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“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“You seemed desperate to see me. So here I am.”

“I said I was unavailable to you.”

“We don’t need to argue over the details. You wanted me here, and I’ve arrived. Now, let’s discuss our service lane.”

“It isn’t ours.”

“Not yet.”

Before I can answer, Eric walks around the desk and helps himself to a Hartwell notepad. He takes a pen from inside his jacket and writes down a figure. Then he adds per year and slides the pad toward me.

“Voss will also resurface the lane and cover all future repairs.”

I look at the number. It’s low enough to be insulting. “No.”

His mouth twitches. He takes back the pad, crosses out the figure, and replaces it with a larger one. It’s better, but I shake my head again.

“You’re not even pretending to consider these.”

“You’re not giving me anything worth considering.”

He writes a third figure and turns the pad back to me. This one is more than fair. It could pay for several repairs at the Hartwell and leave plenty to spare.

I study it long enough to prove I understand exactly what I’m refusing. “No.”

Eric watches me for a moment, then holds out his pen. “Give me your number.”

“No.”

He steps closer, the pen still offered between us. He’s near enough for the clean, warm scent of his cologne to reach me. I lift my chin and hold my ground.

“Easy, Ms. Hartwell. We only met yesterday.” His eyes gleam. “I meant your price for the service lane.”

“I know what you meant,” I snap.

He carries on as if I haven’t spoken.

“If you play your cards right, maybe I’ll give you my personal number.” His smug grin widens. “But you’ll have to promise not to call every time you miss me. I do have a company to run.”

His arrogance is almost impressive. He came into my hotel without an appointment, tried to buy something that isn’t for sale, and now acts as though his phone number is a prize. Judging by that grin, plenty of women must agree. I certainly don’t.

I give him my sweetest front-desk smile, the one I save for guests who are testing my patience. “No, thank you. You can go now.”

“I’m not changing the plans,” he says, as if my answer were only a delay. “A new entrance would cost us too much space on the ground floor.”

“Then your architect needs to find a better solution. The lane belongs to the Hartwell, and Voss won’t be using it. Unless you’re here to book a room, this conversation is over.”

His smile fades. He takes back the notepad and writes a new figure. The number gives me pause, but only for a moment. I shake my head and slide the pad toward him.

“Ms. Hartwell, I don’t know what game you’re playing⁠—”

The front doors open, and a woman enters with a large suitcase. I step away from Eric and give her a warm smile.

“Mrs. Ellis. How was your flight?”

“Late.”