“Does he?” Madison says with a wince.
“No!” Allie’s on her feet, all four foot eleven inches and ninety-five pounds of her. “He absolutely does not. Apparently, Mr. Scott inherited this building from his parents, and even the wealthiest elite can’t touch it.”
“Wealthiest elite. I like the sound of that. That man is fine.”
“He’s not fine, girlfriend. He’s an absolute asshole,” Allie says.
“I love hot assholes,” Madison whines, and I choke.
“That’s quite a kink.”
She smacks at my arm, but I dodge her as I get to my feet. “Okay, alright, so you found this perfect place, at a perfect price, and the only deterrent is that the hottie next door wants us out?”
Allie nods. “Pretty much.”
Shaking my head, I look at them as if the answer’s obvious. “Girls. We don’t need to ask the chakras or whatever the fuck.” Allie rolls her eyes. I decide to speak Allie’s language. “We told the Universe we needed a space. And the Universe has delivered.”
Chapter 2
Miguel
“Are you fucking kidding me? Tell me you’re fucking kidding me.”
I look up from my phone and see from the look in Raul’s eyes that he is not fucking kidding me. He scrubs a hand across his brow and gives me an apologetic look, like he feels to blame for the news he just delivered.
“Sorry, boss. Not a joke. And really, you need to watch that language.”
I glare, grabbing my pen from my desk as if it’s personally responsible for this effrontery. I slash my name across papers in the stack he puts in front of me, shoving them to the side one by one. “Since when do you care about my fucking language?”
“Since as of today, you’ll be—”
I flip up my hand to shut him off as I look over the fine print.
For ten years we’ve tried to find a place to expand my restaurant bar, but zoning bylaws in the southern section of the city are crystal clear. No amount of money buys exclusivity or privacy in a place like downtown Boston. Historical landmarks, blah blah fucking blah.
The ancient shop beside us closed its doors, and then instead of taking the bid we’d placed on day one, the landlord gives the space to a new client.
And now we’re gonna be neighbors with a frou-frou… boutique?
Our plan was to buy that space and expand the business, selling my new line of imported Italian foods. And now…
“What the fuck are they doing? Palm readings? Pedicures?” I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
Raul snorts. “You really have no clue, do you?”
“Of course fucking not, that’s why I pay you.”
“Language.”
What the hell is up with him telling me to watch my language? This is a new wrinkle, but I’ve got bigger fish to fry at the moment.
He pulls out a chair across from me. “They sell smoothies and healthy cookies. Yoga classes. Scented candles meant to clear energy and shit.”
“Healthy cookies? What the fuck is a healthy cookie? Aren’t cookies by definition not healthy?”
He sighs. “No idea, non-GMO something something?”
I shake my head. “Exactly the kind of place that will legitimately kill our vibe.”
I don’t want to sell peppermint oil and green goddamn tea. I want to sell the finest imported olive oils, decadent pastas, rustic breads, and wine straight from my own vineyards in Tuscany.
He blows out a breath. “We could look for another location?”
I frown and shake my head. “No point. We signed a fucking two-year lease, and there’s no way we can expand in the already-cramped restaurant venue.”
He shrugs. “Break the lease, pay the fine, get a new place.”
I grunt. “Can’t sign with another place if I break the damn lease.” Dammit.
He’s silent while I mull it over.
Finally, I shrug. “Okay so it’s not that complicated. We just run them out. We make it very uncomfortable for them to stay, and at the first opportunity I buy them out."
“Really? That’s your plan?” He shakes his head. “Miguel, you’re supposed to be fixing your reputation, not tarnishing it.”
The look I give him must get my point across just fine, though, since he’s quickly on his feet with his hands held palms out in surrender.
“That’s my fucking plan.”
He’s got a point, and I know it. Thanks to a scandal last year, I have to do something about my reputation. In fact, that’s probably exactly why the landlord didn’t even negotiate the deal we offered and went looking for someone else instead.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Come in,” I growl, trying to keep calm. Why is being pleasant so much harder than it looks?
Winnie walks in with her ever-present clipboard in hand, one of those smiles plastered on her face that tells me she’s caught my mood and doesn’t want to ruffle my feathers.
I hate that look.
Why is everyone acting like I’m a volcano about to erupt? For the love of God.
“Good news, Mr. Santiago.”