Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“He owns the grass. And I guess he’s not too worried about it right now.”
When Ronan laid out the plan, I balked. I mean, it sounds like a solid accusation. Is it true? Is there any proof to back these claims up? Or have I earned myself defamation suits from two powerful local politicians and Satan, himself?
But Ronan said to trust him. He was adamant this was the right play, and it would land hard and true.
Maybe too true based on the stony expression on Henry’s face.
He hops out of his cart and strides toward us, his white golf tee pressed and clinging in all the right places. It’s 9:30 a.m. and eighty degrees, and I don’t see a single sweat stain.
“Howdy neighbor!” I call out through a sip of coffee.
“Too much,” Frank warns from his position next to me, arms folded, looking every bit a bodyguard.
“I disagree.”
“The stain is a nice touch, though.”
“What?” I peer down at my white tank top and note the red splotch over my left boob. “Shit!” Raspberry jam from my toast. That wasn’t intentional. Oh well, too late now.
My body is tense as I mentally prepare myself for this confrontation.
“Sloane Parker,” Henry says smoothly, stopping short of the chain-link fence, his gaze drifting over my pajamas, stalling on the remnants from my breakfast.
Ralph chooses that moment to let out one of his infamous rooster caws, earning Henry’s pained cringe.
“Man, that’s a nice shiner,” Frank notes. “Who punched you?”
He recovers his composure in the next beat. “I’m sure you already know. It’s Frank Hale, right?”
Frank stiffens. He wasn’t expecting that from a man he’s never met.
I should have warned him ahead of time. “Your investigator really did his homework, huh?”
“What is this?” Henry points to our ode to Gayle Anderson, hanging high up in the trees. An identical one for Mayor Wilson flutters in the light breeze nearby. As sad as I was to lose that set, I will admit it’s gone to a good cause.
“Well, I could be wrong, but it appears to be a bedsheet.”
His jaw grows taut as he studies me intently. Is it an intimidation tactic? I’m sure it works on others.
I sip my coffee extra slowly, refusing to shy away.
Ronan closes in then, his cart coasting at top speed. It’s barely stopped before his shoes are on the grass. “Morning, Sloane. Frank.” He eyeballs my outfit and mouths “Nice touch.”
I purse my lips to hide my smile.
“We were just discussing these libelous claims on Ms. Parker’s property,” Henry says smoothly.
That word. I swallow the rising panic that swells inside me.
But Ronan smiles. “They’re only libel if they’re not true.”
Henry gives us his back to square off in front of Ronan. “And what do you think you know?”
“Only what Gayle herself told me.”
“There is no law against donating to a charitable cause.”
“To a county commissioner who was originally against your hotel?” Ronan crooks his head. “I’ll bet Councilwoman Reeves’ daughter’s trip to Paris will be highly educational. And the mayor’s son’s camping trips? Did Wilson go too?”
Silence meets Ronan’s question.
He continues. “Reporters love uncovering a scandal. I wonder what else they’d find if they started digging through those charity records and connect the dots. And hell, bring on the lawsuit. Does that mean I’ll end up on the stand? I’ll have to speak the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.” A wicked gleam shines in Ronan’s eyes. “Imagine the kinds of things that might come out.”
“What the fuck are you doing,” Henry growls.
Ronan steps in closer.
Are they about to throw punches? Again?
I hold my breath, the tension cloying.
“Just taking a page out of your book and protecting those I care about,” Ronan responds, his tone equally lethal. “Doesn’t feel too good being on this end of it, does it.”
Henry moves in, his chest bumping against Ronan’s. Maybe he thought Ronan would step back or lose his balance.
But Ronan stands his ground, not budging an inch.
“I hope it’s worth it. You’re done. Pack your shit and get the fuck out of here.” Turning back to regard the sheet-signs one more time, Henry flashes a cold smile. “Enjoy your home while you still can.”
A chill runs down my spine as I watch him march back to his cart and speed away, the wheels drawing divots in the plush green grass.
“Should I finish my round of golf?” Ronan hollers after him.
Henry answers with a middle finger in the air.
“That went well,” Frank mumbles.
Ronan wanders over to the chain-link, folding his arms over the top rail. “How’s your morning going so far?” His tone is glib, as if he didn’t just get fired with an audience.
I move closer, resting my chin on his bicep. His smell—Irish Spring soap and mint-scented shampoo—is familiar and comforting. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. I knew it was coming.”