Chapter Eight
Autumn pushed the flusher and sagged to the floor, curling up in a ball on the towel she’d managed to spread out on the bathroom tiles. She pushed the plush terrycloth back, laid her sizzling cheek on the cold ceramic, and tried to muster enough mental energy to determine if she was actually dying.
She had no idea what time it was or how long she’d been in here, alternating between sprawled on the floor in a state of low panic, thinking she might truly have poisoned herself to a slow, horrible death by Jameson, and flopping her head into the toilet bowl to dry-heave out strings of what might be bile, or maybe the actual lining of her stomach. But it was still dark outside, so dawn hadn’t happened yet.
Not since her sorority days had she gotten so obscenely drunk or been so violently hung over.
Back then, she’d puke, swallow some Tylenol, gather the girls for a greasy diner breakfast and all would be well again. Now she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to stand again without puking.
Just like those old days, her brain apparently never turned off. She’d lost count of her drinks last night, but that was the only thing she couldn’t remember, up to and including kissing Cox and then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, asking him to stay with her because she was scared.
Humiliation kicked her stomach again, and she dragged herself up to retch into the toilet. This time not even foamy bile came up. She was finally empty. She sank back to the cool tile.
She’d puked twice last night, too. Cox had held her hair back and cleaned her up.
And he had stayed with her. She’d woken alone, but she remembered snuggling up in his arms last night; in particular, she remembered how sheltered she’d felt. Like he was holding back all the shit in her head that had compelled her to keep tossing whiskey down like it was water, and she could relax.
But Cox couldn’t stand her. He’d called her a snake to her face. Now he was probably laughing with his ‘brothers’ over what a pathetic drunk she was.
Sweet Jesus, she needed to slip out of town through the back door and never come back.
But right now, she flopped the washcloth Cox had left for her over her head again. It wasn’t cold anymore, or particularly wet, but it soothed her anyway as she slipped back into oblivion.
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~oOo~
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When she opened her eyes again, she was bone-cold and stiff as ice, her heartbeat was a timpani drum behind her eyes—but her stomach seemed quieter. Apparently rumors of her death had been exaggerated. She pushed herself—slowly—up to sit cross-legged and leaned back against the wall. This time the room did not pitch like a fishing boat in a squall.
The ambient light through the open bathroom door reported that morning had broken; more than that, she still didn’t know. Her Apple watch was dead on her wrist, and her phone was ... she didn’t know. Maybe still in her jeans, which she’d discarded in a panic when she’d first wakened to profound illness and she’d started stripping before she’d rolled out of the bed.
Everything still hurt, but now less in the ‘I’m drowning in lava’ way and more in the ‘why did I drink so much’ way.
It didn’t matter what time it was. Until she had her shit together enough to face this day in particular and her life in general, she was going to sit right here on the bathroom floor, in her panties and nothing else, and focus on getting her shit together.
First and foremost: as badly as she wanted to sneak out of town and forget the words ‘Signal Bend’ had ever caught her attention, she now had enough command of her faculties to know she absolutely could not do that. She’d gone all in and way out on a limb on this project. If she tried and failed, her job was at risk; at the very least she could expect a demotion. But if she bailed on it, after convincing Chase not to lowball any sellers they’d closed deals with, not only her job but her entire career would go up in flames.
One drunken night, no matter how humiliating, could not undo her life’s work. She had to put on her big girl pants, do her makeup and hair, and go out into Signal Bend today like she had nothing to be embarrassed or afraid of.
Thinking the word afraid reminded her of the guy who’d slammed her to the wall and choked her. She put her hand to her throat; it was tender. Between the puking and the choking, that whole area was pretty unhappy this morning.
But a sore throat was invisible, and the same makeup that did such a good job concealing the freckles she despised would cover up whatever marks that jerk had left on her throat.
So. It was time to stand up and deal with her life.
Moving with experimental deliberation, Autumn rolled to her knees first. After years of yoga, she could normally rise from the floor without need of her hands, but she wasn’t taking any chances this morning (if in fact it was still morning). She put her hands on the side of the tub, put one foot under her, took a beat to make sure the world remained steady, then the other foot, and slowly eased upward until she was standing.
Her head thought this was a spectacularly disastrous idea, but other than the 1812 Overture going on inside her skull, she was solid. Solid-ish. Solid enough.
Then she got her first glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sink and just about passed out again.
