On One Condition Read online

  “You checked with our lawyers? Can they add this stipulation?” I ask.

  “They can do whatever they want to do,” Callahan says. “We dealt with strict demands on the Santa Fe project and, after wasting money fighting the city in court, we still had to comply.”

  “Fuck,” I mutter as I run over the construction schedule in my head and the plans for the grand opening. Two months before obtaining occupancy permits will delay us. “This is going to cost us. We’ll have to push the grand opening back. Give it a cushion just in case.”

  “It’s a bump in the road,” Ford says, ever the pragmatist. “All projects have them.”

  “It’s a ridiculous request, is what it is.”

  “So you’ve said. Ridiculous as it may be, we’ve already bought the place. With millions of dollars on the line, we don’t have a choice, do we?” Callahan asks.

  “We’re too busy. None of us can afford to lose two months away right now.” I run a hand through my hair. “That’s what we hire project managers and directors of construction for. We need to find a workaround. That’s all there is to it.”

  Callahan looks at me as if I’m being unreasonable. “And what exactly do you propose to do because throwing money at them—which is what you’re going to suggest as a solution—will only make us look more corporate than we already look.”

  “Or guilty of what they’re accusing us of being,” Ford finishes for him.

  “So, what is the solution then? Hire everybody in town? Fine. We’ll do that,” I say. “To not put the stores on Main Street out of business? It’s not our fucking fault if that happens. We sell hospitality. How is that going to put the hardware store or bakery out of business? I mean, this letter is absolute bullshit.”

  “It is what it is,” Ford mutters.

  “What did Dad always tell us?” I ask. “To situate ourselves in a position of power. So how do we do that? What’s going to give us the upper hand?”

  “We go to Cedar Hills for two months,” Ford states.

  “Falls,” I correct, glancing over the email again before shutting my laptop. “It’s Cedar Falls. And since you’re heading out there to live for the foreseeable future until this is fixed, it’s probably best you get the town’s name right.”

  “Me?” Ford barks out the word and puts his hands up in surrender. “No can do. This trip is squarely on you, Ledger.”

  “The fuck it is.” I glance back and forth between my brothers as grins widen on their faces. “Not happening.” I push up out of my chair and move toward the windows that Callahan just vacated, before turning to face them. “Absolutely not,” I say as disbelief slowly trickles through me.

  I know their schedules.

  The projects they’re tied to.

  The obligations they can’t leave mid-operation.

  But I swore I’d never step foot in that town again.

  Callahan barks out a laugh the minute he sees the realization hit my face. This one is on me. “What was that?” he teases.

  “Look. I have an appreciation for all places. Urban. Tropical. Country. But wouldn’t this better suit—”

  “When have you ever liked the country?” Ford asks.

  “I did. As a teenager.”

  “Ha. But now with your Rolex and designer shoes, you’re too good for it?”

  “Wouldn’t this project be better suited to one of you who knows the . . . less urban areas better?” Christ. Please save me from this proposed misery. Sure, the past is the past, but it’s not a place I want to revisit. Was it great as a teen? Yes. Is it even better for our clientele looking for this kind of retreat? Of course, it is. That’s why we bought the property.

  But it’s definitely not what I like now.

  The past is the last thing I want to dig up, regardless of whether Asher Wells is long gone or not.

  “What’s the problem?” Callahan asks as he pops a grape from the fruit platter in the middle of the table into his mouth. “Is spending two months in Montana not on the Ledger-approved ten-year plan?”

  Ford stifles a snicker as he looks at Callahan and says, “I’m sure we could squeeze it right between the bullet points of ‘I’m not getting married until I’m forty’ and ‘I want an article solely about me in Forbes Magazine.’”

  “To think he doesn’t want us in that article.” Callahan sighs and shakes his head in mock sadness, clearly enjoying himself at my expense. “You still have a ten-year plan, don’t you?”

  “Of course, he does,” Ford says.

