Chapter Four
Logan
"Westbrook, tell me you've got good news." Victor Sheffield's voice crackled through my phone, sharp with impatience. I held the device away from my ear as I gazed out my hotel room window at Starlight Bay's small harbor, where fishing boats gently bobbed in the morning light.
"It's progressing," I replied, choosing my words carefully. "The situation is more... complex than we anticipated."
"Complex?" Victor snorted. "It's a simple transaction. They need money, we have money. Where's the complexity?"
I pinched the bridge of my nose, suppressing a sigh. How could I explain the fierce determination in Maisie O'Malley's ocean-blue eyes? The stubborn set of her jaw as she'd defended her family's legacy? The protective stance she'd taken on that weathered porch, flanked by a belligerent chicken, of all things?
"The property has significant emotional value to the family," I explained instead. "The granddaughter is particularly resistant."
"Ah, so there is a granddaughter." Victor's tone sharpened with interest. "Your reconnaissance wasn't completely useless then. Is she the heir? The decision-maker?"
"She appears to have influence," I admitted, recalling our confrontation yesterday. "She's staying at the farm now. Young, probably early thirties. Quite... passionate about keeping the property."
"Passionate?" Victor chuckled. "Don't tell me the great Logan Westbrook is being swayed by a pretty face and a sob story."
"Hardly," I replied stiffly, though the image of Maisie's fiery hair and flashing eyes rose unbidden in my mind. "I'm simply reporting the obstacles so we can strategize effectively."
"The strategy remains the same," Victor said dismissively. "Find the pressure point and press. If Grandma won't sell, maybe the granddaughter has debts of her own? Student loans? Credit cards? Everyone can be bought, Logan. You taught me that."
A strange uneasiness settled in my stomach. Had I really become so cynical? So transactional? I glanced at my reflection in the window glass, seeing the trendy suit, the carefully styled hair, the polished facade of success I'd constructed over years of single-minded ambition.
"I'll look into it," I promised, more to end the conversation than from genuine enthusiasm for the task.
"Good. And Logan?" Victor's voice hardened. "Remember what's at stake here. The partnership committee meets right after Easter weekend. This deal could be the deciding factor in your advancement."
"I'm aware."
"See that you remain aware. I've got other hungry associates who'd kill for your position."
The call ended, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth. Victor's mentorship had propelled my career, but moments like this made me question the bargain I'd struck. Success at any cost had been my mantra since watching my father crumble after the divorce—a cautionary tale of what happened to men who led with their hearts instead of their heads. Mom, on the other hand, was living the good life now traveling the world with her new boyfriend. Or at least I assumed that was still the case, given that the last time I’d heard from her was two years ago—the day after my birthday.
Sighing, I tucked my phone away and straightened my tie, mentally shifting back into acquisition mode. I needed more information about the O'Malleys and their farm—if they were planning a new business venture of some sort, it might change the financial dynamics of my offer.
Thirty minutes later, I pushed open the door to Phillips' Hardware, a bell jingling cheerfully above my head. Unlike the sterile efficiency of big-box stores, this place had character—wooden floors worn smooth by decades of boot traffic, shelves packed with everything from nails to fishing tackle, and the signature smells of sawdust and metal.
The man behind the counter—presumably, Phillips himself—looked up from his newspaper. His weathered face and calloused hands spoke of a lifetime of practical work. "Help you find something?"
"Just browsing," I replied with a practiced smile, moving toward a display of electrical supplies. "New in town, getting the lay of the land."
Phillips nodded without much interest, returning to his paper. Perfect—I hadn't come to shop but to listen. Two men in paint-splattered coveralls stood near the lumber section, deep in conversation.
"Carter's taken on quite a project with that café renovation," the taller one was saying as he examined a sheet of plywood. "Three weeks ain't much time to convert a barn, even with his experience."
"Nora O'Malley's granddaughter must be some persuasive," his companion replied. "You know how Carter feels about rush jobs."
"Well, it's for Pat O'Malley's granddaughter. Carter would walk through fire for that family." The taller man shook his head. "Besides, everyone knows what's at stake. Bank's breathing down their necks. And if this idea of Maisie's doesn't fly, that vulture from New York will swoop in and, before you know it, they’ll be taking over the whole island and putting us all out of business. "
I suppressed a wince at being cast as the predatory bird in their narrative, focusing instead on the valuable intelligence. So it was true—Maisie was planning to open a business—a restaurant if I’d understood correctly.
It was an ambitious timeline, to put it mildly. Converting an agricultural structure into a commercial food establishment required permits, inspections, equipment installation—none of which happened quickly, especially in small towns with limited resources.
"Heard Piper Summers is already spreading the word on social media," the shorter man continued. "Easter grand opening, farm-to-table breakfast and brunch. Using eggs from the O'Malley hens, produce from their fields."
"It's a nice idea," his friend conceded. "Question is, will it be enough to save the farm?"
I pretended to examine a box of electrical outlets while absorbing this windfall of information. A farm-to-table café might generate some revenue, but would it be sufficient to address what I knew to be substantial mortgage arrears? Even with the most optimistic projections, it seemed unlikely.