Her hair was like a snarled ball of copper wire. Her smeared makeup and general unwellness had conspired to darken the skin beneath her eyes so she looked like a road-killed raccoon. And there was an actual purple hand on her throat. Four distinct fingers on one side, one doubly distinct thumb on the other.
Holy shit. Good thing she had the good makeup.
She started the shower and pulled her toothbrush and toothpaste out of her toiletry kit.
When she walked out into the world, even Daniel Cox himself would wonder if he’d imagined last night. Because she meant to look and behave as if nothing bad had ever happened to her and she felt fantastic.
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~oOo~
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Brushing the taste and feel of puke and stale Jameson out of her mouth made a measurable improvement. A long, hot shower full of all the pampering she’d brought with her—two shampooings, deep conditioner, face wash, body shampoo—got her to about fifty percent. Lotion after she dried off, wrapping herself in the B she remembered a crowd of people gathered when the guy had grabbed her. Maybe they’d been rooting for him. Surely they’d watched her get drunk. Probably (Autumn’s stomach stirred uncomfortably) they’d seen her puking in the grass.
She doubted anybody would be feeling sorry for her today. Or be glad to see her at all.
But that was okay. Their Spring Fling started this afternoon, and she’d be there, buying things from the booths, clapping at the floats in the parade, whatever she had to do to participate in a friendly, unthreatening way. And she’d work her ass off to get the Horde on board.
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~oOo~
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Back in the room—bright sun flowed cheerily through the windows—she saw a sheet of ivory paper on the floor just inside the door. It couldn’t be the bill; she wasn’t checking out today. Curious, Autumn detoured in that direction and bent—head thumping a warning—to pick it up.
It was a handwritten note on inn stationery:
Dear Ms. Rooney,
I hope you’re feeling better this morning. On the table just outside your door, we’ve left a basket with packets of aspirin and antacid, some fruit and crackers, and a lavender-infused headache compress. If you’re up to a more robust breakfast, please call down to the desk, and we will bring it up to your room, or of course you’re welcome to dine in the dining room. Breakfast service ends at ten, but Chef Nate takes requests throughout the day, between meal prep times. Please let us know if there’s anything you need. All best,
Shannon Ryan
Autumn read the note twice. It was both sweet (even if, as she suspected, it might have been written with a smirk) and mortifying. She hadn’t entertained any delusions about her escapades going unnoticed, but knowing that people who hadn’t even been around last night were fully aware of her shame—
No. Stop that, Autumn Renee March-Rooney. You stop that right this second. What did your dads teach you about shame?
Her wonderful gay fathers had taught her that shame was a choice. People could tease you, laugh at you, point at you, yes. They could condemn you, judge you, denigrate you, even hate you. But shame, embarrassment, humiliation—that was a choice. You could not control how other people saw you or what other people did or said to or about you, but you had total control over whether you took their meanness on and let it change you.
Last night, she’d gotten drunk. People got drunk every single day. Had she hurt anyone? Broken anything? Flouted any laws? No, she had not.
So she would collect her basket of goodies from outside the door, find her phone, figure out what she had to deal with first thing, and then she would call down to the desk and order a good greasy breakfast like she and her Alpha Phi sisters used to get.
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~oOo~
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About an hour later—which made it almost ten o’clock—Autumn finished her second cup of excellent coffee and set her cup and napkin on the room service tray. Chef Nate made the best biscuits and gravy Autumn had ever had in her life. After that delicious breakfast, she was about eighty-five percent restored and finally felt capable of whatever this day might hold.
Still in the hotel robe and slippers, now with her damp hair loose and combed-through, she leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on the one across from her at the little dining table. She picked up her phone and planned her approach to the messages there.
Three calls—from Chase, from Pom, and from Pops. Only Pops had left a voice mail. In his typically adorable formal style, he’d introduced himself: Hello, Autumn, this is your Pops. Just checking in to make sure you arrived safely. Please let me know. I’ll be home all night, but I’m in court first thing tomorrow. Leave a message if I can’t pick up. I love you. Again, this is your Pops.
Grinning, she tapped his number—and got his voice mail: Hello. This is Richard Rooney. Thank you for calling. I’m unable to answer at the moment, but please leave a message, and I will return your call as appropriate. Have a pleasant day.
“Hi, Pops. I’m sitting here at the inn in Signal Bend in a comfy robe and slippers, and I just ate a delightful room service breakfast. I had good travel karma this time, not even a slight delay anywhere, and I’m doing great. I’ll be home Monday evening. I hope you’re kicking butt in court. I love you bunches and bunches!”
