at me. “That’s BS and you know it. You’re here because Mom thinks this project has you written all over it. No one’s trying to make you into something you’re not.”
I appreciate Marissa’s efforts to pacify me even if I’m not sure I buy what she’s saying entirely. Still, dwelling on those old doubts doesn’t move the needle on this project.
“Fine. Can we move on?”
She says nothing for a moment, waiting until I heave a sigh and wave a hand in her direction to prompt her.
“Two choices. One, you go in for the kill, hard and fast, and throw a big offer at them early. Give them all the money up front, sweeten the deal with something you think will tip them over the edge, and promise them every tax break you can think of. Be Tate Marshall, but not terrible. And, you know, without a lump of rotting pâté where your heart should be.”
I make a face. That plan isn’t me, and even if it was, I don’t think it will work. Marissa relaxes back into her chair and lifts one shoulder lazily.
“Okay, then go the other direction. Be honest. Walk in there and explain to them what this deal is worth to us, then ask for some time to make this happen. A couple of weeks, whatever. Then spend that time digging in, and figure out what they want, what they need. Then deliver that, all wrapped up in wads of cash.”
I tip my head back and blow out a breath.
“That’s pretty much what I was thinking. It will take longer, but these people have heard it all at this point, so I can’t set up on shaky ground. If I don’t set the foundation right, I’ll never get the building up, right?”
Marissa smirks a little. “See? You just need to trust your instincts. Go in there and do you, little brother, and you’ll be fine.” She pours us both another glass of wine, then raises a cautioning brow at me. “Just do you. But for God’s sake, don’t do her.”
I let out a snort. No worries there. Sacrifice a chance at doing the right thing, just to screw around with a woman who hates me? Not happening.
I’m a hell of a lot smarter than that.
5
Sage
Saturday morning brings a fun new twist into my oh-so-challenging life. One I’d never considered, not even when I’m bogged down by thoughts of every worst-case scenario possible and all the ways those situations might ruin the Rocky Mile for good.
But I never, ever thought about what fifty gallons of used cooking oil would look like if you dumped it all over the floor. Why would I? A disaster like that doesn’t even make sense.
Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be standing in our concession stand, oil seeping inside my sneakers as my mind goes blank. Apparently, all it takes to short-circuit my problem-solving skills is a three-inch-deep oil slick pooling around my feet, because I can’t do anything but stand here, slack-jawed and baffled.
Where in the hell do you start to clean up a mess like this? A roll of paper towels isn’t going to work, not unless it’s the world’s Brawniest roll of paper towels. Even tackling this with a mop seems like the equivalent of bringing a knife to a gunfight. In my frazzled mind, the only solution I can come up with is to turn around, lock the door, and pretend like this didn’t happen.
“I have your boots! Cody said he’d buy another pair for me when he goes to get a Shop-Vac.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Becca hovering near the doorway into the concession stand, holding up the pair of black muck boots I keep in my truck. There’s a hopeful smile on my best friend’s face, the one she pastes on when nothing is going right but she still believes there’s an upside—we just need to look a little harder to find it. She’s an optimist of the highest order even when there’s no logical reason for it.
“He also said that we shouldn’t do anything until he gets back. Like that’s going to happen. Why does he still think that if he uses his serious-man voice, we’ll just do whatever he says? You can’t put a lid on this kind of lady power. You’d think he’d have accepted that by now.”
She sets the boots down with a flourish just outside the open door, gesturing at them like a game show hostess. With that