  “I was just checking. I wasn’t sure if he’d moved on to making mood boards or whatever the in thing is called these days.”

  “Vision boards, Callahan. Keep up with the times.” Ford chuckles.

  “You guys are assholes,” I mutter, but I’m secretly enjoying their banter. It was less than fifteen months ago that the three of us were in a different place, a different headspace, where Ford and I were at complete odds with Callahan. Disappointment. Anger. Resentment. Unresolved feelings that arose after our father’s death threatened to tear us apart.

  But look at us now. Now we can call each other assholes and fuckers, laughing while we do it, knowing our bond is stronger than ever.

  “Yes. Right. We’re assholes,” Callahan scoffs as he turns to me, humor etching the lines of his face. “Have you progressed from your bullet-point planning to making vision boards now?”

  “Fuck the both of you,” I say while fighting a smile.

  “He hasn’t denied it,” Ford says.

  “Not once,” Callahan continues.

  “There is no vision board,” I assert.

  “But there is still a ten-year plan somewhere, right? Complete with goals and dreams laid out in spectacular fashion or some shit like that?” Ford asks. “Are there bullet points or is it a tiered outline? Or have you made posters of each item and have them plastered on the walls of your home office?”

  “I’m voting the poster route. Laminated. Glossy and—”

  “If that’s the only thing you guys can razz me about, then so be it,” I say while flipping them off again.

  “It’s not the only thing,” Callahan says. “We’re going to have even more fun watching you get used to the slow-paced country life of Montana.”

  “Sixty days.” Ford draws out the two words. “That’s a long time for you to be outside of the concrete jungle and off the structure-approved plan.”

  Sixty days.

  Fuck.

  That’s forever in my world.

  Asher

  He draws my attention the minute he walks into Hank’s.

  Draws?

  Hell, more like he commands it.

  Through the dim haze of the bar, I can make out a dark head of hair, broad shoulders, and expensive clothes. He has an unapologetic presence that says he doesn’t give a fuck who’s staring at him because he likes the attention.

  And the locals in here are staring. Sizing him up. Wondering what the hell he’s doing in a bar in Junction City when fancier ones—by small-town standards—are down the highway in Cedar Falls.

  I study him from my spot behind the bar, expecting him to turn and walk out, and secretly wanting him to. There’s something about him—an air of authority, a confidence, a familiarity I can’t place—that completely owns my attention.

  I’ve had enough trouble in my life with men like him.

  He’s just a customer, Ash. You’re feeding his ego. An ego that most likely revels in the boost you’re giving it. So, stop staring.

  For once, I heed my own warning—it’s not often it happens—and turn my back on him to dry glasses fresh out of the dishwasher.

  But I know the minute he sits down at the bar. I can feel the weight of his stare and smell the faint yet expensive scent of his cologne.

  And yes, I know it’s expensive. After filling in for my best friend, Nita, from time to time, I can tell the difference between a drugstore cologne and a high-end one. Junction City is on the outskirts of Cedar Falls, the gat
eway to the wealthy person’s recreational areas. Ski slopes on one side of town, rivers and lakes on the other, and a whole host of scenic “look at me” places for pictures to be taken and posted on social media in between. They stop into Hank’s Bar for a quick drink and to experience that small-town atmosphere while bitching about its lack of Cristal or some other fancy shit.

  So yes, the man at my back might be handsome and is more than likely charming as hell, but I’ve been there, done that. The flirting, the cell number left on a napkin, the promise of a good time while he’s in town.

  Sometimes I take up the offer because variety is few and far between when you’ve lived in one place your whole life. Other times I just smile and endure the flirting, knowing the whirlwind weekend of great (sometimes) sex and pretending I’m one of them isn’t always worth the emptiness that comes when they leave.

  Because despite the promises, they never call.

  Ever.

  “I think the town you’re looking for is about twenty miles that way,” I say, motioning in the direction of Cedar Falls without turning to face him.

