Page 30 of Grumpy Boss in Love

Blowing out a breath, I embraced my guilt for avoiding my cousin for the last two weeks. I’d been wary about hanging out with him because of the whole Ruby situation, which was no more. I’d had the crazy thought that maybe Ben would somehow see the evidence of my shift in emotions.

“I’m sorry,” I began.

“You’re apologizing,” Ben said. “Are yousureyou’re okay?”

Rolling my eyes, I tapped the brass knocker against the door again. Where the hell was the owner of the place? I called and scheduled the meeting. “Don’t be dramatic. Meet me for lunch at The Steakhouse in two hours.”

“You got it. What was that sound?”

“A door knocker,” I grumbled.

“A what? Where the hell are you, the nineteenth century?”

I snorted. This house certainly had that old charm about it. “I’ll explain later.”

“Alright,” Ben hummed.

Just as I hung up, the door finally squeaked open. From the floorboards to the door… This place was in severe need of repairs. Although I intended to demolish it altogether…

A wrinkled, weathered face appeared. The older man smiled and his pale blue eyes twinkled. “Hey there, young fella.”

11

ELLIOT

My eyebrows quirked with amusement at the “young fella” comment.

“Alfred Wilson?”

“Yes.” He peered at me through squinted eyes. “And would you be Daniel Reid?”

My molars snapped together in irritation. Daniel Reid was one of my competitors for this place? The shrewd property developer had set out to buy every square inch of Illinois, it seemed. Hearing his name gave my fiercely competitive side a jolt. Reid would win this place over my dead body.

“No,” I bit out, extending a hand. “I’m Elliot Westwood. We spoke about an hour ago.”

“Oh, right.” Alfred let out a husky laugh and wrapped his hand around mine for a surprisingly firm handshake. “My apologies, son. This old brain isn’t what it used to be.”

“It’s fine.”

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long. These old knees aren’t what they used to be either.”

Another hearty laugh echoed, and my lips twitched. His booming laugh made him sound like Santa Claus. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Wilson.”

“Elliot please. Come in.” He stepped aside. “My wife is in the kitchen making tea.”

I stifled a sigh. I wasn’t here for pleasantries and tea. What I wanted to do was offer Alfred Wilson a boatload of money and hear him tell me that the place was mine so I could move on with my plan to carve another notch in my CEO belt—to advance Westwood Collective’s recent move into property development.

“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

Moments later, I met Eleanor Wilson, a matronly figure who was just as warm as her husband. I smiled at her over a mug of lavender tea as she regaled me with tales about how lively Meadowbrook Guesthouse was in its heyday. Then she detailed the sad decline of the business, which was caused by a combination of the spiraling economy and people choosing fancier hotels and Airbnbs. Also, she and her husband had gotten too old to manage such a massive property.

“It sounds as if you have great memories here,” I noted.

She glanced at Alfred and they both smiled. I watched him place his hand affectionately over hers. “Wonderful memories,” she confirmed.

“This property has been in the Wilson family for generations,” Alfred shared. “But Eleanor and I never had children. There’s no one to pass it on to, so we decided to sell.”

“And find a nice little condo in a retirement village,” Eleanor said. “I hear there are plenty of nice ones.”

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