Page 27 of Christmas in Vines

“Yes, but it’s a more profitable divergence, yes?” Maxwell replied.

“It is.” Dad looked to the two lawyers, then back to Maxmillian and his smug expression. “I think this might be the best time to take a refreshment break while my lawyer and I go over these new terms.”

“Wonderful,” Maximillian nodded, “I’m craving a coffee.”

“Me too,” Dad added. “Willow, would you show them to the next room?”

It irritated me a little to be denigrated to the rank of hostess, but I agreed and stood. “Please, follow me.”

The table in the smaller conference room down the hall was already transformed into a mini buffet with ready-to-serve piping hot coffee, tea or finger foods to any palate. As we entered, Maxmillian’s phone rang, and he went off to answer it, leaving me and Maxwell alone.

His lips curled. “You look like a maneater in that suit.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or offended. “I don’t think we ordered human entrails for this buffet,” I said calmly.

“Willow—”

“Let me stop you right now, Maxwell,” I said stonily. “This is business; we are never getting back together, so whatever idiotic plans you have about using this to slither your slimy way back into my life is not happening. You might be comfortable dipping your pen in every inkpot around the block, but it’s not happening here.”

His face soured. “You didn’t even give me a chance to say what I needed to say.”

“If it’s not, I’m sorry and or I’m a scumbag. You can save it,” I replied while hearing Maximillan’s conversation begin to wind down. I wiped all the irritation from my face and chipperly added, “Coffee?”

My sudden shift threw him, and I felt satisfied; at least the lines were drawn now and if he had and goddamn sense of self-preservation or common sense, he would stay behind them.

Maxmillian came over, his gray-blue eyes shifting between us, “Did I miss anything?”

“Maxwell was just telling me about his upcoming trip to Papua New Guinea,” I said smartly. “Isn’t that right, Maxwell? I applaud you for wanting to integrate with the locals.”

He didn’t look amused. “Yes, yes, of course. I’d love to get my liver ripped out and eaten.”

His father made his coffee and sniffed. “At least Clarkston got the good stuff this time.”

I held back from rolling my eyes and sipped my drink. “Sourced directly from Jamaica.”

The two chatted about other meetings and more negotiations, and I zoned out; my mind landed on Tyler and the tree-cutting we would be doing that evening.

“…You should come, Willow,” Maxmillian said.

Hearing my name, my attention jerked to the present. “Pardon?”

“Our annual Christmas Party,” he said. “I’d love to see you and your father there.”

“Oh,” I didn’t know what to say—but if he were to be our business partner, it would only be a show of good faith. “Sure. Thank you for the invitation.”

A knock on the door drew our attention, and Dr. Chamberlin was there, “We’ve reached a decision. Please, come back to the conference room.”

Taking our cups back, we took our places, and I glanced at Dad; his face was unreadable, well, mostly. I saw a tick in his jaw and knew that it meant he was not happy about being blindsided and forced into a corner.

I think I already knew the decision he’d made.

“Well, Clarkston?” Maximillian asked, his left brow arched expectedly. “What have you decided?”

“We’re accepting your offer on an interim basis,” Dad replied tightly. “Our lawyers will have to go back and redo the terms in the contract we’d made, though, so I expect, with the holidays so near, about two weeks for the new agreement?”

“Unacceptable,” Maximillian snorted. “A week at most.”

“Twelve days,” Paula said, her gray hair as steely as her eyes. “We cannot afford to miss anything, and as unpalatable as it seems, Mister Winslow, some of us have lives beyond the job.”

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