Page 7 of Summer Showdown
"Is this what relaxation feels like?" I murmured to Bramble, who opened one eye briefly before resuming his nap. "Because I'm not sure I'm doing it right."
I hadn't expected the adjustment to be this difficult. Less than twenty-four hours into my "strategic retreat," and I was already crawling out of my skin with restlessness. Back in Chicago, I'd fantasized about having free time—to read, to sleep in, to simply exist without a calendar notification dictating my next move. Yet now that I had it, all I could think about was the firm and the accusations hanging over my head.
My gaze drifted across the inn's grounds. Rory had mentioned at breakfast that she'd only planted the gardens this spring, with the help of a floral designer and horticulturist who were in town to attend Wintervale’s annual garden show. Despite their recent planting, the gardens had already flourished into a lush paradise. Vibrant flower beds bordered neat pathways, while a kitchen garden bursting with herbs and vegetables occupied a sunny corner. The rosemary raisin bread served with breakfast had featured fresh herbs from that very plot—explaining why it had been the best I'd ever tasted. The tomato and goat cheese quiche, too, had contained cherry tomatoes plucked from the garden at dawn.
The distant sound of a woodpecker's rhythmic tapping merged with the soft whispering of pine trees in the afternoon breeze. From somewhere inside the inn, the aroma of vanilla and cinnamon wafted out, mingling with the sweeter perfume of the wildflowers dotting the meadow beyond the manicured lawn. Montana's sensory landscape was nothing like Chicago's blaring horns and concrete scent.
I took another sip of tea and absently reached for a cookie, savoring the buttery sweetness as it melted on my tongue. At least the food at the Evergreen Inn was spectacular. Maybe I could spend my entire two weeks just eating and sleeping. A hibernation of sorts.
My phone buzzed with an incoming email, breaking my tenuous peace. I'd been avoiding checking it since that morning, when Sloane had sent three increasingly urgent texts asking me to call her. Whatever was happening at Keller & Benson, I wasn't ready to face it. Not yet.
But this wasn't from Sloane. It was from James Keller himself, the firm's managing partner.
A cold weight settled in my chest as I opened it, already anticipating bad news. I could almost hear James's carefully modulated voice as I read:
Lark,
The initial phase of our investigation into the Apex-Meridian confidentiality breach is proceeding. While we have not reached any definitive conclusions, I wanted to provide you with a status update.
The evidence presented by Andrew Cavendish regarding the timeline of information dissemination appears compelling. Several key documents were accessed through your credentialsduring the period in question, though we understand your position that you were not the individual who accessed them.
We are continuing to review all materials thoroughly and ask for your continued discretion during this process. Your administrative leave remains in effect until further notice.
Regards,
James Keller
Managing Partner
Keller & Benson LLP
I stared at the screen, the garden's beauty suddenly dimmed. "Appears compelling." That carefully chosen phrasing told me everything I needed to know. The firm was leaning toward accepting Andrew's version of events.
A wave of anger burned through me, hot and clarifying. Andrew Cavendish was methodically building a case against me, positioning himself as the whistleblower who'd discovered my alleged ethical breach. It was no coincidence that this "discovery" came just as the partner committee was preparing to vote on which of us would receive the sole partnership opening this year.
My success with the Apex-Meridian merger—a client I'd personally brought to the firm—had put me ahead in the partnership race. Andrew had always been my main competition, our careers running on parallel tracks since we'd joined the firm within months of each other. But where I'd cultivated client relationships, he'd cultivated internal political connections.
And now he was using those connections to destroy me.
I set down my phone with deliberate care, resisting the urge to hurl it into the flower beds. The sapphire on mygrandmother's ring caught the light as I absently twisted it around my finger.
"Perfection is protection, Larkin," I whispered, echoing one of my grandmother's mantras. She'd been the one who taught me that excellence was the only acceptable standard—that being extraordinary was the price of admission in a world that rarely made space for women like us. It was her voice I still heard in my head during late nights at the office, pushing me to triple-check every document, anticipate every argument, outwork everyone else.
Now I was facing an opponent who'd weaponized my own perfectionism against me. How could I defend against accusations when I'd spent my entire life ensuring I never made mistakes worthy of accusation? The "evidence" against me was circumstantial but damning—someone had used my login credentials to access the merger documents shortly before details appeared in a financial blog. I'd changed my password since then, but the damage was done. I had no way to prove who had really accessed those files.
Bramble nudged my ankle with his wet nose, his amber eyes looking up at me with surprising empathy, as if sensing my distress. I reached down to scratch behind his ears, grateful for the simple comfort of a warm, living creature.
"Ms. Hayes?"
I looked up to find Rory standing at the doorway, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She wore a paint-splattered denim jumpsuit and held a glass of lemonade, looking every inch the hands-on innkeeper.
"You have a visitor," she said, stepping aside to reveal a man in a crisp button-down shirt and pressed slacks.
"Mayor Snowcroft," the man introduced himself, extending his hand with the practiced ease of a politician. "Theodore Snowcroft. Hope I'm not interrupting your afternoon."
I straightened instinctively, professional mask sliding into place as I stood to shake his hand. "Not at all. I'm Lark Hayes."
Rory lingered in the doorway. "Mayor Snowcroft and his fiancée Edna Twinkleberry are getting married here at the inn on the last day of the Summer Splash Festival," she explained. "The grounds will be transformed for the occasion."
