Chapter 2
Landon
“It’s done?” my brother asks on the other end of our video call. He’s leaning close to the camera, green eyes—a match to mine—bright with excitement.
I flip the camera and show him the view from the estate’s backyard. “Signed the paperwork this morning.” The rock-strewn patio spreads beneath my feet to a stacked-stone wall at the edge of the cliff. Beyond, the ocean sparkles, the day abnormally clear for the Pacific Northwest.
I pivot the camera so he can see the house. “It’s ours.”
No one would guess the crumbling fifteen-thousand-square-foot French-chateau-inspired mansion had been the pinnacle of elegance when it was built over a century ago.
Steepled slate roof, tall arched windows, and ornate terraces that stretch to the edge of the bluff rivaled anything the Rockefellers created.
Now, the walls look ready to fall. Dying trees crowd the roofline. Mother nature is one squall from reclaiming the house.
The lack of care is why we bought the fifteen hundred acres it sits on for such a steal—even after I didn’t haggle too viciously when the former owner countered my bid by more than fifty percent.
Either way, adding this property to our portfolio is a win. My brother and I need a place to unwind from the hectic pace of our lives.
Now I need to make our dream a reality.
“Is it everything we remember?” Oliver asks. “You have the napkin?”
A chuckle escapes my lips. “I have it.” I retrieve the folded paper from my pocket and shake it in front of the camera lens. “Stop worrying.”
“Did we get the details right?”
One drunken night after his girlfriend broke his heart, we sat at a bar and drew the blueprint for our dream. I immediately remembered the estate in Rainwater Bay from our childhood and knew it would serve our purposes.
Our parents had been visiting Pine Ridge and Rainwater Bay to meet with business associates every year since I was a kid. When not dragged to meetings to learn the business, Oliver and I were left to our own devices. We’d hike to this estate and spend the day exploring.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Oliver is as giddy as a little girl adopting her first puppy.
“I told you I’d take care of it.” It’s perfect for a retreat, with plenty of land for ten cabins to host friends and business acquaintances.
“You take care of everything, but…this is different.”
“It is.” This is the first project Oliver and I have undertaken that lacks a clear financial benefit. The Webber’s taxes and accrued interest alone would bankrupt a normal investor.
But we aren’t normal.
Restoring the house and building cabins might make a tiny profit when we rent them, but that’s not the goal.
Escape is.
A getaway when business is overwhelming, when we can’t take a full breath.
We’ve never made rest a priority before. My stomach squirms when I imagine the fallout if I step away from work, even for a week, but we can’t keep up our current pace.
After his break up, Oliver practically killed himself working too hard.
I’ve seen too many of my parents’ contemporaries get old before their time. Stress, anxiety, and overwhelm rob them of the reason they’re amassing so much wealth.
Why have a billion dollars in the bank if you can’t enjoy them?
I don’t want that life for my brother.
If his heartbreak taught me anything, it’s that you need to invest in the things that truly matter.
Family.
Friends. As in, making some. Moving past shallow acquaintance and really getting to know the people I do business with.
Our health.
Leaving a legacy no one can tear down. Oliver will remember the night in the bar for the rest of his life. Not because I bought the best whiskey money could buy, but because his big brother was there for him when he needed me most.
That’s what I want. To make a difference in a way that can’t be quantified.
This estate is the first step to helping us live better lives.
I turn the camera back to face me. “When can you get here?”
He leans back on his elbow, stretching out in his bed on the salvage ship he’s captaining. “Dad’s got me on this rig for another three months. Depends how the dive goes. If we find what he’s after on the wreck and get the data for mom’s new suits…maybe sooner.”
Tires squeal in the pebbled driveway behind me. A baby blue Mini Cooper parks next to the Land Rover I rented for the month.
A brunette with sunglasses balanced on her head sits in the driver’s seat. She stretches and flexes her fingers around the steering wheel. Her lips move, but she appears to be alone. Maybe she’s finishing a phone call.
“I’ve got company. Let me know if I can help you—”
“I know how to run a dive. This isn’t my first salvage.”
“Just call me if you need me. Love you.”
“Love you too. And thanks for doing the footwork on the estate. You know I appreciate it.”
We finish the call, my throat clogging with unexpected sentiment. I’m glad I’m helping him out, but I don’t have time for emotion.
I lift my hand and wave at my uninvited guest, but she doesn’t return the gesture.
She knows I see her, right?
