Page 66 of On One Condition

“When Pop came inside after talking with that . . . horrid man, he had something in his hand. A tan envelope.”

“What was in it?”

“That’s the thing. Pop told me it didn’t matter. All that mattered was you. I never saw it again.”

I stand there beside her as her breathing starts to even out and her eyes flutter closed. “Will you take him some lavender for me too?” she whispers, her voice already drugged with sleep.

Pop’s headstone. She wants me to take him lavender too.

My heart squeezes in my chest.

“Of course, I will. I promise to bring both of you lavender always.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Ledger

“That won’t work.”

“Why not?” Hillary asks, hands on her hips, a crease in her brow.

“Because if we put local craftsmen in the hotel who already have a store in town, they’d be getting less profit after we take our cut. Grossman will accuse us of stealing from them or taking advantage of them or some shit like that,” I say and sigh in frustration.

“Then let’s find people who don’t have brick-and-mortar stores. There have to be locals we can showcase. Ones that are just starting out or who can’t get representation in local shops.”

“That’s an angle.” A shitty one, but one nonetheless.

“Don’t sound so enthused.” She chuckles. “I think it’s worth a shot. Maybe use one of the shops as a locals-only fare. Give it a catchy name. Place it off the main lobby next to the gift shop.”

“Get someone to work on that and see what we come up with. Quality is key.”

“As is everything.”

“Where are we on the school library thing?” I ask, frustrated that we even have to deal with bullshit like this. The look on Hillary’s face says she feels the same way since she should be elbow deep in the details of the resort’s construction—contractor problems, supply chain issues, decisions that have to be made on the fly.

Hillary updates me over the next hour. On her meeting with the school district superintendent over a donation that S.I.N. can make to give the library a facelift. Then we moved to her follow-up meeting with the director of the assisted living facility. They’re willing to accept our generosity of a new HVAC system, but have to cut through some red tape first.

It’s amazing how much money talks.

Then again, I’ve never known anything otherwise.

One meeting rolls into another. Union issues with the staff in our Aspen resort. A possible property acquisition in California Wine Country—a market we’ve wanted to move into for years. It’s still a long way off, but it’s a rarity something comes up for sale there, so I welcome the first step. Conflicts with supply chain at our resort in the Virgin Islands.

And it doesn’t matter how much shit like this, the details, the complications, and the nitty-gritty of our business generally turn me on, my mind has a hell of a time concentrating this week.

Asher.

Jesus.

The woman.

Last night.

This morning.

How can each time get better with her?

That’s a stupid fucking thought considering I was a fumbling teenager the first time we were together . . . and yet, usually the memory of something is better. Call it selective amnesia or wishful thinking, but my memory of her doesn’t hold a fucking candle to the Asher I left behind in the farmhouse this morning.