I march through the double doors of the building and straight up to the receptionist, who is gleefully farming phone call after phone call.
“Name?” she asks sugary sweet while sizing me up.
“Jennifer Reeves to see Mr. Winters. I have an appointment,” I announce confidently. She can judge me all she wants. She’s a woman who puts one bra strap on at a time just like me, regardless if hers comes from Victoria’s Secret and mine from Walmart.
She checks something on the computer in front of her and then smiles, disingenuously. “Mr. Winters is waiting. You’re late.”
I glance at the clock over the receptionist’s head. It’s five after nine.Give me a break.
“Shit happens,” I sneer. “Where am I going?”
She cocks a penciled eyebrow. “Elevators. Third floor. The door on your right.” She points with the tip of her pen.
“Thanks.” I continue to march, if for no other reason than to retain my confidence.
I ride the elevator up to the third floor and walk through the glass door on the right. I’m met with yet another perfectly prim receptionist.
“Ms. Reeves?” she asks cheerfully. Genuinely. She reminds me of Shayna. Blonde, bubbly, and doe-eyed.
“Yes.”
“He’s waiting.” She motions to the double doors behind her. I suck in a deep breath and prepare for war as I waltz through the entrance and into a gargantuan conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a backdrop of the glimmering Atlantic Ocean.
“Ms. Reeves. Please have a seat. I’ve been waiting.” I’m reminded once again. Five minutes. You’ve been waiting five fucking minutes. Get over it. I walk assertively across the room and sit down adjacent to the impeccably dressed man. Ty Winters is nothing like I imagined. He’s much younger than I pictured, dictatorially handsome with his copper hair and bold green eyes, and way more intimidating than I was prepared for.
“I was expecting a Mr . . .” He opens the red folder in front of him, disinterested. “ . . . Nathaniel Jackson.”
“Mr. Jackson is presently in a nursing home in poor health. I’m here to speak on his behalf.” I latch on to the thin rope of poise I have.
“Are you his power of attorney?”
“In a matter of speaking.”
“Ms. Reeves.” Ty sighs as if I’m wasting his precious time. “I’m uncomfortable talking contracts and negotiations with someone who isn’t legally authorized to speak on Mr. Jackson’s behalf.”
“That’s fine, because I’m not here to talk contracts and negotiations. I’m here to tell you we’re not selling.”
“Ms. Reeves—” he immediately protests.
“Don’t waste your breath, Mr. Winters. The Corkscrew isn’t for sale.”
“I advise you to reconsider. It’s a generous offer.”
“It’s a crap offer, and you know it,” I snap.
His green eyes sharpen to pin points. I surmise the young Mr. Winters isn’t used to people talking back to him. It’s clear he’s incredibly accomplished, well-educated, and an Ivy League asshole who wants for nothing. His suit is probably worth more than my life is. But I’m not going to let that intimidate me. Just because he’s powerful doesn’t mean he can ride in and steal from the poor to give to the rich. One percent of the population in Newhaven Beach can afford the condo compounds he’s building. Before Winters Travers swooped in, this area was peaceful and quiet. An unblemished coastline escape. Now, with all the new development, taxes are rising, the community is changing, and people whose families have lived here for generations are being pushed out because they can’t afford their beachfront homes anymore. I don’t know when the shoreline became strictly for the rich, but it fucking blows. That’s why I refuse to give up the Corkscrew. I have plans for the little restaurant, and I’m not going to let some greedy developer ruin them.
“It’s the best offer you’re going to get. I urge Mr. Jackson to reconsider. Change is coming,” he threatens, vehemently sliding the folder in front of me. “The town wants this redevelopment, and your little establishment isn’t going to get in their way. Persuade Mr. Jackson to accept the offer.”
I narrow my pale blue eyes at Ty Winters. “I don’t have to persuade Mr. Jackson to do anything. We don’t accept. So you can take your shitty offer and shove it up—”
My tirade is interrupted when the door to the conference room suddenly swings open.
“Ty, I have specs I want to show you—” A tall blond man in a tan suit barges in with a tablet in his hand. He stops short when he looks up to find Ty isn’t alone. Our eyes lock, and suddenly, I want to throw up. “I didn’t realize you were still in a meeting.”
“He’s not. We’re done.” I jump up, sick to my stomach. I race past Shane without uttering a word and bang on the elevator button like it’s going to magically open the doors.
“Jenn?” Shane voices my name from behind. I slowly turn around with a defensive look in my eye.
