Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
JACKSON
My Audi R8 looks extremely out of place in the pothole-infested parking lot of Dog Days Inn. The inn my grandmother conveniently forgot to mention that she owned.
Admittedly, I expected it to be a bit run-down. Looking at it now, I’m pleasantly surprised. The building was, at one time, some kind of estate house from the nineteenth century, but it has since been renovated and expanded. There is a modern addition at the back of the building as well as a glass-panelled atrium off to the right side. Based on my minimal research, the atrium holds the inn’s restaurant.
An incoming call sounds over my car’s speakers, pulling my attention away from the building. I accept with the press of a button on my steering wheel as I maneuver into a parking spot. At least, I think it’s a spot—with no yellow lines to delineate, I’m just crossing my fingers that no one gets too close and scratches my paint.
“Hey,” Wells says, “have you made it yet?”
I’ve known Wells McKenna for as long as I can remember. We grew up together in Toronto, attending the same private schools. My father is a bigwig in the music industry, while Wells’s father is a movie producer and his mother is an actress. As a consequence of this, Wells and I share a healthy aversion to the spotlight.
“Just pulled in.”
“I Googled the place. It’s really in the middle of nowhere, huh?”
Fraisier Creek is three hours north of the city, but it might as well be on a totally different planet. As I drove, I traded in the skyscrapers and bumper-to-bumper traffic for sprawling farmland and the occasional gas station that reminds you civilization isn’t too far out of reach.
“Just how Cherie liked it.”
My grandmother had a knack for going off the grid. When she decided she’d had enough—attention, social interaction—she would simply pull out a map and choose a spot at random. She would lie low for a while, and then she would come home, starting the cycle all over again.
“How’s the heart?” Wells asks.
My lip curls at his question. “You sound like my mother.”
“Hey, I choose to see that as a compliment. Your mother is a gem.”
“Try being on the receiving end of her incessant phone calls and then tell me how much of a gem she is.”
“She’s just worried, man. It was scary for her.” He clears his throat. “It was scary for all of us.”
My grandmother’s request for me to take care of myself flashes in my mind. One way or another, Cherie always gets what she wants. Because now I’m here in Fraisier Creek to pay my dues.
I sigh. “My heart is fine.”
Maybe fine-adjacent is a better descriptor. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Glad to hear it,” he says. “I’ve gotta run, but I’ll talk to you later. Let me know how your meeting goes.”
I say a quick goodbye before exiting the car. Then I tug my suit jacket from the passenger seat and shrug it over my shoulders, adjusting the cuffs before buttoning it at my front.
After wearing a suit nearly every day for five straight years, it would be a hard habit to break. I’m not sure I even want to—putting on a suit feels like donning armour and gearing up for battle. Something I have a feeling I’m going to need today if I don’t want the cracks in my fa?ade to show.
I don’t pay much attention to the main lobby of the inn as I enter. After all, I have six months to thoroughly inspect the place—and I plan to do just that. Instead, I make my way toward the restaurant that juts off the side of the main building.
On my walk, a framed photograph catches my eye. I recognize Cherie—though she’s about thirty years younger than she was when she died—standing next to an unfamiliar woman. They’re both smiling as they embrace in front of the inn. I touch a hand to the frame, and then I carry on.
The atrium appears bigger inside than it does on the outside. Square-panelled glass stretches the perimeter and over the roof, allowing the spring sunshine to filter in through translucent panes. It’s only April, but the weather is mild and the sun is blazing, warming the space .
“Take your pick,” a willowy redhead calls from behind the bar, gesturing to the slew of tables. “As you can see, we’ve got a full house.”
I glance around the decidedly not full house. Other than two people at a booth in the far corner, and a man and little boy at a square table in the centre, the place is empty. This lack of customers doesn’t seem to bode well for the business’s bottom line.
Yet another sign that Cherie shouldn’t have been involved in this place. It’s probably a money pit.
I make my way to a table across the room, away from the few other patrons. Unbuttoning my jacket, I take a seat as I let my gaze roam the restaurant.
“Can I get you a drink?” the redhead asks, still standing at the bar.
“Please. Water’s fine,” I reply. “Thank you.”
My perusal continues. The interior, much like the outside, is charming. It’s certainly nothing like the hotels and restaurants I generally frequent. They’re all modern finishings and sleek lines. Although the atrium is clearly an addendum, the bones of this place have stood the test of time, and features like the wallpaper in the hallway suggest a string of renovations over the decades.
“Here you go.”
A glass of water slides across the tabletop. It’s in one of those cutesy glasses that’s made to look like a Mason jar. My gaze trails up a slender arm and to the face that belongs to that pretty voice.
The first thing I notice is startling blue eyes. They’re clear and bright like water from a melting glacier. She has a heart- shaped face, and a prominent Cupid’s bow on pink lips. A gem glints from where her nose is pierced.
My eyes involuntarily follow the curves of her body. I note the way her black v-neck shirt dips to reveal ample cleavage. In her jeans, her hips flare in the most delicious way, and I itch to settle my hands there.
When she brings her right hand up to tease out a tangle in her long blonde hair, I notice a small tattoo on the side of her wrist. Her movements are quick, but I think I catch it—a strawberry.
My tongue flits out, wetting my bottom lip. It’s not often I indulge my attractions. Work keeps me plenty busy, so there isn’t much time for eating or sleeping. Much less socializing in the hopes of finding someone to spend the night with.
But for once in my adult life, I don’t have work to think about. And something tells me this woman would be the sweetest kind of indulgence.
“Anything else I can get you?” she asks.