Still, I couldn't help feeling a reluctant admiration for Maisie's initiative. Most people facing financial crisis either froze or fled. She was fighting—creating something new from the ashes of disaster. It was... impressive at least, regardless of its probable futility.
I selected a few random items to justify my presence, paid quickly, and headed back into the spring sunshine. My next stop was the local bank, where a carefully cultivated conversation with a loan officer—facilitated by a connection through Sheffield & Associates—confirmed what I'd suspected. The O'Malley farm was indeed on the brink, with foreclosure proceedings set to begin immediately after Easter if significant payment wasn't received.
Armed with this knowledge, I decided to refill my to-go coffee mug and grab a bite at Bayfront Beans, the same place I'd visited yesterday. As I approached, I spotted a familiar figure through the window—a flash of vibrant red hair bent over papers spread across a corner table. Maisie O'Malley, absorbed in what appeared to be floor plans or blueprints, a furrow of concentration between her brows.
An unexpected flutter of anticipation caught me off guard. I paused, considering whether to retreat and avoid another confrontation. The smart move would be to gather intelligence from a distance, not engage directly with the opposition.
But something about her focused intensity drew me forward. Before I could reconsider, I pushed open the door and approached her table.
"Ms. O'Malley," I greeted her. "Planning your counteroffensive?"
She looked up, surprise quickly replaced by wariness. Today she wore a simple green sweater that intensified the blue of her eyes, her hair pulled back in a loose braid with wayward strands escaping around her face. I tried not to notice her loveliness. That was beside the point.
"Mr. Westbrook," she replied coolly. "Funny, I thought birds like you preferred to circle from above, not approach their targets of prey directly."
I smirked but maintained my composure. "I prefer face-to-face negotiations. Less circling, more conversation."
"Is that what we're doing? Negotiating?" She closed the folder before I could get a better look at its contents. "Because from where I'm sitting, there's nothing to negotiate."
"There's always something," I countered, gesturing to the empty chair across from her. "May I?"
She hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. I sat down, noting the half-eaten muffin and nearly empty coffee mug at her elbow.
"Working through lunch?" I asked, genuinely curious.
A flicker of surprise crossed her features—perhaps she'd expected immediate pressure tactics rather than small talk.
"Some of us can't afford to waste time," she replied after a moment.
"Nor resources," I added meaningfully. "Speaking of which, I couldn't help overhearing some local chatter about your plans for the barn. A café, is it?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You've been asking questions about us."
"Information gathering is part of my job," I shrugged. "Just as defending your family's legacy seems to be part of yours."
"It's not just about legacy," she insisted, leaning forward slightly. "It's about sustainability, community, preserving farmland that's been responsibly managed for generations. But I don't expect someone in your line of work to understand that."
"You might be surprised," I replied, thinking of the sustainable development projects I'd championed at Sheffield & Associates—initiatives that unfortunately had been routinely overruled by Victor and the board in favor of maximum profit. "Not all development is destructive."
"Just the kind that paves over hundred-year-old farms without a backward glance?"
I felt an unexpected sting at her assumption. "Our proposal actually preserves significant green space and agricultural elements. It's not wall-to-wall concrete."
"How magnanimous." Her tone dripped sarcasm. "Leaving a few token apple trees while bulldozing the rest?"
The server approached before I could respond, saving us from further escalation. I ordered a Grande double macchiato and a sandwich, grateful for the interruption. When we were alone again, I decided to shift tactics.
"Tell me about your concept," I suggested, aiming for a neutral tone.
She raised an eyebrow. "Why? So you can explain why it won't work?"
"Professional curiosity," I said. "I've overseen several restaurant developments. It's an interesting business model."
She studied me warily, as if searching for the trap in my words. Finally, she sighed. "It's a simple concept. A café serving breakfast and lunch using our own eggs, produce, and preserves. Honoring the agricultural heritage of the property while creating a sustainable revenue stream. I’m thinking of calling it The Little Red Hen."
"And you think this will generate enough income to address the mortgage situation?"
Her shoulders stiffened. "That's our business, not yours."
"It becomes my business when your financial stability affects the viability of my offer," I pointed out. "I'm not trying to be callous here. I'm trying to understand the full picture."
"The full picture is that we're not selling, regardless," she said firmly. "So you're wasting your time."
My order arrived, and I took a moment to take a bite of my bacon, lettuce, and tomato, chewing slowly while I considered my next approach. "Converting a structure into a commercial kitchen is quite an undertaking. Permits alone can take months."
"We have connections in town," she countered. "And Carter Beckett knows every inspector in the county."
"Even so, the timeline is ambitious. Easter is what—three weeks away?"
"Twenty days," she corrected, a hint of anxiety flashing across her face before she masked it.
"And you're planning a grand opening then?"
She nodded, her chin lifting with that same defiance I'd witnessed on the porch. "Easter Sunday brunch. It seemed fitting."
Something about the look in her eyes touched me unexpectedly. I'd seen the same look in my own eyes years ago, when I'd vowed never to be vulnerable again.
