Unlocking Melodies (Oakwood Grove #3)

18. Worlds Colliding

Chapter 18

Worlds Colliding

T he emergency board meeting looked more like a firing squad, each perfectly framed video window containing another shade of corporate disappointment.

Reuben, naturally, led the attack. “While you're playing small-town hero, Miller Tech is eating our market share.” His designer glasses caught the light as he leaned toward his camera, probably practicing the intimidating pose in a mirror somewhere. “Do you even care about this company anymore?”

I maintained my CEO smile, the one that had closed billion-dollar deals, though my hands wanted to clench under the antique desk. The irony of conducting this high-stakes meeting from a flowered-wallpapered inn room wasn't lost on me.

“The integration is proceeding exactly as planned,” I said smoothly. “If you'd review the latest progress reports?—“

“Progress reports?” Reuben's laugh could have frozen hell. “Three major clients are threatening to pull out, the development team is in chaos, and our CEO is what—judging pie contests in the middle of nowhere?”

My father's empty video window loomed like an accusation. His absence at this meeting was clearly calculated, leaving me to face the wolves alone. Some lessons about leadership were meant to be learned the hard way, apparently.

“Actually,” I couldn't help saying, “the pie contest isn't until next week.”

Several board members shifted uncomfortably. Humor during crisis meetings was apparently still frowned upon in corporate America. Who knew?

“This is exactly what I mean!” Reuben jabbed his Mont Blanc pen at the camera like a weapon. “You're treating this company like a joke while our competitors?—“

“Are three months behind our development schedule,” I cut in, my voice taking on the edge that usually made junior executives find urgent meetings elsewhere. “The integration is not only on track, it's exceeding initial projections. Those progress reports you didn't bother reading? They show a 27% improvement in processing efficiency.”

“And the client concerns?” Board member Hayes spoke up, his bow tie slightly crooked. Even corporate titans apparently struggled with Zoom aesthetics.

“Are being addressed personally,” I replied, pulling up spreadsheets that would make even Mia's head spin. “If you'll look at the data I just shared?—“

“Data isn't leadership,” Reuben interrupted. “Leadership is being present, being visible. Not hiding in some backwater town playing whatever game this is.”

My jaw clenched, but I kept my voice steady. “Oakwood Grove, actually. And I'm here exploring regional development opportunities.” The lie felt smooth on my tongue, practiced from repetition.

“Regional development?” Reuben's laugh was pure Wall Street condescension. “In a town that doesn't even show up on most maps?”

“Sometimes the best opportunities aren't on any map,” I said, switching to my presentation screen. “Now, about those processing efficiency improvements?—“

"Your father would never have abandoned headquarters at a time like this," Reuben started, but cut off abruptly as another video window flickered to life.

"Actually," my father's voice filled the silence as his camera activated, "I think my son's management style is exactly what this company needs right now." His tone carried that particular blend of corporate authority and barely concealed threat that had made grown men cry in boardrooms.

"Harrison, I didn't realize you were—" Reuben stammered.

"Clearly," my father cut him off smoothly. "Just as you didn't realize that while you've been questioning my son's commitment, he's increased our market share by twelve percent and secured three groundbreaking patents. Tell me, Reuben, what exactly have you contributed during this time besides skepticism?"

The silence that followed was deafening. I kept my expression neutral, but watching Reuben squirm under my father's verbal dissection was admittedly satisfying.

"These quarterly projections speak for themselves," I continued, letting the numbers flash across their screens – irrefutable evidence of success that even Reuben couldn't dismiss. I'd learned long ago that in corporate warfare, data was the best armor, but having Harrison Cole verbally eviscerate your opponents certainly added an extra layer of protection.

"Perhaps," my father added, his smile sharp enough to cut glass, "we should be discussing your recent investment decisions instead, Reuben. I find those far more concerning than my son's management choices."

“While you've all been concerned about my location,” I continued, “our second division has secured three new patents, our market share has increased by twelve percent, and yes, I have managed to judge exactly zero pie contests.”

“Yet,” someone muttered, though I couldn't identify which screen it came from.

“The point is,” I pressed on, “this company doesn't need me sitting in a Manhattan office to thrive. It needs innovation, vision, and occasionally” – I glanced at Reuben's increasingly red face – “the courage to look beyond our usual horizons.”

