Dad rose to his feet, clearing his throat and giving the room a wave. “Thanks, Pat. For anyone that doesn’t know me, I own MacRae Whiskey. I’m ready to part with the land just outside of town that used to house our distillery. Braeburn, as a town and as a community, means a lot to me. And I don’t want to make decisions for this town. I want Braeburn to decide what serves them best. So I’ve invited both buyers here today to give you their proposals. Whichever one the town votes on, that’s the one I’ll choose.”
There was a polite round of applause as Dad sat down.
“Excellent,” Patrick said. “Can we please have our first potential buyer take the stage? Lachlan Fraser.”
Locke squeezed my knee then stood, adjusting his jacket. He stepped onto the stage, and the moment he did, it was clear how comfortable he was in the spotlight. The public-facing version of him wasn’t all that different from the one I knew in private, but he somehow managed to harness his usual confidence and dial it up to eleven.
I sucked in a settling breath and sat back in my chair, fingers crossed, as he explained his plans for the hotel, talking about theboom to tourism and local businesses but also the importance of preserving the land.
“What a privilege it is to live beside such a beautiful space,” Locke said, his genuine appreciation for the land resonating in his voice. “But that beauty won’t live on for future generations unless weallmake a concerted effort to make sure that land is preserved.” He took a sobering moment to regard the crowd. “A factory puts that land at risk, and I, for one, am not ready to let that happen.”
I glanced around, watching all the people who were nodding along.
“Some of you might be familiar with Aileen MacRae, the local artist who was born and raised right here in Braeburn,” Locke continued. “It’s her beautiful painting that hangs in the lobby of the Deerhound—the inn that has been in her family for years. Aileen’s gift was preserving the beauty of that property in a painting, but it’s our responsibility to preserve that beauty in real life for ourselves and the generations to come.”
His speech was stirring, and a bout of emotion clogged my throat. I blinked away the sudden weight of tears. If she were here today, Mom would have been the first one on her feet, clapping for him.
“Bulldozing that land would not just be a huge aesthetic loss for the locals and tourists,” Locke continued, “but for Braeburn’s cultural identity. My proposal turns a derelict property into a prosperous business. But it also ensures a thriving natural wonder is left unpolluted and intact, where community members can continue to enjoy the outdoor space, and maybe,” he gestured to little Lucy, “inspire future artists.”
The audience burst into applause, and my chest clenched at the sight.
I tried to gauge what Dad thought as Locke thanked everyone for listening. His hand brushed through his mustache, but his face was otherwise unreadable. He did clap, which was something, I supposed.
“Thank you, Mr. Fraser,” Patrick said. “Please take your seat. And now, I’d like to invite the representative from Sargentis Industries up to speak. Is he here?”
“He snuck in a little late,” Jo said, gesturing to the back of the room.
I turned around as Locke slid into place next to me, trying to catch a glimpse of the next speaker. But the moment I laid eyes on him, my heart plummeted into my stomach. I clapped my hand over my mouth.
“Isla,” Locke whispered, laying his hand on my knee. “What is it?” He lowered his voice, leaning in so that his words didn’t carry. “Morning sickness?”
I shook my head, trying to swallow down the queasy feeling as my ex and his smarmy smile took center stage.
14
LOCKE
I’d never seen Isla look so pale, and for a moment it terrified me, my pulse skipping a beat. “Isla,” I whispered again.
Was she about to be sick? Was something wrong with the baby? What could have set her off like that?
She lowered her hand, shaking her head. “M’okay,” she whispered before I could launch to my feet and sweep her out of the room.
“You’re sure?”
She nodded. She was still pale, but there was enough strength in her touch as she squeezed my hand to keep me in my seat. Her eyes flickered to the council, and I turned back to the stage, giving my attention to the representative from Sargentis Industries. I looked him up and down, assessing—the way I always did when I was put face-to-face with my competition.
He looked to be in his early twenties, but he was well dressed, giving the illusion of luxury…of wealth…ofpromise. He had a dimple in his cheek and a charming smile, and I could tell justfrom his swagger that he was confident in his ability to work the room. Looking around, though, I was surprised to see that a lot of the council was already frowning at him.
No, notjustfrowning. In Jo’s case, she was downright glowering, clutching that clipboard in front of her so tightly the backs of her knuckles turned white.
Confusion filled me, which only grew when he opened by giving his name—Declan Cartwright—but then said that he knew he didn’t really need to introduce himself, because he was already acquainted with nearly everyone there. Was he from Braeburn? If so, it was smart of Sargentis to send him. Hometown advantage could mean a lot in cases like this.
Except…maybe not in this case, if the glares were any indication.
He went on for the next quarter of an hour, laying out all that the factory would do for the town. He spoke well, but his speech wasn’t well received. His wide smile started looking a little tight at the edges about three minutes in when he realized no one was smiling back. At all. Still, he plowed on, waxing rhapsodic about new jobs and increased prosperity.
The longer Declan went on, the more people fidgeted, whispering behind their hands, eyes narrowed. This should have had me elated, especially in comparison to how everyone had acted whileIwas speaking. From the looks of things, everyone was on my side and very muchnoton Declan’s.
