Page 3 of Some Like It Hops

My jaw clenches. “Yes. What I do not understand ishowthis happened. We made the offer twenty-four hours ago.”

Being outbid happens, just… not to me.

Marcus fidgets in his chair like a child. “As far as I knew, we were the only offer.”

“You said we were ‘as good as gold’.” I roll my shoulders to release the building tension, which doesn’t help. “Tell me how this happens, Marcus.”

“The seller had another offer come through yesterday afternoon.”

“What was it?”

“What?”

I close my eyes on a long blink. “What did the other buyer offer?”

“I am not at liberty to disclose—”

“Fuckliberty.” I stand so quickly the man flinches. “I don’t pay you for liberty, Marcus. Did I miss the sign at the door that says Simon & Simon,LibertyBrothers?” I pull in a deep breath and straighten the lapels of my Tom Ford. “I’ll offer double the asking price. Cash.” I sniff, pausing to keep my voice level. “Make it happen.”

“It’s too late. The deal has been made.”

“I saiddouble the offer, Marcus.”

“I already tried.”

I’ll ignore the fact that Marcus offered the seller more of my moneybeforereceiving my permission to do so. The issue at hand now is far more important: what kind of person turns down double the asking price?

“We’ll find another warehouse.”

“I don’twantanother warehouse.” I settle back into the leather chair. I’m not proud of losing my temper, but why the fuck do I keep this guy on retainer if he can’t actually deliver what I pay him for? Surely there are other commercial real estate firms I can pay to do these little jobs for me.

“Why do you want this location so badly? It’s easily a third the size of your other breweries…”

I steeple my fingers beneath my chin. Why I want the property is none of his goddamn business. If Marcus had the foresight to see what that little industrial plaza could be, if he had an eye forpotential, he probably wouldn’t be sitting on that side of the desk.

“If it’s not about money,” I ask, “then what’s the deal?”

Marcus pales but doesn’t answer.

Frowning, I motion toward him. “Speak.”

“The owner didn’t want to sell to Fast Lane. He was adamant that his small brewery wouldn’t sell out.” He shrugs one shoulder sheepishly. “Or something like that.”

The whole selling out notion is a load of shit. Who wouldn’t want to profit from their hard work? Fast Lane has acquired a handful of smaller operations over the years and lined a lot of pockets. I don’t hear them complaining.

But jealousy is a motherfucker, and there’s nothing I can do about that. If the seller is a prick about the size of my operation, I’ll bypass him. From the sound of things, he’s a few days of escrow away from no longer owning the warehouse anyway. Time to get in touch with the new owner, figure out his price, and secure the next location for Fast Lane Brewing.

“Who brokered the deal?”

“I, uh…”

“It’s a simple question, Marcus. Who brokered the deal?” I motion toward the pile of crap on his desk.

He looks down, shuffling through disheveled paperwork. I try to make my face a mask of indifference, but clutter drives me crazy. I should have known he wouldn’t be able to deliver the second I walked into his office and saw what a dumpster fire his desk is, but, family connections and an uncle who knows how to lay the guilt on thick convinced me that Marcus was, and I quote, “Hands down the best commercial guy in Southern California!”. End quote.

The best. I clear my throat to remind him I’m still waiting.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “It looks like the buyer’s agent is out of a small commercial firm in Temecula.”

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