  “And how do you know what I’m looking for?” There’s amusement in the tenor of his voice. There’s also something else that has me pausing.

  “Well, no one stops in Junction City unless you’re a local or utterly desperate,” I say as I dry another glass.

  “Maybe I’m not like everybody else then.”

  “That remains to be seen,” I murmur and wipe my hands on a towel.

  “So, apparently, does my ability to get a drink in this place.”

  My laughter is sharp as I turn to face the smart-ass, impressed with his quick wit. But when I finally see him, my next words die on my lips.

  I stand behind the bar, eyes blinking, head reeling, and look at the man who was once the boy who stole my heart.

  And then broke it into a million pieces.

  My moonlight boy who said he’d love me forever.

  But the person in front of me isn’t a teenage boy anymore. No. He’s undeniably all man, who has only gotten more attractive with age. His dark hair has a wave to it that’s been styled with product. His eyes are astute and aloof. And the smile he offers damn near knocks me off my feet before freezing me in place as a flash of recognition shoots through his amber eyes.

  Ledger Sharpe.

  A name I’ve never forgotten . . . even if I wish I could have.

  “Asher?” His voice sounds as shocked as I feel before his eyes quickly dart to his right and left—as if he’s expecting someone else to be there—before coming back to mine. “What . . . what in the hell are you doing here?”

  “Ledger.” His name is a breathless two syllables as I try to gain my bearings. “I—what—I mean . . .” Why?

  Why are you here?

  Why does seeing you bring back a million emotions—elation, anger, surprise, shame, longing—despite the passage of time?

  Why are you even more handsome now?

  Why did you leave without a word?

  Why did I give you so much power to break my heart?

  “Christ.” He runs a hand through his hair, and it falls back perfectly into place as he stares at me, with his head shaking ever so slightly and his jaw lax. “Never in a million years did I think that you’d still . . .”

  “What? That I’d still be here?” I ask. The chuckle that follows is self-deprecating. And just like that, I’m transported back to that night. To those life-altering events and the scars they left behind. To the shattering of my heart. My guard is up. “Yeah, you know us simple folk. We never leave.” My smile is strained despite my racing heart. Even after all these years, the humiliation exists, the embarrassment over what I felt is still real, as I try to process the fact that Ledger Sharpe is in front of me.

  It’s what I prayed for night after night—for him to come back. But that was fifteen years ago.

  Life has changed.

  I’ve changed.

  “You know what? I’m going to go.” He abruptly stands up from the seat he just sat in, the scrape of the stool drawing even more glances our way. He’s angry? What the hell? And yet for some odd reason, panic I shouldn’t feel sparks to life.

  “Ledger. Wait. Don’t go . . .” There’s misplaced desperation in my voice that I hate the sound of.

  I hate feeling it even more.

  His brow furrows as if he’s confused by my request—as am I—but with his eyes locked on mine, he slowly lowers himself back onto the stool. The low hum of chatter throughout the bar begins anew as customers go back to their own business, bored already with whatever is going on between us.

  But I’m not.

  I’m rapt with attention, struggling with seeing him again after all this time, while attempting to process the tumult of emotions storming through me. For a few unspoken moments, we study each other, and I can only assume he’s remembering everything about our past too.

  His expression begins to soften despite the tension remaining in his shoulders. “It’s been a minute, hasn’t it?” he finally says, but there’s an edge to his tone, an uneasiness about him. It’s almost as if he’s uncertain how to act when I know he entered this bar moments ago, an extremely confident man.

  “It sure has,” I murmur.

  Images flash through my mind. First kisses. First loves. First everything in that final summer that was filled with laughter and living, laden with promises and predictions for our future. A summer where I felt like I was someone’s everything for the first time in my life.

  There’s unsettled silence between us. The kind that years apart and lives lived causes—when you know the person that was, but not the person in front of you now.

