Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

REMINGTON

I sit stiffly at the polished table in the coffee shop, arms crossed, trying not to scowl at Lawson Wells who’s across from me. He’s way too comfortable for a man who just ruined my day—and possibly my entire life plan.

We’re supposed to come up with a plan to “compromise,” but I already know how this is going to go. Lawson doesn’t compromise. Men like him win. They take what they want, with charming smiles and the kind of confidence that makes you believe they’re doing you a favor.

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my cool. Two weeks. Just two weeks of working with him, and then I can get back to saving the inn—without him in the way.

Lawson tilts his head, studying me with that infuriatingly smug grin. “You’re really not happy about this, huh?”

“Nope,” I say flatly. “But here we are.”

He chuckles, low and warm, like this whole thing is hilarious. “You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”

“You bet.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his hazel eyes catching the sunlight slanting through the window. “Good. I like a challenge.”

God help me, he’s even hotter when he’s being difficult. And that’s saying something, considering I already know what he looks like without the suit.

I clear my throat and open my laptop, focusing on the glowing screen instead of the man across from me. “Let’s just get this over with, okay? We need to come up with a plan the council will approve. One that preserves the history of the inn and makes money.”

“Right.” Lawson picks up his coffee, lazily swirling the liquid in the cup. “So, here’s an idea—how about I handle the business side, and you can handle the . . . sentimental stuff?”

I give him a withering look. “You mean the history?”

“Sure. History.” He grins like he just solved world hunger. “See? We’re already making progress.”

I close my eyes for a moment, counting to ten. “Lawson, this isn’t just about ‘history.’ The inn has meaning. It’s part of this town, part of my family.”

“And I get that,” he says, surprisingly sincere. “But meaning doesn’t pay the bills, Remington. The council and bank want a plan that makes financial sense. That’s where I come in.”

I bite back a sharp retort. He’s not wrong—money does matter. But it’s not the only thing that matters.

I lean forward, matching his intensity. “Look, I know you’re used to getting your way. But this isn’t some business deal you can just . . . bulldoze through. If we’re going to work together, we’re doing this my way.”

Lawson’s grin deepens, and for a second, I swear he’s enjoying this way too much. “I thought we were compromising?”

“This is the compromise,” I snap, and he laughs—an infuriating, low rumble that makes me want to strangle him. Or kiss him. Or both.

He leans back, folding his arms across his chest. “Okay, Remington. Two weeks. Let’s see if we can survive each other.”

We step out into the afternoon sun, the heat wrapping around us like a second layer of tension. My thoughts are still spinning from the back-and-forth in that meeting, and the last thing I want is to spend another second in Lawson’s orbit.

But as we walk side by side down Main Street, I can’t help but notice the easy confidence in his stride. There’s no swagger—just the kind of quiet assurance that makes people glance his way, not because they know him, but because he carries himself like someone who belongs anywhere he goes.

I steal a glance at him, irritation curling in my chest. How does he manage to look that good, even in the unforgiving afternoon light?

“So . . . what’s your deal, anyway?” I ask, breaking the silence.

He raises a brow, a flicker of amusement in his expression. “My deal?”

“Yeah. You’ve got all this money, all this . . .” I gesture vaguely, annoyed that I can’t find the right word. “Everything. So why Cedar Cove? Why mess with my inn?”

His smile shifts—softer this time, just a hint of something genuine beneath the usual smirk. “Because I like projects. I like taking something and making it better.”

“Somehow I think there’s more to it than that,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

His gaze flickers toward me for a second, unreadable. Then he shrugs. “It’s the truth. But also. . . my grandfather used to live here.”

That catches me off guard. “Your grandfather?”

“Yeah. He died a few years ago.” Lawson glances down the street as if searching for something familiar. “I promised him I’d own a little piece of small-town life one day. So I go from place to place buying them and making them better. Building a legacy.”

I slow my steps, processing what he’s just told me. For a second, it’s almost easy to forget how much I dislike him. Almost.

“If this is about your grandfather, if this is some kind of tribute to him . . . then you’re doing it all wrong,” I say.

Lawson stops walking and turns to me, his brow furrowed. There’s a flicker of confusion—or maybe frustration—in his eyes, as if he’s trying to decide whether to be offended or take me seriously.

We reach the end of the street, standing awkwardly at the corner where the sidewalk meets the road. The air between us thickens with the weight of things unsaid—things that probably shouldn’t be said at all.

“I think you need to learn more about the history of this place before you go ahead and gentrify it,” I say, meeting his gaze without flinching.

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. His jaw tightens, and I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes, like he’s weighing the value of my words against whatever plan he’s already mapped out.

And then, to my surprise, he exhales slowly, nodding once. “Okay.”

I blink. “Okay?”

Lawson shifts his weight, rocking back slightly on his heels. “Yeah. Show me the history. I’ll listen.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression—like maybe he’s not as indifferent as he pretends to be.

“So . . .” he says, that familiar grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Tomorrow?”

I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face, already feeling the weight of what I’ve just agreed to. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”