me that always feels like my dad when emotions come into play.
Because as much as I don’t want to be like him, I know that I have the power to.
He built this business that I now run from the ground up, and when he died, I inherited it.
He was a gifted businessman. A hard negotiator with a take-no-prisoners mentality.
And it ruined the best thing he ever had.
My mom, who left when I wasn’t even a teenager yet.
We have an okay relationship now, but I can’t help wondering how things might have been different if my dad had been a nicer person. If they didn’t spend dinnertimes screaming at each other. If he didn’t have mistresses on the side that he taunted her with whenever they got into the worst of arguments.
It’s one of the reasons my specialty is in affordable housing. This business ruined his marriage and my childhood, and it ultimately killed him after he suffered two strokes within a week.
He’d be livid if he knew his high-end luxury apartment company now makes subsidized housing, but it was the only way I could think of to help people with the vestiges of a company that, in the past, only produced hurt.
So sure, I’m his son by blood. His heir and likely his greatest disappointment.
But the shady business practices and morally corrupt tactics end with me, if I have any choice in the matter.
So with a huff and a prayer for my life, I head for the bungalow and rap gently on the door.
A few moments later, she opens it, wearing a Sunflower Hill Farm and Preserve T-shirt, her hair pulled into a braidover one shoulder. Her leggings highlight long, sculpted legs that were previously hidden by her overalls.
“What do you want?” she asks.
And there’s that attitude again…
“Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot,” I say, gesturing to my soggy shoe in an attempt to add some levity to the situation.
She gives me a flat look, and I quickly wipe the grin away from my face.
“Ms. Harper?—”
She holds her hands up. “For the love of god, why do you keep calling me that?”
“Evelyn?”
“Eve.”
“Eve,” I repeat, pausing to make sure she’s not going to interrupt me again. “I’m really not trying to be an asshole here. I want to be a friendly neighbor, you know? But I can’t know what’s going to upset you or affect the farm if we don’t have some sort of open communication.”