  Those amber eyes of his always won me over. The same eyes staring at me now, asking questions I don’t think I know the answer to even if he were able to put words to them.

  I clear my throat. “What can I get you to drink?” I ask as if he were some random customer. I need to stop my thoughts from tumbling too far into a past we cannot change. A past that hurt for way too long.

  “What craft beers do you have on draft?” he asks.

  “We only have domestic. I’m sure that’s not up to your standards—”

  “Meaning?” His brows furrow.

  “Meaning guys like you, ones with pedigree, prefer the expensive shit,” I say with a bite to my tone. That one word will be forever burned into my memory.

  “Pedigree?”

  I grab a glass and dry it again, needing something—anything—to do with my trembling hands. The anger that riots through me burns its way into hurt. “Yep. Nothing average or run-of-the-mill will do for you.”

  His chuckle is low, but his eyes are curious as he leans back, head angled to the side, and crosses his arms over his chest. I can assume he’s a smart man. Does he think time would fully erase the hurt after what happened? After what was said and the insecurities and humiliation it caused?

  He may not have been the one to say it, but he went along with it.

  Does that matter, though? It’s been, what? Fifteen years? What’s done is done, Asher. Let it go.

  Our gazes hold for a beat until he gives the subtlest of nods that seems to indicate he’s going to play along with whatever attitude I’m giving him.

  “You imply that I think I’m too good for a Coors Light and in turn too good for this place in general.” It’s a statement. Not a question. And the look he gives me says he wants whatever fight is brewing here. “That wasn’t the case before, was it? And it sure as hell isn’t the case now.”

  Liar. It’s my first thought.

  Leave the past in the past. That’s my second.

  I draw in a deep breath, determined to heed the second one, but struggling with the task already. Scars may fade but they can still run deep. “I’m not implying anything. I’ve learned the hard way about men like you.”

  “Men like me?” He lifts a lone eyebrow, confusion etched in the lines of his handsome face. “I don’t remember you
being this judgmental before.”

  “Huh. And here I thought you didn’t remember me at all.”

  He startles. “Didn’t remember you?” He coughs the words out in disbelief, his eyes narrowing. “After everything we shared? After the hell I went through? How can you—”

  “The hell you went through?” I all but screech. “What about—”

  A ruckus breaks out in the rear of the bar, with shouts and the clatter of glass bottles falling. I move to calm the situation, but Hank is there already, breaking up the fight between two regulars we all know by name because this isn’t the first time it’s gotten heated between them.

  I take advantage of the quick reprieve and short distance from Ledger to try and gain some clarity and gather my thoughts.

  The hell I put him through?

  The last time I saw Ledger Sharpe was the night I gave him my virginity. It was also the night that my naiveté in thinking all people are considered equal was shattered.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath.

  My anger, my snark to hide my hurt—hell, this whole direction of our conversation—won’t get us anywhere. Not that I want it to. But in the same breath, I can’t deny the emotions seeing him has dredged up.

  Go. Be nice. Be polite. Make small talk. Then serve him his beer so he can get on his way back out of my life.

  Again.

  He tracks me as I make my way back to him. “Look. Everything is perfect. Obviously, we have a past. It’s best if we leave it alone.” I muster a strained smile I don’t expect him to believe. “Sound good?”

  His snort is unconvincing, the displeasure in his eyes even more so. “Sure. Fine.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Right after you explain to me what you mean by men like me . . . because last I knew you, you seemed to like men like me.”

  Touché.

  I did.

  I still do.

  I’d be lying to myself if I said otherwise, and yet, men like him are the reason I’ve lived my adult life trying to prove I’m more than enough. That I’m more than a motherless girl with no future. It was men like him who cast me aside because I didn’t meet the Sharpe standards.

  My thoughts become crazy as the memories renew my fury. Don’t be angry. Ignore the hurt. It was years ago. But it’s so much easier to hide behind the anger and use it as a defense than to admit seeing him has opened wounds I thought had healed and faded.