“No, I think that’s all.” She turns, ready to walk away, but then I change my mind. “Actually, wait.”
Before I can think better of it, my fingers are closing around her wrist. Shit . We both look down at my offence at the same time. I’m not the guy that manhandles waitresses.
“Sorry,” I apologize, retracting my hand. “I just meant to ask you a question.”
Her lips quirk. She rests back on the edge of a nearby table, bracing her beverage tray on her thighs. It’s inexplicable, but I find the action to be sexy as hell.
“Ask away.”
“What’s your favourite thing about working here? ”
I can’t help myself—it’s the analyst in me. My career may be on pause for the time being while my body gets its shit together, but I can’t turn off the part of my brain that thrives on data.
At my question, something ignites in her gaze. She juts her chin in the direction of outside. “We’re right off the highway,” she says, “so we see a lot of people passing through. Mostly truckers during the winter, and a slew of tourists during the holidays and in the summer. I like hearing their stories. How much alimony they pay their ex wives; that time they stole an overpriced pair of jeans; how they’re still in love with the one that got away.”
“People truly offer up personal information to you like that?”
“Nothing beats confiding in a stranger you’ll never see again.” She shrugs. “Sometimes, I’m the most human interaction these people see all week. Makes them feel good to connect with me. And I like to connect with them, too.”
I take a sip of my water. My nose twitches. It tastes kind of… fishy . Nothing like the sparkling water I usually get at restaurants in the city.
“A regular extrovert,” I say.
At this, she grins. “Or I’m just really nosy,” she counters. “Like this. What brings you to town?”
I chuckle. “Business.”
“My God, please spare me the details. My delicate sensibilities can’t handle all this talking.”
The smile I wear stretches my lips impossibly wide. “Fine. Maybe you can put your connections to good use and help me out. Give me an inside scoop,” I say. “I have a meeting with a lawyer and someone named Meyer Ellison tomorrow morning.”
At this, her demeanour changes completely. Gone is her smile. Instead, her eyes narrow on me. “No, you don’t.”
Her tone takes me aback. “Uh… Yes, I do. I’ve been emailing him for a couple weeks now.”
She hums. “I think it’s time I introduce myself,” she says. She sets her tray on the empty table behind her and unties her apron. Then she sticks out her hand. “Meyer Ellison, soon-to-be owner of Dog Days Inn. And the woman you absolutely do not have a meeting with tomorrow morning. Or any morning, for that matter.”
Fuck . Two epic blunders in the span of one goddamn conversation. You’ve lost your touch, Vaughan .
I stand from my seat and tuck my hand into hers. Her grip is firmer than I expect, but I suppose at this point, I should throw all my preconceived notions out the window. “Jackson Vaughan,” I say.
Meyer settles into the chair opposite me. I retake my seat, eyes still on her.
“I’d say sorry that I disappointed you by not having a dick, but I’m actually not sorry about that at all.”
I clear my throat. “I apologize. The name threw me off. I?—”
“Have a habit of making assumptions,” she finishes. “You’re not the first big shot to underestimate me, and you won’t be the last. It’s your stupid mistake to make.”
“Okay. First impression, total shit on my part,” I admit. “Any chance we can start over?”
She cocks her head, assessing me. “Depends. ”
“On?”
“Why you think you have a meeting with me. And what this supposed meeting is about.”
My brows furrow. “I’m here to talk about the future of the inn.”
“Well, I don’t really see how that’s any of your business.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, “I feel like there’s some kind of knowledge disconnect here. So I’m just going to go ahead and lay everything out on the table.”
Her nod is condescending. “That would be a good idea.”
“My grandmother was Cherie Cheval. For God knows what reason, she owned half of this inn. Now that she has passed, her shares have been left to me.”
Meyer blinks. “Is that supposed to be funny? Because your standup routine needs some work.”
I shake my head. “I’m not trying to be funny.”
She crosses her arms. “I have never emailed with you. I’ve never even heard of you before.”
I pull out my phone and open my thread with Meyer. Or, apparently, whoever was pretending to be Meyer. “Here,” I say, nudging the device across the table. “Believe me now?”
Her eyes rove over the words. After a moment, I hear her curse under her breath. “That was not me.”
Taking my phone back, I tuck it into my pocket. “Well, you’ve obviously got a cyber security issue on your hands, but the fact still remains. As stated in the terms of Cherie’s will, I own half of this place.”
She shakes her head. “This inn belongs to my mother, and soon it will belong to me. You are not part of the equation. As much as I loved her, neither was Cherie. ”
“Maybe you should have a talk with your mother, then, because it seems she’s fed you false information."
Meyer glares. “I think I’m inclined to believe my own mother over some stranger .”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Look, Meyer?—”
“ Ms. Ellison .” Those bright blue eyes I was admiring earlier are frosty now. “It’s Ms. Ellison, Mr. Vaughan.”
“ Ms. Ellison ,” I amend, “if it was up to me, my grandmother would’ve had no part in your business. But the reality is that she did . And now I do.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do you the courtesy of waiting until after you leave to have a good laugh at your expense." She fakes a grimace. “I bet it’ll be really embarrassing when you find out you’re wrong.”
I smirk. “I believe that’s what they call projection.”
She huffs as she stands from her chair. “If you're not going to order food, get out of my restaurant, Vaughan!” she calls over her shoulder. “We need the table for paying customers, not stingy rich guys who take advantage of free water.”
I raise my glass in mock toast. “Lovely to meet you, Ms. Ellison. I’m looking forward to tomorrow!”