feel beat.” Charlie stared at the tulip leaves drooping over the edges of the pitcher. “Finally, totally beat.”
Tess popped the top of one of the soda cans. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure yet what part David played in this,” said Charlie, “but a rep from Continental showed up at the plant today.”
“Continental?” Tess’s eyebrows winged up in surprise. “The Continental that owns a piece of every construction firm between here and Vegas?”
Addie frowned. “What’s a representative from a big company like that doing here?”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to know,” said Charlie. “And what—or who—put Carnelian Cove on their radar.” She rubbed her temples. “He was at Earl’s plant this morning, too.”
“God.” Tess lowered her drink to the sink’s drainboard. “They’re moving in.”
“Looks like it.”
“They want to buy BayRock?” Addie’s forehead creased with worry. “But I thought Earl was going to sell it to you.”
“Wait a minute.” Tess folded her arms and leaned one hip against the sink. “There was this guy talking to Ramón at the self-serve pump when I stopped for gas on my lunch break. Someone I’ve never seen around here before. Medium height, wavy dark blond hair. GQ weekend look with slightly muddy work boots. And dimples to die for. God, that smile…”
She sighed and then straightened with a guilty look in Charlie’s direction. “But maybe not your guy. And probably not a genuine hot prospect.”
“Liar.” Charlie bit into Marie-Claudette’s chewy brand of comfort. “That’s him, right down to the dirty boots. And he’s a hottie, all right.”
“But a scary one,” said Addie. “With ulterior motives.”
“Definitely not a prospect,” said Tess.
“Prospect or not, he’s the enemy.” Charlie took another bite of chocolate fortification. “And I’m going to take him down, dimples and all.”
Chapter Four
JACK SKIPPED THE postbreakfast coffee at Agatha’s early Friday morning, likely adding another black mark to his ledger sheet. His hostess had figured out—at some point between her warm-from-the-oven cookie party in the kitchen and her considerably cooler good-night greeting on the stairway—the reason for his visit, and it was obvious her sympathies lay with the home team.
Besides, he was eager to check out the Carnelian Cove market for himself. Figures on spreadsheets were never as revealing as the businesses and consumers and connections they represented. And getting out of the office and meeting folks had always been the best part of his job.
He’d sipped an excellent espresso in a café near the marina, and then he’d shared a scone and an interesting conversation with a scruffy fellow fishing from one of the docks. He’d watched a blacksmith on Main Street shaping an iron scroll for a garden gate, and he’d discussed the difficulties of pigeon population control with a woman scrubbing the walk in front of her knitting supply shop.
He’d needed this break in the corporate routine, he realized as he hiked south of the marina, circling toward Oyster Lane. Needed to clear his mind and reorganize his priorities. Needed to concentrate on one of the most important reasons for this trip: gathering more ammunition for the skirmishes brewing in the San Francisco office.
Bill, his boss, hadn’t yet answered his morning call—most likely preoccupied with pinning down the source of the latest corporate rumors and more cautious than usual about the dicey projects Jack had made his specialty. Projects like this foray north to Carnelian Cove. Noah Fuller, Jack’s perennial rival and general pain in the butt, was eager to take advantage of the situation, looking to sink this deal—and Jack with it. And Jack’s assistant was pressuring him to cut his trip short and fly back south to defend his office turf from another of Noah’s coup attempts.
Calls, coups, pressure. Jack kicked at a pebble wedged in a sidewalk crack, wishing he could get rid of his problems as easily. He liked his job, and he enjoyed living in San Francisco. But there were parts of any job he’d ever had, and aspects of any location he’d ever lived in, that had shredded his patience and dampened his spirit and made him consider moving on.
He’d been on the move for over a dozen of his thirty-two years, heading west until he’d reached the ocean at the other side of the continent. And no matter where he headed now, he’d run up against the same types of shifting, fluid obstacles, the same office politics and the same corporate insecurities. Best to hunker down and pull off a coup of his own here in Carnelian Cove, to blast Noah out of his path and earn another recommendation for a promotion from his grateful boss. He was too young to feel so tired and worn, particularly on such a promising day in a town full of possibilities.
He rounded a corner and discovered the source of the construction-related clatter he’d heard across the water. Up ahead, a concrete pump operator wound thick black hoses over his screen trailer, and another driver washed out a Keene mixer angled near the muddy gash of a job site. Curious about the project, Jack ambled toward the crew laboring over a freshly poured slab.
One of the finishers stretched his float in practiced swoops across the glossy, wet surface of a new drive, while another knelt to scrape deep joints in the mix with a trowel. Though finishing concrete had never been one of his favorite chores, Jack itched to pick up one of the tools and get his hands dirty. Moments like this made him miss the hands-on satisfaction of the construction business and yearn for more opportunities to get out of the office.
Behind the crew, a taller-than-average man with wavy black hair pitched a cell phone into the cab of a black pickup truck. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Just watching, if that’s okay.” Jack extended his hand. “Jack Maguire.”
The dark-haired man wiped his hand on his jeans before shaking Jack’s. “Quinn. You the man from Continental?”
“Word gets around,” said Jack with a grin.
Quinn’s mouth tightened in a thin line that might have passed for a smile if his level stare had warmed a degree or two. But it didn’t. “Is Continental putting in a bid on Sawyer’s outfit?” he asked.
“Not sure.” Jack studied the finishing work. “Depends on the market around here. The supply.”
“The customers.”
“That, too.”
Jack already knew Quinn was considered one of the best contractors in the area. He had a steady crew, did the job well and on time and paid his bills promptly. Agatha had offered a few more details with her macaroons: in spite of his professional reputation for quality work, Quinn’s personal reputation—as a recovering alcoholic with a troublesome past—kept him scrambling more than most for opportunities to keep his crew employed and his redemption on track.
“In my experience,” said Jack with a glance at the Keene mixer, “customers tend to be loyal to one supplier.”
“Unless there’s enough incentive to switch.” Quinn raised one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Might be a one-time deal,
