Page 7 of Billionaire's Coastal Haven

I tug my lapels straight. “That’s my business.”

I don’t need to explain my plan. At least, not today. She’ll know when I submit permits. Until then, this project is my closely guarded baby.

The last thing I need is for her to publicize my presence. Announcements will be made when I’m ready, not when they’re leaked to increase town exposure. I can’t afford that wrinkle in my schedule.

She jams her hand on her hip and shifts her weight to one side in what she probably thinks is a power pose, but it reminds me of a sassy kid. “It’s town business. Mr. Webber needs to notify the Historical Preservation Society before he sells this property. There are taxes and fees to pay. He didn’t, so we can—”

I laugh. “Sorry, mayor, everything is paid. The state of Washington sealed the deal.”

Her cheeks burn bright, and she stamps her foot. All cool lost. “It’s not a laughing matter. This estate was built by Thomas Reeves, one of the founders of Rainwater Bay, in 1919. The family sold it in 1953 to settle business debts for their shipping company. The mansion is a perfect representation of 1920s French country architecture and was declared a historical site in 1992. All properties with a historic designation require submission of plans, sales documents, and other pertinent information to the town’s Historical Preservation Society before transfer of ownership. I don’t care what the state says. You need our seal on the deal, and you didn’t get that.”

I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t continue laughing. “Is that verbatim from the mayor’s handbook? Or was that town history 101?”

She grinds her teeth.

That would be ayes.

Fun as this is, we aren’t accomplishing anything. I raise my hands. “Look, take a breath and calm down.”

She growls. “Do not tell me to calm down. This house is—”

“Falling down. The roof leaks. Animals built a nest in the primary suite. There’s a hole in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. Squatters lived here in the not too recent past and didn’t clean up after themselves. Trust me, anything I do with the property will be an improvement.”

She rushes past me and blocks my path to the house with outstretched arms. “Are you tearing down the mansion?”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“Maybe isn’t good enough.”

“I won’t make promises I can’t keep.”

“Then don’t buy this house. Give Webber back the money and walk away. We can—”

“No.” I weave past her.

“Why not?” She matches my pace.

“I don’t need to justify myself to you.”

“The Historical Preservation Society won’t let you tear it down. This house is listed in the National Registry of Historic Places.”

“Does this bossy act work for you when the baby lamb version fails?” I circle my finger to encompass her being.

She grunts in a very unladylike fashion, and the thrill of a fight burns in my gut. I love this part. A new sparring partner will make this project all the more exhilarating.

She jabs her finger into my chest. “It’s my job to prevent you from destroying the peace we fight hard to protect. I’m sorry if you don’t like my tone, but my people expect me to stand up for them.”

I shake my head. And here I thought I’d finally met a worthy adversary. Someone with as much passion for their point of view as I have for mine.

But she’s a puppet. A mouthpiece sent by her constituents to do their bidding.

“Don’t apologize.” I grimace. “When you’re negotiating with someone, never apologize. It makes you weak. Weak negotiators always lose.”

“This isn’t a negotiation,” she growls.

“We finally agree on something. I bought the estate. I will remodel it to suit my needs. You have no bargaining chips.”

“We won’t let you steamroll us.”