Page 41 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“Who are you?”
“The man whose buy offer you rejected,” he says, and the pieces click in a way that makes my stomach drop.
“Oh.”
H.S. Incorporated. The mansion on Madison Street. The envelope. The too-good number. The way the paper felt like a trap.
He smiles without joy. “Now will you get in?”
I shouldn’t. I know better. I also know he’s not leaving until he does what he came to do. The two shadows in the front don’t turn, but I feel their attention like heat.
I open the door and slip into the back seat—just far enough from him, just close enough to end this fast.
“Everyone else on the block is settled,” he says, smoothing an invisible crease on his trousers. “Is there a reason you’re holding out? The offer is generous.”
It is. Triple what Scotty’s is worth on paper. Too generous to be clean. We both know it.
“I’m not selling,” I say. “So, there’s your reason.”
“Brave,” he says, almost admiring. Then, like he can’t help himself: “Stupid.”
“Pick one,” I say.
He studies me, pale eyes flat as coins. “I sent warnings. I expected you to understand.”
I frown. “Warnings?”
“That little incident with the two men,” he says, like he’s discussing the weather. “Thought that might… encourage you. Your officer complicated it.”
Officer. My heartbeat ticks faster.
“Sheriff,” he corrects. “He did his job.”
“He did,” I say, and I don’t bother hiding the edge in my voice.
He leans back, folding one ankle over a knee. “I looked you up, Jasmine Wallace.”
Of course he did.
“Your father—Jonah Wallace—left when you were two. I assume that has something to do with the way you cling to places like they’re people.”
“I don’t think about him,” I say, voice flat as a sidewalk.
“Your mother, Annabel Kelly Wallace,” he continues, ignoring me. “Dementia. Quickly advancing. That’s sad. Tragic, even. Care isn’t cheap.”
My hands go cold. “Where is this going?”
He steeples his fingers like a villain in a cartoon. “You and Ms. Jenkins. Interesting pair. The earnest educator and the mouthy baker. How did that happen?”
“We had a lunch break at the same time once,” I say. “Wild story. Would not recommend.”
He smiles, as if impressed. “And the diner. Named for your mother’s family name. Scotty.” He savors the word like it’s his. “Sweet. Nostalgic.”
My patience frays. “You know a lot of things about me, Mr…?”
“Swanson,” he says, and my stomach recognizes the name before my brain does. “Harold.”
There it is. The signature at the bottom of that letter.
