Page 32 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“You’re quiet,” Riley says after a moment. “Which for you is… suspicious.”
“I’m processing.”
“Mm.” She props her chin on her fist. “Do you want to talk about your actual problem now or do I need to play twenty questions?”
“Which problem?”
“HaroldSwanson,” she says, and somehow makes it sound like a rash. “Our new mansion enthusiast.”
I groan. “What now?”
“Guess the name of his company.”
“If you say something like ‘Legacy Ventures,’ I’m going to ban the word ‘legacy’ from the block.”
“H.S. Incorporated.” She waits.
I blink. Somewhere in my brain a drawer opens. “H.S.”
She nods. “H. for Harold. S. for Swanson. Incorporated for ‘we’re about to be upset.’”
The buy offer. The heavy paper. The tasteful serif font. H.S. Incorporated, across the top like a smirk.
“He’s the one trying to buy Scotty’s,” I say, the dread fizzy instead of cold. “It was him.”
“Not just Scotty’s.” Riley leans close like the walls are listening. “I heard from Nora that filings hit the clerk’s desk yesterday—same LLC making offers up and down Brime. Most above market. It smells like a sweep.”
I press my hands to the counter. “A sweep for what?”
“Power,” Riley says simply. “Control. Leverage. Whatever word rich people use when they want to own how a place feels.”
The anger that’s been pacing my ribs since the oil rig talk sharpens. “I’m not selling.”
“I know.”
“He can club me over the head with a briefcase full of gold bars,” I say, “and I’m still not selling.”
“I said I know.” She smiles then, proud and a little wicked. “We’ll make it expensive for him to eventry.”
I breathe out. The floor steadies. “What’s our plan?”
“First,” she says, “we keep doing what we do: serve people who love you and will yell if you go away. Second, we turn on the lights: public, loud, and boring. Sunshine is awkward for men in nice suits. Third, we pull records: who owns H.S. Incorporated, who sits on its board, which law firm is filing, what other towns they’ve done this to, and who still hates them for it.”
“You sound happy,” I accuse.
“I love a research montage,” she says. “Also, I spoke to Nora already. She’ll set aside copies of the filings for you. We can pick them up before she closes.”
I lean on my elbows and look at my best friend. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m effective,” she says, unbothered. “And so are you. Also—” she lifts a brow— “are you going to bake the sheriff a thank-you cookie or are we pretending you didn’t almost swoon?”
“I did not—”
“The word you’re looking for isfluster, if you want to keep your dignity.”
I point my knife at her. “I will bake scones. For Brick. Because he’s a child. And because scones help bones knit.”
“Science,” she says gravely.
