So why does it feel like he’s describing the death of something instead of its evolution?
“This isn’t just about you, Ms. Whitfield.” He leans forward. “This is about Copper Creek, about bringing jobs and economic growth to a community that desperately needs it, about putting this town on the map.”
“Copper Creek seems to be doing just fine without being on a map.”
“Well, for now.” His expression shifts. He’s still friendly, but there’s an edge now. “But small towns like this don’t survive without growth, without investment. In ten years, fifteen years, places like Copper Creek will be a ghost town unless someone does something to save them.”
“You mean by buying local businesses and then turning them into luxury resorts?”
“By giving them a future.” He sits back. Now he’s very pointed. “Ms. Whitfield, I’m offering you three and a half million dollars. That’s not just generous, it’s extraordinary. Most properties like this sell for a million, maybe a million five. I’m giving you more than double market value.”
“Yeah, and why is that?”
The question catches him off guard. “Excuse me?”
“Why are you offering me so much? I mean, if the property’s only worth a million five, why pay more than double?”
He recovers quickly and smooths back into his professional warmth mode. “Because we believe in the project. Because your property is key to making that work. And because we’re prepared to make it worth your while to say yes.”
“And if I say no?”
Something flickers across his face. It’s gone too fast to read. “Then we’ll be disappointed, but we’ll respect your decision. Of course.”
He doesn’t sound like he’ll respect my decision at all.
“I need time to think about it.”
“Okay. But I do need an answer by Friday. We have other properties we’re considering and other opportunities. I certainly can’t hold this offer open indefinitely.”
“Forty-eight hours?”
“Less, actually, since it’s already Wednesday afternoon.”
He stands, extending his hand. I shake it automatically, years of etiquette training kicking in even as every instinct tells me to run.
“I think you’ll find this is the right decision, Ms. Whitfield. For you and for Copper Creek.”
He picks up his untouched beer and sets it on the bar with a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “Think about it. I mean, really think about it. Three and a half million dollars. Freedom. Options. A fresh start.”
He walks out, and the bell over the door chimes behind him.
I sit at the table, staring at the folder he left, and my hands are shaking.
“Who was that?”
I look up and find Wyatt standing behind the bar, wiping down glasses as usual. His expression is neutral, but there’s something behind his beautiful blue eyes.
“That was a developer.” The words come out more defensive than I intended. “Gary Allen, from Ashby and Associates.”
“And what did he want?”
“He wants to buy the bar.”
Wyatt’s hands stop moving. “What?”
“He made me an offer, a formal offer for the property.”
“How much?”
