“Livie, you sound tired.” His coarse, old voice rasps through the other end of the phone. I’m well past tired—I'm exhausted. We’ve been grinding for weeks, shorthanded, no less, with Cori out sick.
“The meeting is on Monday. We’re almost to the finish line,” I reply, watching Viv pace back and forth, whispering to herself. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, you know. Hey, I found someone to mow my lawn this summer. Raphael, from down the street—he’s home from college. He came by today and cut the lawn, then hung out for an hour after, talking my ear off. He’s a little too chatty.”
“Chatty isn’t a bad thing, Pop. You could use the company. I worry about you, you know.”
Viv stops, scribbles something down, then resumes her pacing. Silence stretches on the other end of the phone. Gram was hisperson. They had a love like no other—married nearly fifty years. She passed away almost a year ago now. I rub my chestwith my fingers, pressing into the spot that still aches when I think about her and the idea of Pop being all alone in his house.
“Maybe,” he says, letting out a soft sigh. “It is quiet around here without her. It’s not the same. But hey, don’t lose sleep over me, kiddo. I’m fine.”
“I know, Pop. But this could be good for you.” I suppress another yawn.
Pop clears his throat, switching gears to tell me about his new bird feeder. I listen attentively, trying my best to mask as many yawns as I can, but give in when the need becomes too strong.
“Alright, I’ll let ya go. Don’t work too hard. Life’s for living, not working,” he says, a note of old wisdom in his voice.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Work is what I’m good at. Love ya, old man.”
“Love you, too.”
No sooner do I place the phone down than it vibrates with an incoming text.
Jerry PI: I think I’m on to something. I’ll let you know when I have more information.
We have a two-and-a-half-hour drive to the Berkshires ahead of us. According to Viv, the original owners of the Hotel EdenReed will be at the pitch meeting today. They felt it was important to oversee the hotel’s handover. Along with the new owner of the hotel will be his financial team—to make sure everything aligns with their rebrand budget.
The sky is bright, with a few wispy white clouds floating lazily across it. We leave the city behind, replacing it with leafy trees, winding roads, and quaint little towns.
In no time, the Hotel EdenReed and its sprawling front gardens come into view.
Pushing through the French doors that lead to the conference room, I’m surprised to see only three people around the table. We greet Eden and Reed Barrows—they’re as lovely as I remember them—and the investor, Carter Winthrop. He’s younger than I expected. Handsome, though, in agrew up with a ton of moneykind of way.
“My financial advisor is running a little late. He’ll join us as soon as he can,” Carter explains. I groan internally.Why is it so hard for people to be on time?
The screen behind Viv is already on, with the first slide of our presentation ready to go. I pass out the printed packets and move to stand to the side of the screen as Viv launches into her well-practiced pitch.
“We’re not interested in changing what makes the Hotel EdenReed a one-of-a-kind experience; we’re here to help show the world why it matters,” Viv says. Everyone around the table smiles, especially Carter.
I’m up next, reviewing the creative solution and visuals when a hotel attendant opens the conference room door.
“Excuse me. Mr. Winthrop’s financial advisor is here,” he says as he leans through the door.
Carter stands, as do the Barrows, and in breezes the financial advisor. He’s in a black, impeccably tailored suit, with chocolate brown hair swept to the side. A gold Rolex gleams on his wrist, but I hardly see any of that. All I can see are the piercing blue eyes of none other than Bradley Casselton.
Bad Date Bradley.
He does not apologize for being late. Just nods his acknowledgement and moves to his seat next to Carter.
“Carry on,” Bradley sits, leaning back in his chair and flippingthrough the packet. I’m stunned into silence, completely frozen in place, blood pumping through my ears.
Thisis the financial advisor?
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Viv clears her throat beside me, throwing me a questioning glance. She twitches her head toward the table and says, “Liv, was just finishing up with the visuals and was about to move onto the rebrand rollout and next steps.”
“Yes…” I begin slowly, looking at her and then looking around the conference table into a sea of expectant eyes. “Yes,” I repeat more confidently, picking up where I left off.
