Page 54 of Snake

... And it only just this moment occurred to her that she’d grown fond of this little town.

She’d been struggling against so much here for the past year—it really had been nearly a year since she’d first reached out to the former mayor—that she hadn’t realized how well all the research she’d done, all the strategizing, to get her deal had made her know this place. At least to know it as well as an outsider could.

She was more than proud that she’d gotten the deal done. She was more than eager to break ground and get this potentially transformative development initiative going. She was honestly excited to have a chance to make her mark on this particular town, to show these particular people that she honestly wanted Signal Bend Pavilion to be a boon to them.

She was honestly, personally invested in their success as well as her own and that of MidWest Growth & Progress.

They approached the town limit and the emphatically quaint and cheerful town welcome sign. Beside her, Chase laughed. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t they?”

“I think it’s charming,” she said, though, again, she’d had a similar thought more than once passing that sign.

Chase squirmed restlessly in his seat. “I don’t understand how people can live like this. There’s nothing to do but chase chickens.”

“Not true,” Autumn rejoined, feeling a little defensive. “One reason we identified Signal Bend is that it’s a significant regional tourist destination.”

He rolled his eyes. “For antiquing, right? Great for the ladies and the gays—no offense—but I’m gonna want to blow my brains out by the time we leave.”

“The B&B we’re headed to offers hiking and horseback riding, too.”

“Our competition, you mean.”

“The B&B has only ten rooms. We won’t be competing with them but with the motels outside town, where everybody else has to go. The Signal Bend Inn will keep visitors in town, spending money here. That’s main pitch, Chase—that we’re collaboration, not competition.”

He was quiet, and Autumn could feel his eyes on her, so she glanced over and saw his theatrically shocked expression.

“You do understand what our business is, yes?” he asked.

He was being snarky, but Autumn thought it was an interesting question because it had at least two correct answers: first, their business was ostensibly ‘growth and progress.’ They were a real-estate development company whose business was building in new areas and overhauling old commercial properties. But second, and certainly the answer Chase cared most about, their business was to make money for the Isley family. Lots of money, as much money as possible, doing whatever they could to squeeze every last dollar out of every single deal.

Chase was not interested in collaboration because it meant sharing. He did not share nicely. He’d been home sick that day in kindergarten, apparently. But Autumn had created her masterpiece in convincing him that collaboration was the key to making as much money as possible in Signal Bend and any other community so tightly knit.

“You know I understand,” she answered. “And this project is going to make a lot of money.”

“It better,” he groused. Then, “That’s them, right?” He pointed forward toward the Night Horde MC/Signal Bend Construction compound. A large metal sign, a rendering of the club patch, hung on the side of the building nearest the road, and another sign, reading SIGNAL BEND CONSTRUCTION in a simple, sans serif font, rose above a set of double doors on the other side of the large building.

“Yep.”

“Turn. I wanna see.”

“What? No. We’re not dropping in unexpectedly on the Horde, Chase.”

“Why not? Are they dangerous?”

She thought of the beating Cox had dealt the man who’d attacked her. But that was safety, not danger. “No. Not dangerous.”

“Turn! I want to see!”

He grabbed his door handle and pulled. Obviously, like all cars made for the past twenty years or more, it was locked while the car ran, but he kept yanking. This middle-aged man, this president of a major company, her boss, was behaving like a toddler who needed a time out.

They passed the turn for the compound, but he kept yanking on the door. She began to worry he’d actually damage the car.

“Chase! Stop!”

“Then turn around! I’m giving you an order!”

“You’re not a general, Chase.”

Abruptly, he stopped. “No, I’m your employer, and, as you’ve made repeatedly clear, every minute of this trip is work. So I’m giving you a directive. I want to meet these bikers you’ve got us working with, and I want to see them in their natural habitat. Now.”

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