I take a few steps closer to the car and emphasize my arm movement. I see you.
Our gazes meet, and something flashes in her expression. Annoyance? Arrogance? I can’t be sure.
She climbs from the car and adds a fake smile. “Good morning.”
“Hello.” I use my politest voice. All the better to charm her with.
Her shoulders roll back. Holding her hand out, she closes the fifty feet between us at a rapid clip that makes her flowing burgundy skirt swish behind her. “I’m Mayor Winslow.”
“Mayor?” Not possible. The Mayor Winslow I know is the one who gave my dad an ulcer all those years ago.
An overweight, balding man with a perpetual grimace.
This woman can’t be more than twenty-two years old.
Twenty-four, tops. No one in their right mind elects someone so young to such a prestigious position.
She tilts her chin defiantly. “That’s right. Mayor. And you are?”
“Landon Prince.” I clasp her hand. She has a powerful grip. Not a dainty little pinch, but she’s also not trying to break the bones in my hand.
Assertive, but not domineering. I appreciate it.
Too bad for her my hand dwarfs hers, and there’s no world in which she has more power than me. “You aren’t the Mayor Winslow pictured on Rainwater Bay’s website.”
Is she related to the man who refused my dad’s business proposals fifteen years ago? That Mayor Winslow didn’t want outsiders interfering in any way. I purposely avoided him and took the Webbers straight to the state when we wanted to buy the estate.
“Are you recently elected?” I ask.
She flutters her eyelashes. “Something like that.”
“I see.” We stare at each other and let the silence hang.
Objectively, she’s a beautiful woman. In her heeled cowboy boots, the top of her head barely reaches my chin.
Toned legs, bright teeth, hair with a subtle curl to the ends, signifying she put effort into her appearance but didn’t go overboard.
Her eyes are a brilliant hazel that reflect the sun.
Same as the mayor I remember from my teenage years.
His daughter, then?
An air of naivety and innocence I normally don’t encounter surrounds her. My guess is she’s hiding fear behind her bravado. Maybe she was giving herself a pep talk in the car because she’s new to the job.
It doesn’t matter.
She has no control over this estate or my purchase. So why is she here? What does she want?
“How can I help you, Mayor Winslow?”
She adds more teeth to her fake smile, but the matching crinkly lines around her eyes are missing. “Oh, I just wanted to stop by. Introduce myself and welcome you to town.” She gestures to the view behind me. “This will make a lovely home for your family.”
I don’t miss how her gaze pops to my left hand and back to my face. Her eyes widen ever so slightly with a tinge of panic.
No ring. No family. Not the grizzled, old man looking to hide in retirement she hoped to find.
She’s not so na?ve and innocent, then.
I’ve played this game before too. The make the harmless assumption and get me to spill my plan so she knows how to manipulate me game. It’s a common one in my business circles.
I’m not a fan. It never works.
It’s derivative and insulting that she doesn’t come out and ask what I’m doing here. Silence stretches. She waits for me to correct her and fill in the flaws in her logic.
I won’t be doing that. If she wants information, she needs to come out and ask me for it.
I match her plastic smile with one of my own. All teeth. “Good day, Mayor.” I bow slightly.
Her head tilts to the side, and a crease divides her forehead as her brown hair tumbles over the shoulder of her leather jacket. “Excuse me?”
“I’m a busy man.” I walk past her toward the house.
“Wait.” Panic rings in her tone.
I call over my shoulder. “You aren’t the first public official” —I put a heavy dose of sarcasm in my tone— “who has shown up on my doorstep to sweet talk me into or out of whatever you want, so spit it out. I have work to do.”
The sweet, innocent act is probably why she’s pretending to be mayor in her dad’s place. Disarm people with her innocence until she gets what her dad wants. Neat trick, pimping out your daughter for information.
I’m not falling for the act. I’ve faced titans of tech and real estate magnates without an ounce of nerves or a drop of sweat.
I won’t be derailed by an upstart mayor faking innocent curiosity.
She scurries to catch up. “Spit what out?”
“Why are you here? What ultimatum, warning, favor are you looking to secure?”
She drops the fake smile and gestures to the house. “What’s your plan for the estate?”
I stop walking, turn, and hold my hands out, palms up. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”
She scowls at my non-answer.
I tug my lapels straight. “That’s my business.”
I don’t need to explain my plan. At least, not today. She’ll know when I submit permits. Until then, this project is my closely guarded baby.