Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
MILLER
Frankie puts her hand over her mouth and hunches her shoulders, curling in on herself to stifle a giggle. But she can’t hide the glint in the eyes that are scanning the lower half of my body.
“Are they that bad?” I turn to check out my ass in the mirror outside the changing room of Tractor Trunk—who knew I’d ever visit a clothing store like this, never mind twice in one day.
“They’re a bit, um, roomy.” She removes her hand and digs her teeth into her top lip. “And the crotch is a little…low.”
“Yeah.” I grab the side seams and flap them around. “Hammer pants are back in style, right?”
Now she lets a laugh roll out and grabs her belly.
Making someone laugh is a great way to win them over. I learned that years ago in business.
But it makes me feel unusually good to know I have it in me to amuse this sharp-as-hell, driven, and obviously caring woman. The way her face lights up and her head drops back is an attractive bonus.
“Try the cargoes,” she says, shaking her head.
Back into the changing room I go.
Just as I close the door behind me, my phone buzzes. I retrieve it from the pocket of my jeans that are hanging off the back of the door.
It’s Brooke.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, just can’t talk right now. Is it urgent or can I call you back later?”
“Semi-urgent. There’s a drainage issue on the Harbor Towers site.”
“Okay, refer them to the engineer. Then”—I lower my voice even further—“do some research on how to care for donkeys, summarize it in less than ten pages and get it to me before bedtime.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
“Are you still there, Brooke?”
“I am. I just thought you were supposed to buy the donkeys’ land, not the donkeys themselves.”
“Long story. Fill you in later. Just get me some neatly packaged info. Oh, and send someone to pick up my car. I’ll be here for a few days.”
“Oh, Miller, Miller, Miller.” She lets out a long, heavy sigh. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into now? Is this going to be like the time you spent weeks learning how to tie nautical knots so you could impress that sailor guy and persuade him you were the best person to develop his land?”
“Kind of. But with more donkey shit and less rope.”
There’s a tap on the door.
“Miller?” It’s Frankie’s voice. “Do they fit or do you need another size?”
“Just putting them on,” I shout. “I’ll be right out.” Then turn my voice to a whisper for Brooke. “Donkey notes. Asap.”
I hang up the phone and shove it back into my jeans.
Thirty seconds later, wearing the dark brown cargoes Frankie picked out, I open the door.
“Oh, hey,” she says. “Thought I heard you talking with someone.”
“I was. My assistant.” Be as honest as possible at all times. Stretch the truth only when it absolutely needs to be stretched.
“Assistant?” She sounds surprised. “You must have quite the business.”
“Yeah.” I turn in front of the mirror to switch the subject back to the pants.
“Those are better,” Frankie says. “Mainly because you couldn’t fit a whole other person in there with you.”
I can’t help waggling my eyebrows at her. This woman sure does bring out the tease in me. “And also because who doesn’t need twelve pockets. All large enough to store a sandwich.”
It takes me a second to remember that making her smile is not the whole point of me being here—it just felt like it for a moment.
Yes, I need her to get to know me, like me, trust me.
But this isn’t a fucking date. It’s a mission.
With a clear goal. Shaft Wade Skinner so I can finally take something away from him that he really wants.
Just like he did when he took my family’s home away from us.
It’s the only way I’ll ever be able to cast off the fury that’s lived inside me since I was eighteen, before it drives me to an early heart attack.
“Is she okay?” Frankie asks.
“Who?”
“Your assistant. I couldn’t tell what you were saying, but it sounded kind of urgent.”
“Oh, just something with…” I can’t say drainage because that has nothing to do with the kind of investing Frankie probably assumes I do.
But man, as my eyes instinctively settle themselves on hers, this plan feels like a heartless trick. She seems like a perfectly nice person who doesn’t deserve to be lied to or misled.
For a moment I wonder if I should scrap this whole scheme, come clean and tell her that the second offer she has is from me, and if it’s not enough, then she and her grandfather can name their price and neither of them will ever have to work a day in their lives again.
But I can’t. Frankie’s been clear she’ll never sell to a “shitty” developer like me. So the only hope of changing her mind is if someone whose opinion she’s come to value persuades her it’s the right decision.
I’m going to become that person of value. And these pants are the start of it.
“…the bank,” I say, finishing the sentence. “Boring bank things.”
“Oh, okay,” Frankie says. “I was thinking, do you want to go back home via the Park ’N’ Sleep so you can pick up your things and check out?”
Fuck no. How would I pretend to check out of a hotel I’m not staying at? And produce the very few belongings I have with me which are actually in the trunk of my car that’s parked just off Main Street?
I’m not fond of this sweaty panicking sensation. Christ, not being truthful is a fucking minefield.
“Oh, no need.” I toy with the button on one of the many pants pockets. “I’ll get a cab later. I need to pick up some toiletries and stuff in town anyway but I want to take some time to think through a list of what I’ll need so it’s just one trip.”
“It would be no problem to do that now, but okay.” She shrugs. “Anyway, so it’s those pants, the long sleeve T-shirts, two sweatshirts, gloves, and a hat, right?”