She loved him so much she could kiss her phone. But she refrained and opened her message app again. Chase and Pom had both left texts rather than voice mails. And Ida, her best (only, honestly) friend, had, of course, only texted, like a normal person.
Chase’s text read DON’T FUCK THIS UP. Autumn stared at it for the third time this morning, sucking her teeth. It wasn’t an unusual text from him, or an unusual sentiment. Chase was the kind of corporate beast that made anti-capitalists point and go see what we mean? His favorite novel—and Autumn suspected the only one he’d ever read in its entirety—was Atlas Shrugged.
It was like he’d studied Alec Baldwin’s character from Glenngarry Glen Ross, Leonardo DiCaprio’s character from The Wolf of Wall Street, and Michael Douglas’s character from Wall Street and decided to Frankenstein them all into his own personality. Though all three of those characters actually worked harder than Chase ever had.
They’d had words last evening, when he’d called before she’d left the room. They’d also had words the previous night, when he’d called as she was packing. The gist of those two calls and this one text was the same: Chase was giving her enough rope to hang herself with. She’d pushed him hard on this project, he resented being in a position of any kind of uncertainty, and he was done making way. Either her Heartland Homesteads succeeded spectacularly, or she was done at MWGP.
Autumn had put up with a lot of boorish behavior from both Charlton Isleys, behavior that usually walked, and occasionally crossed, the line between annoying and inappropriate, without quite ever reaching the point of harassment. She’d put up with it because she otherwise really liked her job. Most of her working life she was on her own, and she loved not having anyone breathing down her neck every day. Chase didn’t like to actually work, so he was a fantastic delegator and usually stayed out of her way once the money part was finalized. He was far more likely to wave off a report and tell her to do what she thought was right, that was why he’d hired her.
But she’d upset that paradigm by trying to change the way MWGP did business, at least in this particular sector. Chase had let her play her project out, but he regretted it the minute she hit her first snag acquiring the properties. By leaning on her excellent track record, she’d convinced him to go deeper rather than pull the plug, and now they were all in too deep to fail.
She considered a few ways to respond to this latest message, including simply leaving it on read. Finally she decided a simple ‘thumbs up’ would be work as an actual response that was vague enough that she could insist it was nothing more than agreement when what she really meant was Eat glass, jerk.
Pom’s message was: I see you made it to Hicksville! Ride a cowboy for me! (That was a joke—don’t you dare ride any Hicksville cowboys! At least not until you’re sure he’s bathed and had all his shots!) Love you love you love you, Gingersnap. Lunch on Wednesday, right? He ended with a line of hearts arranged in rainbow colors, separated by flower emojis.
They had lunch every Wednesday, but he always asked. Since the divorce, Pom, whose miles-wide jealous streak had been among the problems in the marriage, was extra needy. In addition to being extra overall. He needed consistent assurance that he was getting as much attention from her as Pops—and consistently tried to get more.
Also, he refused to stop tracking her phone, and she’d finally conceded that fight. She supposed it was good for someone always to know where she was. Or where her phone was, at least.
Yep, I’m here, and all’s well. No plans to ride any cowboys, for you or for me. Lunch on Wednesday, as usual, absolutely. Love you love you love you, PomPom.
As she typed the second sentence, an image of Cox stepped forward in her mind. There had been a few times last night, and not only while she could blame it on the whiskey, when she’d found him attractive enough to have felt some flutters of real interest. She remembered those random bursts of poetry he’d uttered—and also how he’d saved her life, truly saved her, twice. And how he’d beaten her attacker up. And how he’d climbed into bed beside her to hold her when she’d told him (ugh, her stupid drunken mouth) that she was afraid.
None of that mattered, of course. He was good looking, he was apparently kinder than she’d realized, but that didn’t mean they really liked each other. He’d also called her ‘plastic,’ and a ‘snake,’ after all. He was a decent man, but he was no fan of hers.
Nor was she a fan of his. Not at all.
Anyway, Indianapolis was more than three hundred miles away from Signal Bend, and Autumn didn’t do one-night stands or long-distance relationships.
Which did not matter, because She. Did. Not. Like. Him.
Shoving Daniel Hates-His-Name Cox to the back of her brain, she opened Ida’s text.