“If there are no other concerns about our actual business operations,” I said into the uncomfortable silence, “I believe we all have work to do. The integration specs are in your inboxes. I expect full reviews by tomorrow's meeting.”

One by one, the video windows blinked out, leaving only Reuben's scowling face.

“This isn't over,” he said, trying for ominous but achieving something closer to petulant.

“It never is with you, Reuben.” I allowed myself a small smile. “Don't forget to read those specs. There will be a quiz.”

After his window finally darkened, I loosened my tie and looked out at the town square coming to life. Sarah's morning rush was in full swing, and Jimmy had moved on to helping Mrs. Henderson with what appeared to be tactical garden arrangements.

My phone rang immediately after the board meeting – Mia, because the universe apparently decided I hadn't had enough corporate crisis for one morning.

“Well, that was a bloodbath,” she said, her keyboard clicking rapidly in the background. “Though watching Reuben turn that particular shade of purple was almost worth it.”

“Tell that to my blood pressure.” I loosened my tie further, watching Jimmy help Sarah with deliveries through my window. “How bad is the fallout?”

“Your father's asking questions. The kind that usually means he's about to step in.” Her voice softened slightly. “Ethan... they need you in New York. Actually need you, not just Reuben throwing a power tantrum.”

“I'll deal with it,” I said, my voice tight with frustration as I slammed my laptop closed. The sound made Mrs. Henderson jump slightly in her surveillance position, nearly dropping her opera glasses.

Grabbing my jacket, I headed for the door, but stopped at my reflection in the mirror. Perfect suit, perfect tie, perfect mask – all of it feeling more like a costume than armor now.

“When's the earliest I can be in New York?” I asked Mia, knowing her answer would shatter whatever plans I'd had for uncovering Gary's true motives.

"Your father's jet is on standby," she said quietly. "He thought you might need it."

Of course he did. Harrison Cole never left anything to chance, especially not his son's inevitable return to the corporate fold.

"Tell him to save the jet fuel," I replied, gathering my keys. "Oakwood Grove is just a three-hour drive away. And right now..." I paused, looking out at the city skyline that suddenly felt less like home and more like a gilded cage, "right now, I need those three hours to think."

Looking out the window one last time, I caught Jimmy's eye as he glanced up. His smile – genuine, unguarded, everything my world wasn't – made my chest tight. He had no idea that while he was rebuilding his life piece by piece, mine was threatening to fracture under the weight of secrets and obligations.

Some wars couldn't be won. They could only be survived.

The ranch's gravel driveway crunched under my car’s tires, late afternoon sun turning everything golden. For once, I was grateful for my corporate-trained composure because nothing in my extensive business experience had prepared me for the sight that greeted me.

Leaning against the fence, looking impossibly casual in worn jeans and a flannel shirt, was Elliot Blue. The Elliot Blue. My brain did a complete system reset, like someone had dumped coffee on my mental motherboard.

I'd spent countless college nights watching his races, analyzing his strategies – not that I'd ever admit that to anyone. And okay, maybe there had been a poster in my dorm room. One poster. Which absolutely did not influence my decision to hang it facing my desk for “inspirational purposes.”

He straightened as I approached, and suddenly I was very aware that I was about to shake hands with the man who'd revolutionized racing strategy. The same hands that had gripped steering wheels through five championship victories were now extended toward me in casual greeting.

“You must be Ethan,” he said, his easy charm making my carefully maintained CEO persona feel stiff in comparison. “I've heard a lot about you.”

I managed to shake his hand without visibly fanboying, which felt like a victory worthy of its own championship trophy. “Likewise,” I replied, proud that my voice maintained its professional steadiness despite my inner teenager having what could only be described as a complete meltdown.

My brain helpfully started reciting statistics from his career – win percentages, lap records, that legendary Monaco finish in '19. I firmly told it to shut up before I embarrassed myself by quoting Racing Weekly articles from memory.

“I saw your car pull up,” Elliot said, and of course his casual observation made my entrance feel comically stiff. “Nice choice.”

I tried not to visibly preen at his approval of my car. This was Elliot Blue – the man who could make a grocery cart look fast if he drove it. The fact that he'd even noticed my car sent my inner fanboy into overdrive.

