Page 7 of Too Sweet

I toss the empty cup and spoon into a nearby trash bin. “Correct. It’s not a date. Just business.”

“I saw the way you were eyeing her outfit,” Cooper says. “Are you sure your motives are pure?”

I was keeping an eye on the other men who were ogling her. There’s a difference.

“Cooper,” I remind him. “You know me. This is all too loud and too chaotic to accomplish anything concrete. I’m just…tired of this crowd and would like to go home now.”

I cut my gaze to the left as something shiny catches my eye. Summer has discarded her stilettos. Barefoot, she chats up the guys at the booth across the aisle from us, accepting a free miniature frisbee. They look like a group of young upstart venture capitalists. But the name of their company tells the whole story: BHI. As in, Bryant Holdings, Inc.

Shit. There goes the neighborhood.

“Damn it. I told you we should have added disc golf merch,” Cooper growls through his teeth. “The Bryant cousins are gonna be all over those girls like bees on a Coke can.”

One of the two managers of the Bryant estate looks as if he walked off the set of Wall Street. Cocky and dressed to the nines. One of them takes the little frisbee, writes something on it, and then hands it back to Summer.

“Those aren’t the Bryant cousins. Those are the Bryants’ fund managers,” I say, not taking my eyes off Summer.

“How do you know?” Cooper asks.

“For one thing, I’m a history nerd. The only Bryant heir is a woman. Aunt Gabby knew her parents.”

Cooper grunts. “There’s no way we can compete with old railroad money.”

Wow. My brother cracked a book in American history class. Wonders will never cease.

He’s also correct about our chances. Those stuffed suits over there represent the estate of W.H. Bryant, one of the preeminent railroad magnates back in the day that put this area on the map. New York has the Lyndhurst mansion. North Carolina boasts Biltmore. California has Hearst Castle. Our little patch of the U.S. has the Bryant Estate—built in 1900 by the famous railroad and shipping family. Their remaining descendant, a single woman in her late 20s, lives ensconced in mystery in the woods of Appalachia.

Summer takes the frisbee from the Bryant representative and reads what he wrote. It must’ve been an actual offer because she laughs. “Is that all you got? The MacKenzies are offering much more attractive terms.” When she says our last name, she turns and glances in our direction.

“How’d she know who we are?” Cooper asks.

That’s his question? “Why’d she say we made an offer to Little Spoon!?” I exclaim.

“That is ballsy,” Cooper laughs.

I can’t decide if that’s a bad or good way to start a bidding war between potential investors.

“Zip it,” I tell Cooper. “She’s on her way over here.”

Cooper turns to me and reaches for my neck, and I swat him away.

“Ow! Straighten your tie, bro. You look like an absentminded professor.”

Instead, I meet her halfway. Before I can question it, I scoop her up in my arms.

“Hey!” Summer shrieks.

“You need to stay off that ankle.”

“I was just coming over to give you guys the elevator pitch,” Summer chuckles.

Her arms feel good around my neck.

“Not necessary,” I say. “Your product is pretty good.”

To my annoyance, Cooper reaches for her hand, covering it in one of his big mitts. “Cooper MacKenzie,” he says. “I believe I met your business partner over there.”

“Everyone knows who you are,” she says, not taking her eyes off me. Her long lashes blink up at me slowly, ramping up the heat that’s been slowly building since I first saw her.

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