Page 10 of The Wrong Guy

Oliver is concise, intelligent, and accurate as we begin working our way through the contract, which he again compliments, making me wonder if I jumped to a conclusion too soon with him. I hate to think the chip on my shoulder might’ve led me to misjudge someone, considering it annoys me when it happens to me, so I’m being cautiously watchful of Oliver—open-minded but aware of his reason for being here.

As we read through the clause about dissolution of Ford Construction, he offers, “The hope is that we can settle things without a full dissolution. More likely, there will have to be a buyout deal reached so that one party retains sole proprietorship.”

He’s speaking in generic terms, but this is a chance for me to get a read on his plans.

“If Jed buys out Chrissy, he’ll be short on funds, but Township is already fully financed, so its completion wouldn’t be affected,” I note, specifically mentioning who would do the buying out, and see the tiniest flinch in his blink. Interesting. “So that would work, meeting the construction company’s responsibilities under the contract with the city.”

Oliver nods, his face blank. “As for the rest of the property owned by Mr. and Mrs. Ford, there will need to be a complete reporting and analysis on value before division can be properly ascertained.”

Right. Because this is more than just the Township development. Jed basically owns half of Cold Springs in one way or another, and his company employs a fair portion of tradespeople at various sites in the area.

But while we, as a town, have concern about who owns what, as the city attorney, I don’t have a vested interest in the outcome of that. My focus is Township.

Admittedly, though, as a human, I’m curious as hell.

We’re still working our way through the details of page eight when Joanne pokes her head in. “Wren, I’m heading home for the day, unless you need anything?”

After reassuring her that I’m perfectly capable of conducting a meeting without her to get drinks for us, she leaves begrudgingly. I suspect she’s been doing walk-bys all afternoon to listen in at the door and giving half-hour updates to her husband, Ben, and Francine, the mayor.

“Is it after six already? I’m sorry for keeping you so late,” Oliver says as he looks at his chunky silver watch. I can’t see the face, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a Rolex or something comparable. “Actually, I’m staying in town for a bit to handle this case. Is there somewhere you’d recommend for dinner?”

Yawn. He’s not fooling anyone, least of all me. I know he’s inviting me out. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to stick with room service when I remember Ben’s advice. He doesn’t know what he’s getting into. Use that.

Maybe a beer or two would loosen Oliver’s tongue about what he plans to do with the case. That might give us an opportunity to better prepare as a city for the change of ownership of Ford Construction and Township.

“There is. What’s your opinion on hole-in-the-wall places with overly flirty waitresses, cooks who make food that’ll clog every artery in your body, and pool tables you’ll never win on because the owner doesn’t take mercy on anyone? Not even her own family.” I smile invitingly as I sell the best dinner spot in town.

This is perfect. Oliver should understand what’s at stake with this case. Cold Springs is a special place, and we want Township completed regardless of who owns it.

Plus, neither Chrissy nor Jed would dare go to Puss N Boots.

“Am I dressed appropriately?” he asks, straightening his already-perfect tie.

I laugh. “You could go in wearing underwear and a T-shirt and nobody would bat an eye. A three-piece suit? You’ll be the best-dressed diner Puss N Boots has ever seen.”

“Perfect,” he answers, “though I suppose I could strip down if that’d be better.” He grins, his eyes even brighter than they have been while we worked. I guess he does have a sense of humor after all, not only the dry, serious legalese he’s been using all afternoon.

“We’ll see,” I tease back. “I think the local Magic Mike competition isn’t until Thursday. That’s ladies’ night with half-price margaritas. The winner gets a free dinner.” I’m not kidding. There is a for-real dance competition this week, though Etta doesn’t let anyone get on her bar to do their thing. It’s strictly dancing around the tables to see who wins, which is usually the silliest dance, not the sexiest.

He follows me to Puss N Boots, parking his rental Lexus LS next to my Tesla. When he gets out and sees me looking at his car among the lot filled with beaters, jacked-up dirty trucks, and SUVs, he says, “Didn’t intend to look so funereal, but it was this or some pregnant roller skate of a subcompact.” He scrunches his shoulders and ducks his head down, grimacing. It’s a charming way of saying he’s too tall for the small-car option. I also notice he’s removed his jacket and vest, as well as lost the tie. In his button-down, I can tell that I was right about his workout habits.

Inside, Charlene greets us. “Hey, Birdie! Who’s the stiff?” Quieter, but not quiet enough, she adds, “And is he stiff all over?” Her eyes drop to his groin pointedly, as if we wouldn’t know what she was talking about otherwise.

Rolling my eyes to the wood-beamed ceiling, I remind Oliver, “I told you about the overly flirty waitress? This is Charlene. She’s not serious, unless you’d like her to be.”

Oliver smiles, holding out his hand to Charlene, who shakes it like she might never let go. “Nice to meet you. I’m Oliver.”

Charlene’s eyes flick from Oliver to me and back again questioningly. I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t already heard the scoop. “He’s Chrissy’s lawyer.”

She waves a hand dismissively, nearly clipping me with her long nails. “Honey-baby, I know that. Everybody knows that. What I’m trying to figure out is if this is one of those meet-cutes they talk about in those spicy books I definitely do not read, no matter what Ms. Nash says.”

Ms. Nash is the town librarian, who took over after Francine became the mayor, and she’s sworn to secrecy about everyone’s reading preferences, though she did let it slip that our resident green thumb, Fernanda, once checked out How to Keep Your Plants Alive. It’d been a scandal for weeks when Fernanda admitted that some of her prized cacti in the planters by her driveway were actually fake because while she’s a pro with flowers, the less-needy plants were dying on her left and right. Turned out, she’d been smothering them ... literally, with too much water.

“Strictly professional,” I assure her, certain she doesn’t believe me. Charlene loves love—the idea of it, the daily living with it, and, most of all, the act of making it. Despite her sexualized, flirtatious nature, she might be the most romantic person in Cold Springs.

She walks her fingers up Oliver’s arm to his shoulder, stepping closer so that she’s looking up at him. “Too bad for you, and all good for me,” she declares. “Follow me, Ollie. Make sure you get a good look while I’m not watching too. Plenty more where this came from.” She pats her hips and turns, strutting toward a table.

Oliver grins, looking at me in surprise, and I shrug. “Welcome to Cold Springs.” When we sit down, Charlene hands us menus, but suggests, “Tay Tay made chili today. You definitely want that. Just let me know if you want it in a bowl, on a burger, on Fritos chips, on my tits. Your call, Ollie.”

---