That one was a dim, out-of-focus sneak-photo taken at their gym, of a very fit Asian man in basketball shorts and a tank top doing biceps curls with what appeared to be about fifty pounds on the dumbbell. Ida had followed the photo up with Wants coffee tomorrow afternoon. What do we think?
Ida was biracial, with a Black father and a Japanese mother, a racial and cultural combination the whole Greenway family called ‘Blackanese.’ When it came to dating, which Ida did with much more enthusiasm and frequency than Autumn, she mostly dated Asian men. She insisted it wasn’t a specific limiter so much as an aesthetic preference, but they’d been friends since high school, and Autumn knew every man and boy Ida had ever dated. Her ‘aesthetic preference’ for Asian men was strong.
Cute! Autumn wrote back. Right in your wheelhouse. So why the question?
Ellipses popped up almost at once, and Ida replied:
Hey girl! How’re those butts treating you this time?
About like last time. But today is a new day.
Operation Win-Em-Over engaged.
What’s your worry about Bicep Man?
IDK. He’s cute, and so far not creepy.
Gave me his number and didn’t ask for mine.
But it’s so cliché to get picked up at the gym.
Right?
You met Quan at the gym. And Justin.
You’re making my point for me, A
Ida had quite a number of notches in her purse strap, about evenly distributed between dumping and being dumped. Quan and Justin had both dumped her, and they’d both done so for obnoxiously vapid reasons. Quan dumped her after about three months because she’d signed up for a pole-dancing fitness class, and he considered that ‘slutty.’ Justin dumped her because she’d gained ten pounds and decided she liked the extra ba-dunk in her trunk.
Yeah, true. Bad examples. But coffee can’t
hurt, right? Somewhere you can sit
outside. If your jerk-dar pings, get up
and go.
But then we have to change gyms again.
No, better not.
But he’s hot af and has great gym manners.
GAH. I want the pretty boy, but I don’t want the
boy bullshit.
Autumn’s romantic life had never been particularly busy or various. She’d had a boyfriend in high school, a couple during college, and only one since she’d finished her MBA. Her high-school boyfriend, Sean, was still her longest relationship ever, clocking in at two years and three months. Three of her relationships had been good enough, with fairly amicable partings when things ran their course. Miles, the last, had been controlling and eventually abusive. They’d come to a fiery, painful end, and to this day, she wasn’t sure when she’d be ready to make herself that vulnerable to anyone again. Maybe never.
She hadn’t been in a serious relationship in more than three years, and she hadn’t even dated anyone long enough to have sex with—meaning at least two dates—in almost two years.
Mostly she was a spectator to Ida’s romantic escapades. Her ability to give good counsel was therefore limited.
We’ve reached the end of my wisdom, babe.
You know I’m clueless about this stuff.
You’re not clueless. You’ve closed up shop.
BIIIIG difference.
A frequent refrain from Ida, and a sore spot for Autumn.
Gotta go.
Okay. Sorry I made you mad.
Love you, girl.
Ida was good at apologies. Simple and direct, with nary a ‘but’ in sight.
Love you too. You and me, old and grey.
Tormenting the orderlies in the unruly seniors wing. xx
Autumn got up from the table and got busy putting herself together for a day spent convincing Signal Bend, Missouri to welcome the first Heartland Homestead development into the fold.
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~oOo~
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She was dressed and ready to leave the inn before noon. Not completely recovered from her hangover, but well enough to fake it. Doing her makeup and hair, covering the bruise on her neck, and putting on a cute outfit helped get her back to fighting trim. She leaned into the ‘Spring Fling’ vibe with a pair of skinny jeans in a terra cotta hue, a navy cotton blouse with a ditsy floral pattern, and her cognac Ferragamo wedges. She tossed a crème cashmere sweater over her shoulders and was ready for the day.
Since the opening festivities for the Spring Fling didn’t begin for a few more hours, she called the mayor’s office and arranged to meet with Mark Kennerman to discuss next steps—and she asked him to invite Badger Ness to the meeting as well.
She’d been prepared to discover another biker in the lobby, waiting to stalk her all day, but the lobby was empty. Not until she stood at the foot of the stairs and considered the empty room before her did she register that she’d been hoping to see Cox waiting. Disappointment throbbed faintly in her chest.
But he wasn’t waiting; no one was. That meant she was free, at least for now. Best make the most of it.