"It's a meaningful concept," I admitted. "But banks aren't typically moved by symbolism, Ms. O'Malley."
"Maisie," she said suddenly.
"Pardon?"
"If we're going to keep having these discussions, you might as well call me Maisie. 'Ms. O'Malley' makes me feel like I'm being called to the principal's office."
I felt a smile tug at my lips. "Maisie, then. And I'm Logan."
A small but significant shift had occurred between us—not friendship, certainly, but perhaps a truce of sorts. I found myself unexpectedly pleased by this development.
"Look, Logan," she continued, "I appreciate that you're just doing your job. But this farm means everything to my grandmother—to me. We're not going to surrender it without a fight."
"I never expected you would," I said honestly. "Your grandmother struck me as formidable from the start. And you..." I hesitated, then finished, "Well, you're clearly cut from the same cloth."
A hint of a smile—the first I'd seen from her—transformed her face momentarily. "Is that a compliment or an observation?"
"Both, perhaps." I sipped my coffee, surprised by how much I'd enjoyed that fleeting smile. "Just because we're on opposite sides of this situation doesn't mean I can't recognize grit when I see it."
"We're definitely on opposite sides," she agreed, though some of the hostility had left her voice. "Which begs the question—why are you being almost nice right now?"
"I'm always nice," I protested lightly. "It's part of my sinister charm."
She snorted, but there was a reluctant amusement in her eyes. "Is that what they teach in business school these days? Charm 101, followed by Advanced Property Acquisition?"
"Actually, it's the other way around," I deadpanned. "You need the charm to recover from the acquisition tactics."
This earned me a genuine laugh, the sound warm and unexpectedly captivating. I found myself wanting to hear it again, a desire that sent warning bells ringing in the analytical part of my brain.
Her phone buzzed, breaking the moment. She glanced at the screen and began gathering her papers. "I need to go. Piper—my best friend—is waiting at the paint store."
"Picking out colors for The Little Red Hen?" I asked, rising as she stood.
"Among other things." She tucked the folder under her arm, regarding me with renewed wariness. "This conversation doesn't change anything, you know. We're still not interested in anything you have to offer."
"I didn't expect it to," I assured her. "Though I still think you should at least read my offer before dismissing it entirely."
She paused, then extended her hand. "Fine. Let me see it."
Surprised by the sudden concession, I withdrew the envelope from my jacket pocket and handed it to her. She tucked it into her bag without opening it.
"I'll read it," she promised. "But don't get your hopes up."
"I never do," I replied automatically, though in truth, something dangerously close to hope had begun stirring within me during our conversation—not for the deal, but for... what, exactly? I wasn't sure.
As she turned to leave, I found myself reluctant to end our interaction. "Maisie," I called after her. "For what it's worth, I hope your café is a success."
She looked back, skepticism clear in her expression. "Even though that would mean losing your deal?"
"I didn't say I was rooting against my own interests," I clarified with a small smile. "Just that what you’re doing deserves recognition."
She studied me for a long moment, as if trying to decode some hidden meaning in my words. "Goodbye, Logan," she finally said, neither warm nor cold. Then she was gone, the bell above the door jingling in her wake.
I returned to my seat, unsettled by the encounter in ways I couldn't fully articulate. I should have been strategizing, looking for weaknesses in her plan, calculating how to use the new intel to my advantage. Instead, I found myself dwelling on the way her eyes brightened when she spoke about the café, the passionate conviction in her voice, the musical quality of her laugh.
This was dangerous territory. I'd learned long ago that mixing personal feelings with business led to disaster. There was no such thing as true love, anyway. That was only a fairytale told to children too young to know better.
Yet as I nursed finished the last of my sandwich, I couldn't stop thinking about The Little Red Hen and its fierce creator. What she hoped to accomplish in the next few weeks was simply impossible. The paperwork, the renovations, the equipment installation—it was an uphill battle against both bureaucracy and physics.
Which meant that after Easter, when reality set in and their miracle failed to materialize, the O'Malleys would face the same choice: sell to me or lose everything to the bank.
The thought should have satisfied me. It was the most likely outcome, the path to securing my partnership. Yet instead of triumph, I felt a strange hollowness, as if victory might somehow be defeat in disguise.
I paid my bill and stepped outside, decision made. I needed to see that barn for myself—assess the scale of renovation required. It was just due diligence, I told myself. Nothing to do with my growing fascination with a certain redheaded entrepreneur.
As I walked toward my car, I glanced at the Easter decorations adorning the storefronts. I'd always viewed such sentiments as greeting card platitudes, empty comfort for those who needed to believe in miracles.
Yet something stirred within me at the thought—a long-dormant spark of what might have been hope, or perhaps merely curiosity. Could people truly start again? Could broken things be made whole?
My phone buzzed with Victor's number on the display. I silenced it, postponing the inevitable demands for progress. As I drove toward the outskirts of town, planning my reconnaissance of the O'Malley farm, I couldn't quite convince myself that my interest was purely professional anymore.