Chapter 3
HARPER
Iwas rearranging the spring display for the third time this week. Not because it needed it, but because it gave me something to do besides stare at the empty shop and check my bank account obsessively, watching the numbers refuse to change no matter how many times I refreshed the screen.
The bell above my door chimed, that bright, cheerful sound I'd spent an hour choosing when I first opened, wanting something that would make customers smile. This morning it sounded ominous.
I looked up, my customer service smile already forming, and felt it freeze on my face. The man who entered wasn't a customer. I knew immediately, instinctively, the way prey animals knew when a predator walked into the clearing.
He was tall, well over six feet, and moved with the kind of confidence that came from money or power or both.
His charcoal suit probably cost more than I'd made all month, the fabric catching the light with that subtle sheen that meant quality—expensive.
A crisp white shirt underneath, no tie, collar open just enough to look casual while still screaming wealth.
His shoes were polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the overhead lights with each step across my hardwood floors.
His dark hair was slicked back from an angular face with olive skin and his dark eyes assessed my shop with the same cool calculation I'd seen in real estate agents and tax assessors. The kind of people who looked at things and calculated their worth.
He smiled as our eyes met, and something cold slithered down my spine.
“Can I help you?” My voice came out steadier than I felt, years of customer service training overriding the unease curling in my gut like something alive.
“Harper Walsh?” His voice was smooth with a hint of a European accent, though I couldn't place it exactly. It was the kind of accent that made me think of old money and expensive private schools.
My hands stilled on the display as the hair rose on the back of my neck. How does he know my name?
“That's me.” I kept my smile in place, professional, while my heart picked up speed. “And you are?”
“Armand Beaumont.” He crossed the space between us in three long strides, extending his hand. “I'm a business consultant. I've been reviewing commercial properties in the area, and your boutique caught my attention.”
I stared at the offered hand with its manicured fingers and heavy silver watch that probably cost more than my car, and something in my chest tightened.
Don't touch him. The thought was irrational, intense, but I couldn't make myself reach out.
After a moment that stretched too long to be polite, I clasped my hands together in front of me instead.
“I appreciate the interest, but I'm not looking for consultation. Thank you for stopping by, though.” My voice was clear as I politely declined and moved away from him, back toward my front counter.
My rejection didn't seem to bother him. He withdrew his hand smoothly, unbothered, and began moving deeper into my shop like I'd invited him. His shoes clicked against the hardwood floors I'd refinished myself, each step sounding too loud in the quiet space.
“Of course, of course.” He waved a dismissive hand, trailing his fingers across a rack of spring dresses I'd just put out last week. “Small business owners are fiercely independent. Admirable, really.”
The way he touched my merchandise made my skin crawl.
Like he was already calculating what it would sell for.
He paused at my window display, the soft pastels and floral patterns I'd arranged to suggest spring was coming, hope was possible, better days ahead.
I'd spent three hours getting it just right yesterday, trying to be optimistic despite my bank account screaming the opposite.
“Independence only works when the numbers add up, doesn't it?” He turned to face me, and his smile had shifted into something colder. Knowing.
The air in the boutique suddenly felt too warm, too close, pressing against my skin. “I'm sorry, what—”
“You're months behind on your lease, if I'm not mistaken. Vendors are threatening collections. Insurance payments missed. Credit cards…” He made a sympathetic sound, tilting his head like a predator studying wounded prey. “Maxed out, I'd imagine.”
The floor seemed to tilt under my feet. How does he know that? The question roared through my head, but I couldn't make my voice work, couldn't push words past the tightness in my throat. My hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles going white, bones pressing against skin.
“How do you—” I finally managed before he cut me off.
“I make it my business to know these things, Ms. Walsh.” He pulled a sleek business card from his jacket pocket and set it on my counter with precise care.
Thick, black-colored cardstock, the kind that cost extra.
The soft tap of it sounded too loud in the quiet boutique.