On the short drive to town hall, she saw lots of townspeople putting finishing touches on their Spring Fling setup, and several of those townspeople were Horde. It was Friday, technically a work day, but Mark had informed her that Signal Bend Construction took the day off before any big town event, so they could finish their own setup and be available to help where they were needed.
Big damn heroes, those bikers.
Slowing to turn into the small parking lot beside the town hall, she saw Cox standing near the edge of the park. Three young men, about high-school age, stood before him, listening intently to whatever he was saying—and Cox appeared to be giving them a full-on lecture. Already Autumn knew him enough to be surprised to see that.
As she passed him, he looked over just then, and their eyes met.
Another weird throb in her chest. She summoned all her will and rejected the compulsion to look away immediately. But then he looked away, and the ache in her chest became disappointment and humiliation again.
If she could manage to get through this weekend without ever being face to face with him, she would consider that a win. It was an unlikely result, but she meant to aim at it.
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~oOo~
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She’d seen two ginormous motorcycles parked beside the entrance, so she wasn’t surprised to see two bikers in the mayor’s office. Badger Ness, the Horde president, and Aaron Kohl, the VP. Everybody called Aaron ‘Double A,’ with which he was apparently fine, but Autumn couldn’t bring herself to do so. ‘Badger’ was difficult enough to call a grown man who was at least a decade older than she was.
All three men stood when she entered the office.
“Autumn!” Mark Kennerman enthused in that too-friendly way of all politicians, even the interim variety. He grabbed her hand and practically snapped the bones with his shake. “It’s good to see you. You know Badger and Double A, of course.”
“Hi, Mark,” she said and subtly flexed her hand before she took the one Badger was offering. “And yes, hi, Badger.”
“Hey, Autumn,” Badger replied. He smiled sidelong. “How’re you feelin’ today? Heard you had quite a night.”
Though she felt a new flutter of embarrassment, she didn’t let this one take hold. Instead, she smiled. “I had a good time, yes. And I’m feeling great today, thanks for asking.”
She turned to the last man in the room. “And Aaron. Hello to you, too.”
“Really wish you’d call me Double A, ma’am,” Aaron said, taking his turn to shake her hand. “Feel like I’m gettin’ sent to the principal’s office when I hear that name. Makes me clench up.”
Both men in leather had been much more gentle when they’d taken her hand than the guy in pressed khakis, a blue Oxford, and a striped tie had been.
Also what was it about these bikers and their distaste for the names they were born with?
“Okay, Double A,” she conceded. “I’d hate to make you clench.”
Mark laughed robustly at her very minor joke. Badger and ... Double A offered humoring smiles.
“Please, sit,” Mark said, indicating a leather chair just like those the Horde men had been sitting in, but set slightly apart and turned to face theirs.
Autumn took it. “Thank you for meeting with me, all of you. I wanted—”
That was as far as she got before Badger leaned forward and cut her off. “Before you get started, I want to let you know that the club met first thing this morning. We talked, we voted, and we put this together.” He picked up a manila folder from the corner of Mark’s desk and handed it to her.
Autumn took it, feeling wary but showing only curiosity, and opened it. A neatly stapled sheaf of papers sat inside. Typed across the top of the first page was the heading OFFICIAL BID: HEARTLAND HOMESTEAD PROJECT, SIGNAL BEND, MO, SIGNAL BEND CONSTRUCTION.
Though she should have simply read the bid and shown no surprise about it at all, Autumn got no farther than the heading before reflex shot her head up.
Despite her shock, she kept her voice calm and professional when she addressed Badger. “I know what this is, obviously, but I’m surprised, so I’m not sure what it means. You’ve been fighting me on this project since the beginning. What changed?”
Double A turned to Badger, Mark turned to Badger, but Badger kept his attention on Autumn.
“A few things changed,” he answered. “But I’m not gonna tell you everything. What I will say is you have done deals now. That’s a change, so we talked things out.”
Badger’s focus hadn’t shifted from her, but Autumn noticed something odd in her periphery, where Mark sat. She didn’t make sense of it in that meeting, but later she’d realize that his politician’s grin had collapsed, and he’d swallowed hard enough to move his whole body. He was afraid of Badger, and some kind of threat had been made.
But in the moment, Autumn kept her attention on the man who’d handed her an olive branch.
“We’ve got some specific terms,” he said, “and you and I, we’re not negotiating. We did that up nice so you’ve got all your Is and Ts dotted and crossed, but that’s not a bid so much as a statement.”