“Yup. And I need to get underwear.”
“Are you going to model that for me too?” The instant tomato-red blush in her face races down her neck as she turns away to dig in her bag as if she wished she could climb into it and zip it shut.
“Sorry,” she mumbles. “I forgot that you’re not an old friend I can joke with like that.”
“I’m flattered I feel like an old friend.” And I turn back to the changing room, trying not to do a little happy dance that the plan is already showing signs of working.
I’m tipping the dirty water from my wipe-down of the cot and every surface in the loft down the drain near the barn door when Frankie strolls over. The way that yellow beanie and matching scarf frame her face is pretty startling.
“Since it’s getting dark, how about I show you how we get everyone in at night?”
“Sure. Let me just go grab my jacket.”
Minutes later we’re in the shelter at the far end of the enclosure that houses Waldo and his pals.
Frankie points to a large old metal lid that looks like it might have come from an oil drum, and an ancient-looking wooden spoon beside it.
“Grab those,” she says.
“The lid and the spoon?” What the hell for?
“Yup.”
I take my stiff new work gloves from my pocket and put them on before picking up the implements. “Now what?”
“Bang the lid with the spoon.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
The second the spoon clangs onto the lid the first time, all the donkeys in the field turn to look at me, their ears pricked. Then they start to trot over.
I continue banging, and they continue trotting toward us. “Is this some sort of donkey-calling witchcraft?”
“Grandpa trained them. To make it easier to get them inside. There aren’t really any dangerous predators around here, so technically we could leave them out all night. But he likes to be totally sure they’re safe.”
“What’s that brown one doing?” I point at one that started to make its way toward us, but stopped and looked back.
“That’s Jack. He’s waiting for Jenny, the lighter one over there,” Frankie says. “He won’t come in until she does. Their nightly ritual.”
“Well, that’s kind of…sweet.” And it actually kind of is.
After Jack and Jenny make up the rear and enter the large barn, Frankie does a quick head count to confirm there’s ten of them. “All present and correct. Let’s go do the little ones.”
As soon as we enter the smaller enclosure, four of the little donkeys, none of which come up higher than my hip, dart over to Frankie and nuzzle her pockets.
“You only love me for the treats,” she says, pulling out a couple of carrots.
“Do you carry vegetables with you at all times?” I ask.
“You never know when they might come in handy,” she says.
“One summer when I was a kid, weeks after I’d gone back home, my grandma spent forever trying to figure out where a weird smell in the kitchen was coming from.
Eventually she realized it was my jacket that was hanging on one of the pegs.
In one of the pockets, she found a rotting carrot. ”
“Ugh, that sounds terrible.”
“Yeah.” Frankie chuckles as one of the little donkeys bites off part of a carrot she’s offering. “Grandma threw out the jacket.”
I scan the field. “Looks like all the others are already indoors.”
“Yeah, these little guys tend to put themselves to bed.” She holds up her empty hands to the crunching donkeys. “All gone.”
I follow her into the stable, its air filled with the warm, sweet scent of hay. The place is spotless, apart from the odd pile of poop. Everything here might be old, but it’s clearly loved and cared for. And, got to admit, kind of cozy.
“Aw, look at Petunia.” Frankie moves toward the back corner where the small white donkey is standing as far away from us as possible.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she whispers to the animal while running her hand from its shoulder down its front leg in long, smooth strokes. “You’ll get used to him.”
“She’s scared of me?” I ask.
Frankie shoots me a look over her shoulder and puts her finger to her lips to shush me, then turns back.
“He’s nice,” she tells Petunia. “You’ll like him.”
Her words spark a twist in my chest. I don’t feel particularly nice right now.
Never in my entire property development career have I ever felt guilty about one single thing that I’ve done. But stringing Frankie along like this doesn’t exactly sit well in my gut.
Christ, am I being a manipulative jerk like Skinner? I vowed after what he did to my family, the dignity that he stole from us, that I would never treat people the way he does. Yes, I don’t pull any punches in negotiations. Yes, I don’t take any crap. But I’m never gratuitously cruel.
This situation here is a one-off. I just need to power through until I can persuade Frankie to sign my company’s offer, then I can go home, and she’ll be none the wiser.
And when I rip up Skinner’s paperwork in front of his smug face it’ll all be worth it.
At least I hope it fucking will.
Because the fact that Frankie’s telling the donkey I’m nice is giving me a warm feeling inside and, at the same time, also making me feel like a total asshole.
But it’s not really me she likes—it’s Miller McSweeney, the pleasant investor guy whose van’s been stolen, who loves animals, and who will be perfectly happy shoveling shit and sleeping in a dusty barn. So, yeah, it’s not me she likes anyway.
Frankie kisses Petunia on the head, whispers something in her ear so quietly that I can’t hear it, and heads back toward me.
“She’s stopped shaking now,” she says, her mouth curling up a little at one side. “I’ll show you where we keep all the stuff for mucking out and refreshing the bedding. That will be your first job tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” I say.
Yeah, fucking great.