“I represent investors who specialize in helping entrepreneurs in difficult situations. We offer very favorable terms. Loans with flexible repayment schedules. No credit checks, no judgment. Just…support.”
“I don't need a loan.” The lie tasted sour.
“Don't you?” Armand tilted his head again, studying me with those calculating eyes that saw too much. “Your landlord gave you thirty days to catch up or vacate the premises, didn't he?”
The blood drained from my face. My fingers went numb where they gripped the counter.
“That's private information. You shouldn't have access to—”
“Ms. Walsh.” He moved closer, and I stepped back instinctively, my body screaming to put distance between us. “I'm not here to threaten you. I'm here to offer help, genuine help. My clients believe in supporting local businesses, especially those run by resilient young women like yourself.”
The way he said resilient made me feel anything but. It made me feel small and cornered and exposed, like a mouse trapped by a cat.
“I appreciate the offer.” I forced steel into my voice that I didn't feel. “But I'm handling it. I don't need outside investors.”
“I see.” Armand picked up his card again, holding it between two fingers like it was something precious. “Then I suppose I'll leave you to it. But please, keep this. In case you change your mind.”
He extended the card toward me. I didn't move. After a moment, he set it down on the counter with another soft tap that felt like a threat.
“You have a lovely shop.” He moved toward the door with that same predatory grace. “It would be a shame to see it close. This location is prime real estate on Main Street. Someone would snatch it up immediately if it became available.”
My hands curled into fists at my sides. “It's not becoming available.”
This boutique was mine. The only thing I'd ever built from nothing, the only dream I'd managed to hold onto when everything else had fallen apart.
I had plans once I climbed out from under this suffocating debt.
Monthly trunk shows featuring local artisans, the kind of events that would draw crowds and build community.
Pop-up markets where Wyoming craftspeople could sell alongside my curated pieces, turning the boutique into a hub instead of just another store.
I wanted to carry handmade jewelry, pottery, leather goods from artists whose work deserved a platform.
Transform this space into something that mattered, something that connected people.
“Of course not.” He paused at the door, one hand on the handle, and looked back over his shoulder. The morning light caught his face, highlighting the sharp angles and cold calculation in his eyes. “But if circumstances change, well, you know where to find me.”
The bell chimed as he left, that cheerful sound now making my stomach turn.
I stood frozen, every muscle locked tight, watching through the window as Armand crossed Main Street.
An expensive black SUV was parked illegally at the curb, blocking a fire hydrant.
A bigger man with broader shoulders and a heavy brow sat in the driver's seat.
Armand climbed into the passenger seat, saying something to the driver, and they both turned to look at my boutique before the SUV pulled away, disappearing around the corner toward the edge of town.
My legs finally gave out.
I sank onto the stool behind my counter, hands shaking so badly I had to press them against my thighs to steady them. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape. My throat was tight and sweat prickled along my forehead despite the February chill.
He knew everything. How?
I grabbed my phone with trembling fingers and pulled up Anna's contact.
My thumb hovered over the call button. I should tell her, or at least someone.
But what would I even say? A man offered me a loan?
He knew about my financial problems? That wasn't illegal.
Maybe he'd just done his research, looked up public records to find struggling businesses.
I set the phone down without calling. Anna had enough to worry about, I couldn't dump my problems on her, couldn't always be the friend who was struggling, always needing something.
And Connor…I could've told him before everything fell apart between us. He would've rushed into town to make sure I was okay, would've stood between me and any threat without hesitation. But I'd ruined that by being unable to keep my opinions to myself.
I picked up Armand's business card, turning it over in my hand.
The embossed logo caught the light, those intertwined initials that could've been AB or maybe EA or something else entirely.
The phone number stared back at me in elegant silver script.
No company name. No address. Nothing that said legitimate business. Everything that screamed trap.
My hand moved toward my jeans pocket, intending to shove the card in there and forget about it. Then I stopped. No.