intended to do here. “What kind of properties?”
“Resorts. Vacation properties. Condos, hotels.”
Mariabella’s jaw dropped. “Harborside is not that kind of town.”
Another smile, the kind she was beginning to hate. “It can be, once the owners of the shops along this boardwalk see how a Lattimore resort can transform this place into a money machine for everyone.” He waved a hand down the length of the boardwalk, as if he were a magician, making all of it disappear, and in its place, creating a gargantuan eyesore of a hotel.
Thus turning Harborside into a cartoon version of what it was right now, something he’d stamp on some silly brochure and market to travelers, as a “destination.”
Panic gripped Mariabella. He couldn’t be serious. If he did this, he would destroy the very refuge she had found. Ruin the small little town that had wrapped around her, safe and secure, like the cottage she’d been renting. Turning Harborside into a resort town would not only change the very fabric of the community, but worse, it would attract the very people she had tried so hard to avoid all these years—
Her peers. Her family. And worst of all, the media.
If any of the above came to Harborside, her biggest nightmare would come to life.
And her secrets would be exposed.
Her world here would be ripped apart, and she would be forced to return to the one she had left. Forced to step up and take her rightful place beside her mother and father. And eventually, on the throne.
No. She wasn’t ready, not yet. She had more time, not much, but a little, and she needed it desperately to have this…
Normalcy. Peace. Anonymity.
And then, maybe, yes, she could go back to the birdcage. But on her terms, not Jacob Lattimore’s.
She had to stop this man. Had to convince the other business owners on the Community Development Committee to hold firm, and refuse to sell. Surely, as a group, they would have the strength necessary to fend off his offers, no matter how tempting he made his financial proposals. Harborside would be preserved, just as it was, and Mariabella could be sure her town would never change.
“I understand you see this town as some kind of—” he waved vaguely “—step back in time. A little bit of nostalgia. But nostalgia, unfortunately, doesn’t always make money. You have to face reality, Miss Romano, you and the other business owners. Travelers want more on their vacations than a pretty view.”
She stared at him and fumed. “There are some people who want a quiet place to stay, not a zoo.”
“But not enough people. Your town is struggling, and the sooner you face the fact that you need a property like mine to shake things up, the better off everyone will be.” He glanced around at the garland draped between the streetlights and the crimson bows hanging on the storefronts. “No amount of Christmas spirit—” the last two words slipped off his tongue with a taste of sarcasm “—will mask the scent of desperation.”
“No one here is desperate.”
He arched a brow. A silent disagreement.
Mariabella wanted to throw a thousand arguments in his face. Except, there were a few businesses along the boardwalk that had struggled in recent months, a fact she could not overlook, no matter how hard she tried. A few who would jump at the chance to retire, or find a buyer for buildings that housed inventory that hadn’t sold in months. Harborside, like many seaside towns, struggled to compete for tourist dollars, and the members of the Community Development Committee had been brainstorming for months ways to increase traffic flow to the tiny town.
Jake Lattimore would not be the answer, no matter what. The town was not that desperate. To get rid of him, however, meant Mariabella needed to do whatever it took to protect what she loved.
Whatever it took.
Jake watched Mariabella Romano hurry down the sidewalk—in the opposite direction of her gallery—and had to admit he was intrigued.
She hated him.
And he liked that.
Clearly, he needed therapy, or a drink.
He opted for the drink. Faster, cheaper and easier. And in the opposite direction of the limo, where William had undoubtedly witnessed the entire exchange, and was waiting to offer his two cents about fireplaces and Christmas “presents.”
Jake didn’t need to hear that. Didn’t need any more advice from well-meaning people who told him to move on with his life. He’d spent five years moving on—by working.
He gave Mariabella one last glance—she was beautiful, a tall woman with curves in all the right places—before ducking into the Clamshell Tavern. Blues music greeted him, along with a nautical décor. White painted pine walls, navy blue vinyl seats and life rings hanging on the walls printed with the restaurant’s name.
All kitsch, all the time. Jake tried hard not to roll his eyes.
“Table for…one?” the hostess asked, peering around him, as if she thought he had a friend hiding in his pocket.
“I’ll just sit at the bar. Thanks.” He pushed through the glass doors and into the lounge area, which featured more of the same décor.
Good thing he rarely got seasick.
“What’ll it be?” asked the bartender, a rotund man in a red-and-white striped shirt, something that was probably supposed to be pirate style, but came off looking more like barber shop clown.
“Your best vodka. Dry. Two olives.”
The bartender nodded, then turned and mixed the drink. A minute later, he slid the glass in front of Jake and headed down to the opposite side of the bar.
An unappetizing mix of nuts and something resembling pretzels sat in a bowl to Jake’s left. He pushed it away. What he wouldn’t give for a tray with a good aged gouda, accompanied by a pear and cinnamon relish. Maybe a salad with grilled endive, apples and glazed fennel. Some real food, not this stuff that came out of a bag thrown together in a factory.
If he were back in New York, he’d have any gourmet food he wanted at his beck and call. He’d attended dinners, parties, openings, dining on the best the local chefs had to offer.
Lately, though, those platters had been leaving him with a feeling of emptiness, as if he could eat and eat and never have his fill. Or, as if every meal had too much fluff, and not enough substance.
Restlessness had invaded his sleep, his thought patterns—and at the worst possible time. He needed to be focused, aware, in order to execute this deal and prove himself to the company, while also boosting the bottom line.
Once the Harborside project was underway, surely that hole in his gut would fill.
It would.
“Well, you sure know how to rile people up around here, don’t you?” A man slid onto the stool beside Jake. He had a shock of white hair, and wore a long flannel shirt over a pair of thick khakis. He looked about sixty-five, maybe seventy, and sat at the bar with the ease of someone who had been there a time or twenty. “The usual, Tony.”
The bartender nodded, reached in the cooler and popped the top on a beer. He slid the dark beer down the bar to the older man, with a friendly hello, then went back to washing glasses.
“So, why are you doing it?” he said.
Jake pivoted toward the other man. “Are you talking to me?”
“Do you see someone else in this bar who’s got the whole town in a tizzy?” The older man arched a brow, then put out his hand. “Name’s Zeke Carson, short for Ezekiel, though no one calls me that and gets an answer. I’m the newspaper editor for this town, except our paper’s more like a newsletter.” He chuckled. “Small-town living. You gotta love it.”
Jake