Autumn formed a specific smile on her mouth. It was meant to convey interest, a willingness to consider, but by no means an intention to simply roll over. “Well, this is an interesting development, for sure. Let’s see what’s here.”
She began reading the bid. For the most part, it was fairly standard. In financial terms, they were on the high end of reasonable, but in a range she could work with—and she hadn’t intended to lowball this project, anyway. That was something she’d really pushed Chase on.
A truism in the construction business is the ‘contractor’s triangle’: there are three aspects to a job: speed, quality, and cost. A client gets to pick two. You can have cheap and fast, but it’ll be made of cardboard and spit. You can have good and fast, but you’re going to pay for it. You can have good and cheap, but you are going to wait forever to see the finished project, while your contractor squeezes you in on slow days.
Most of MWGP’s neighborhood commercial developments were cheap and fast. Autumn wanted good and fast, and she’d gotten Chase to bite—and he’d bite her if this failed.
She didn’t tell Badger that his bid wasn’t out of her range, however. Nor did she indicate in any way that her main goal for this weekend was to get SBC attached to the project, and he’d just handed her a huge gift.
She kept reading, looking for where the other motorcycle boot would drop. Timeline was excellent; they’d obviously chosen good and fast, so they were in accord with her there. Costing was only a sketch, and that needed to be fleshed out completely before any ink on dotted lines was involved, but the Horde had apparently thrown this bid together this morning, so they could work on that.
Oh. There it was. SBC wanted veto power over who got to lease the units and didn’t want a major hotel chain to get the hotel in Phase II.
She stopped reading right there. “This is an interesting bid. There’s a lot here we can talk about. But the construction company is a contractor. You don’t get a say in what happens after a project is built. As you’ve been in business for almost twenty years, I know you know this. I’ve been doing my job for a long time as well, and I also know this.”
Badger’s smile did not budge. “Signal Bend is a special place. It’s not a company town, but things work different here.”
That phrase chimed in Autumn’s whisky-soaked memory. She’d used it last night, talking to Cox—and she’d offended him. The way Badger hit those words now, he clearly wanted her to know that Cox had told him all about it.
He’d been nothing by a spy all night long.
All morning, and last night, too, she’d been struggling to understand her increasingly deep and complicated feelings for that man. She’d felt bursts of chemistry between them, but now she understood those moments of connection been nothing more than Irish whisky and country manners. Even worse: he’d been leading her on, digging for intel.
Though she felt unreasonably hurt, Autumn didn’t take the bait. “Yes, but contract law works the same in any town.”
Badger held her gaze, kept his smile right where it was, but he rapped once on Mark’s desk.
Mark cleared his throat. “Um ... the town council approves all new business licenses.”
And that was standard. But as she’d heard over and over ad nauseam, as the Horde goes, so goes Signal Bend; the club had apparent veto power already. So why bother putting that clause in their bid?
She asked that question aloud, in so many words, and Badger sat back and laughed. “Honest? I just wanted to see what you’d do with it.”
“Delete it, is what I’ll do with it. The rest, we can talk about after the costing is finished and this is a complete bid. But that clause is a deal-breaker. It’s standard for municipalities to determine who opens shop, by way of approving licensure. Whatever influence your club exerts over the council is your business, so long as nobody treads on contracted terms. But SBC does not get a say officially.”
“I said we’re not negotiating,” Badger repeated.
“I heard you. I’m saying I won’t sign a contract I don’t like.” They were much, much closer to a deal than Badger realized, and Autumn had no intention of letting him know that until she had a contract she liked. She also meant this man and his club to understand that she was no pushover.
Silence took over as Autumn and Badger stared, neither willing to break first.
It was the interim mayor who broke. “So ... where are we on this, then?”
Double A chuckled. “I’d like to know that myself.”
“Where are we, Autumn?” Badger asked, his tone sardonic.
“That depends on you. I need to see full costing before I go any further. When can I see that?”
Badger tipped his head. “You leave Monday morning, right?”
It was creepy how this guy really did know everything in town. “I do.”
“You’ll have it by Sunday afternoon. Before the Fling Finale. We can talk then, finish things up.”
“Sunday works. And I’ll see if I like the terms then. If I do, then we can finish things up.”
Now Badger slapped his hand to his chest and really laughed. “Maybe you don’t suck as much as I thought, Ms. Rooney. You got a pair on you, that’s for sure.”
And he could suck on them. Jerk.
But Autumn smiled. “So do you, Mr. Ness.”