Page 3 of Taming the Boss

“Sounds like it should be in one of those Christmas movies my sister is obsessed with.”

“Looks like it too,” I said as a red bow the size of my windshield on a nearby lamppost fluttered in the increasing wind.

“Well have fun in Smallsville, USA. You’ll be missing out on quite the meal. Marta outdid herself with the dinner and spirits.”

“I don’t know why Marta puts up with you.”

“Because I actually pay her what she’s worth. I’ll see you for New Year’s unless you bail on me there too.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Sydney always looks forward to your parties.”

“Good. I’ll see you then. Oh, and Jude, I’m serious about the real estate in New York. I wouldn’t mind diversifying out to the east coast.”

“Will do.”

After I ended the call, I decided I was curious enough to check out the auction. I’d sold two of my properties recently and had some extra capital available if the price was right.

The directions took me out of the town proper onto a winding road that gave a stunning view of Crescent Lake. I half expected it to be a small lake, but it seemed as if New York didn’t do anything small. Even in their small lakeside towns.

The trip took less than seven minutes from the busy part of town, which was also a plus. Close to the town, but far enough to have its own options, depending on the building.

The sky was getting more threatening, but the clouds over the lake were beautiful in their darkness. The wind kicked up and the water was choppy, adding to the view. As I rounded the bend, a pathetic building came into view.

The roof was sagging on the two-level structure and the parking lot was more craters of gravel than blacktop. Four cars were parked close to the building. I nearly turned around until I caught the view.

I parked and found myself drawn to the patchy grass and snow that looked over the lake. A stately red maple reached up into the sky with its barren fingers, its leaves long gone to the winter winds off the water. A solitary picnic table sat under its branches, but I could picture half a dozen more or even some simple tables with umbrellas.

I shifted and noticed the windows of what used to be a delicatessen. The letters had been scraped off, but the ghost of a name remained. Bradford or Bradley, I couldn’t really tell. Part of the window had been broken and patched with industrial tape.

It could be an eatery with tables to maximize the view.

Maybe even built out for an impressive patio.

From this vantage point, the building was far more impressive than it had looked from the road.

“Helluva view, isn’t it?” A blond man came forward, his curls wild around his face as the wind kicked up again. He wore deceptively broken-in jeans, boots, and an Irish fisherman’s sweater that probably cost four-hundred dollars. A denim shirt peeked from the collar and below the hem of the sweater.

He reminded me of the waterfront monied types. Everyday man on the surface, but as rich as a Kennedy.

“The lake is beautiful,” I agreed.

He held his hand out. “Xavier Hastings.”

I shook it. “Jude Keller.”

“So, are we going to be competitors, Jude Keller?”

“Maybe so. You look a little young for an auctioneer.”

Xavier snorted. “No, that would be Dennis Packer.” He pointed toward two older men speaking at the far end of the building. “The shorter one who’s practically lapping at Maitland’s boot.”

I glanced back at Xavier. “I’m not from here, so I can’t say I know the players.”

“Oh, fair point. I was pretty sure you weren’t a Cove resident, but I don’t know everyone. Just most everyone.” He grinned. “Arthur Maitland is the tall one with the RBF.”

I arched a brow at him. “RBF?”

“Resting bitch face.”

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