“Though you might want to adjust your suspension for these country roads,” he added with a knowing grin. “Saw you hit that pothole by Sarah's pretty hard yesterday.”

Great. My childhood racing hero had witnessed me nearly bottom out my fancy car. Perfect. At least I hadn't been wearing one of my “Elliot Blue: Racing Legend” t-shirts. Not that I owned any. Anymore. After college.

“The roads here are... different from Manhattan,” I managed, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere around 'trying too hard to impress my hero.'

“That's one way to put it.” His easy laugh made me feel like a rookie driver getting friendly advice from a champion. Which, technically, I supposed I was. “Though I hear you're adapting pretty well to small-town life.”

I tried not to think about Mrs. Henderson's surveillance reports, which had probably made their way to Elliot via the town's impossibly efficient gossip network. “The locals make it... interesting.”

“They do that,” he agreed, then gestured toward the house. “Coffee? I was just about to make some. Though probably not up to your Manhattan standards.”

The casual teasing somehow made it worse.

“I've developed a tolerance for small-town coffee,” I said, unreasonably proud that my voice remained steady. “Mrs. Henderson would be devastated if I hadn't.”

His laugh was exactly like it sounded in those post-race interviews I definitely hadn't watched multiple times. “She's quite the tactical commander, that one. Her coordination of the diner surveillance this morning was impressive.”

“Jake's waiting for me back at the station,” Elliot said casually, checking his phone. “Being sheriff keeps him busy, but at least I get to see him at official functions now instead of sneaking around like we did during racing season.”

My brain did a complete reboot. Jake. Sheriff Jake. The rumors I'd dismissed as tabloid fiction about Elliot settling down with a small-town lawman suddenly crystallized into reality. The man who'd dominated international racing circuits, who could have had any high-profile relationship he wanted, had chosen a quiet life with a sheriff in a town that barely showed up on maps.

Something must have shown on my face because Elliot's smile turned knowing. “Amazing what you can build when you stop letting other people's expectations drive your choices.”

The pointed observation hit closer to home than I wanted to admit. Before I could process it fully, movement by the cow pen caught my attention. Jimmy stood with Gary, their heads close together as they looked at something on Jimmy's phone. The sound of their shared laughter carried across the yard, looking for all the world like a normal father and son moment.

Every protective instinct I had surged to life. “Excuse me,” I managed, barely registering Elliot's amused expression as I strode toward them.

Jimmy spotted me first, his face lighting up in a way that made my chest tight. He crossed the distance between us, greeting me with a casual kiss on the cheek and a hand trailing down my arm.

“Hey stranger,” Jimmy said, his smile warm. “Survived the corporate warfare?”

“Barely,” I managed, trying not to melt completely when he kissed my cheek. “Though Reuben might need medical attention after turning that particular shade of purple.”

Gary chuckled, the sound setting my teeth on edge. “Some things never change.”

"Says the man who suddenly traded designer suits for flannel and jeans," Jimmy quipped, and the casual way he teased his father made my chest tight. His father did look jarringly different in casual wear - like he was trying too hard to fit into this rural setting. "Going for that local farmer look now?"

"When in Rome," Gary smiled, tugging at his borrowed work shirt. I had to admire his performance. He played the part of reformed father perfectly.

Jimmy's hand found mine, fingers intertwining naturally. “I was just showing him the plans for the venue network. Dad's got some interesting ideas about community engagement.”

“Just sharing some experience from my New York days,” Gary said modestly. “Though things were... different back then.”

“Speaking of New York,” I cut in, keeping my tone neutral despite the urgency thrumming through my veins. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Jimmy's brow furrowed slightly. “Everything okay?”

“Just some business questions,” I assured him, though the lie tasted bitter. “Boring corporate stuff.”

“Right,” Jimmy's smile turned knowing.

“Lead the way, Mr. Cole.” Gary said smoothly.

Jimmy squeezed my hand before letting go. “Play nice, you two. And remember – Mrs. Henderson's surveillance team has excellent hearing.”

As if on cue, we caught sight of Winston the pug attempting to look casual while obviously reporting back to his tactical team.

“Your backup is showing,” Gary commented dryly.

“Welcome to Oakwood Grove,” Jimmy laughed. “Where privacy is just a theoretical concept.”

I watched him head back toward the house, the easy affection in his goodbye kiss still tingling on my cheek. Every protective instinct I had screamed to keep him close, to shield him from whatever game Gary was playing.

Instead, I turned to his father. “Shall we walk?”

Gary's answering smile was perfectly pleasant and completely false. “After you, Mr. Cole.”

Gary fell into step beside me as we walked toward the back pastures, putting deliberate distance between us and the ranch house. His expensive loafers looked ridiculously out of place on the dirt path, much like my own Italian leather shoes.

“I was wondering when you'd come for this chat,” Gary said, his New York accent more pronounced than it had been at the diner. “Figured you'd have questions after meeting with Ramirez.”

The casual mention of Ramirez made me stop short. “You knew about that?”

“Kid, I've been in this game a long time.” He gestured vaguely at the Morton Hotel's direction. “People talk. Especially when they're being paid to. I also know that you’ve been looking into me. Which is quite flattering if you ask me.”

A horse nickered somewhere behind us, the peaceful sound at odds with the tension building between us. Through the trees, I could just make out Mrs. Henderson's surveillance team attempting to look casual while power-walking the perimeter fence.

“The Morettis,” I said finally, watching his reaction carefully. “That's who you're working for now.”

“Working for, running from – the line gets blurry after a while.” He stopped, turning to face me fully. “But you already knew that, didn't you? Probably had your corporate investigators dig up everything the moment I showed up.”

“Why come back now?” I kept my voice steady despite the anger simmering underneath. “Why put on this whole performance with childhood photos and convenient redemption stories?”

Gary's laugh held no humor. “You think I wanted to come back? To see my son look at me like a stranger?” He shook his head. “Some debts don't give you choices, Mr. Cole. Something tells me you understand that better than most.”

Once we were well beyond the ranch house, I stopped walking. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pasture, making everything look deceptively peaceful.

“I know about the gambling rings,” I said, cutting through the pretense. “The connections to New York. Ramirez filled in some interesting blanks about your debts.” I watched his face carefully, looking for any crack in his performance. “What I don't understand is how deep your involvement goes.”

Gary's expression remained frustratingly neutral, like he'd practiced this conversation in front of a mirror. “You'll find nothing on me, Mr. Cole,” he said, his voice smooth as expensive whiskey. “Because there's nothing to find.”

“Really?” My corporate patience was wearing thin. “So Jimmy getting attacked, losing his memory – that has nothing to do with your connections?”

“You think I wanted this?” For the first time, real emotion cracked through his facade. “My own son looking at me like I'm a stranger? Having to show him photos of his mother just to see a spark of recognition?”

“Then explain it to me,” I pressed, my frustration finally boiling over. “Explain why he's paying for your choices. Why he's been dragged into whatever game you're playing.”

Gary turned away, staring at the distant tree line. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, almost vulnerable. “All I want is to reconnect with my son. I made mistakes. Big ones. But I'm trying to make things right.”

“By working with the same people who had him attacked?”

“It's complicated.”

"It always is with you, isn't it?" The bitterness in my voice surprised even me. "Just like it was complicated at Rosewood, when he was working three jobs to cover your debts."

A flicker of genuine regret crossed his face. "I can't change the past, Mr. Cole. But I can try to protect his future."

"By lying to him?"

"By being here." He met my gaze directly. "Can you say the same?"

The words hit like a physical blow, but I pressed on, my voice dropping dangerously low. "What do you know about the money laundering? Through the music venues?"

Gary's eyes darted around nervously before settling back on me, his previous confidence faltering. "Keep your voice down," he hissed. "They might be listening."

"I don't care who's listening. Jimmy deserves to know?—"

"You don't understand," he cut me off urgently, real fear flashing across his features. "This is bigger than you know. Bigger than both of us. Just... watch out for him. Please."

The jab landed exactly where he intended. Before I could respond, my phone buzzed – another New York crisis demanding attention. The timing felt almost orchestrated.

“You should get that,” Gary said, already turning back toward the ranch house. “Corporations wait for no one. Neither do fathers trying to protect their sons.”