Sweet Home Montana Read online

  “My phone is going nuts,” I murmur under my breath, shaking my head to myself as I take my seat at my desk. I power up my computer, but when I click on my inbox, reading the subject line of my most recent email received less than an hour ago, an involuntary gasp escapes me, and suddenly it’s as if I can’t even breathe.

  Dear Miss Wagner,

  I ran into Adam Delaney of CRTJ on Friday evening while I was dining with some associates at the Morrisey Club. We got talking about Prince Street. He raised some valid points about your suitability to take on the project. CRTJ specialize in the new-build market, and they have a dedicated project team for this type of listing.

  Mr. Delaney also mentioned that he has firsthand experience with similar developments, particularly in the Tribeca area. He was also the sole listing agent for Broadway Towers, and sold more than 65% of all units at full ask or above within three weeks of the listing date.

  Unfortunately, after much deliberation with my team, we feel it is in our best interest to go with Mr. Delaney and his team at CRTJ. I do hope there are no hard feelings. While I believe you’re a tremendous agent, and I can’t wait to work with you on future projects, we just feel Adam and his team will take better care of our needs during this time.

  Please feel free to contact my assistant, Leilani, if you require anything further from me.

  Kind regards,

  Mihir Shareeq, Head of Operations, BSG

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “What?” Oliver turns quickly, his face fraught with concern as he leans in closely, gawping over my shoulder.

  “Adam Delaney …” I say his name in some sort of a daze as I scan the length of the email again and again, going through a plethora of emotions with each and every word. “He just– He just stole Prince Street.”

  I’m just about ready to grab my computer monitor and throw it straight through the damn plate glass window, down onto Madison Avenue. My heart races as panic begins to claim me from the inside out, and I look around for something, anything, I don’t even know what.

  “He can’t do that!” Oliver shrieks indignantly, his voice pitchy and piercing. “BSG signed with you!”

  “No.” I shake my head as the weight of the world comes crashing down upon me. Burying my face in my hands, I could just about cry, and I probably would be crying right now if I wasn’t so pissed off. “They didn’t sign. That was my eleven o’clock with Shareeq.”

  Oliver says nothing as a tense and heavy silence rings through the air.

  “Can you please go out and get me a coffee from the café downstairs?” I say, smoothing my hair back from my face as I take a deep, fortifying breath, hoping like hell it helps to provide some semblance of clarity so that I can deal with this situation effectively and rationally. “I need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.”

  “I’ll get Shareeq on the phone for you.” Oliver moves quick smart, grabbing me a bottle of Fiji Water from the small refrigerator built into my closet. And that’s what I love about him. He just knows what to do and when to do it. I don’t even have to ask half the time. He’s good in a crisis. Me? Not so much. In fact, I often have no idea what I’m doing. I’m just good at faking it.

  I started at Hawkins Group fresh out of grad school with a drive like no other. And in that time, I’ve managed to work my way up the corporate ladder. From intern to assistant, to junior broker, to broker, to senior broker where I’m now in the top ten in all of Manhattan. I’ve fought hard over the years to make it to the top. I’ve sacrificed so much. Almost everything. And I’m damn good at my job. Ruthless at times, or so I’ve been told, but real estate is still very much a man’s world in this city, and sometimes only the strong survive, which is why it is imperative that I keep my cool right now. I can’t allow my emotion to show, despite my internal panic. I won’t let Adam win.

  Adam Delaney has had it in for me ever since a client chose me to list his thirty-million-dollar Columbus Circle penthouse, because my pitch was better. Adam went on social media and not so subtly insinuated that I wear low-cut tops and tight skirts just to get what I want. Misogynistic jerk. I began proceedings to sue him for defamation. Our lawyers settled out of court. I won, of course. And ever since then, he’s been vying to take me down one client at a time.

  And with this latest stunt, stalking the likes of Mihir Shareeq, coincidentally crossing paths with him at a members’ only gentlemen’s club in the Upper East Side and casually bringing the luxury fourteen-unit new-build development he knew I was signing into conversation, well, he may have just succeeded.

  “I have Shareeq’s assistant on the line,” Oliver’s voice rings through the silence of my office.

  “Thanks.” I press the flashing button on my handset and wait, ignoring my ringing cell phone as it vibrates loudly on the desk with that same blocked number. I turn it over. Face down, so it doesn’t keep distracting me.

  “Miss Wagner?” Leilani, Shareeq’s assistant, comes through the line, her voice deep and sultry.

  “Is he in?” I ask briskly, wishing my racing heart would calm to a more manageable thrum. The sheer inconvenience of a heart attack right now would be all I need.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Wagner, he’s out of the office all morning.”

  “Well do you know where he is? It is vital that I speak with him.” I stand, waving for Oliver through the glass wall to stop him on his way out. He notices my flailing hand and pauses, his brow furrowed as he waits.

  “He’s meeting with Mr. Delaney for brunch at Illusions. I don’t know the address but I believe it is in SoHo.”

  “It’s okay. I know where it is. Thank you so much,” I say, signaling to Oliver to forget about fetching me my coffee and to get me a car and a driver immediately before quickly ending the call.

  My cell rings again as I collect my things, but I shove it and everything else into my purse. I hurry to the closet and pull out the blazer I keep in there for emergency situations such as this. After I shrug it on, it does little to conceal the coffee stain, but it’s all I have right now.

  “Hawkins wants to see you in his office,” Oliver says as he opens the door for me, his hands held up in the air in surrender.

  “Now?” I gape at him from the threshold.

  He nods, and I can tell by the way he’s biting down on his bottom lip that this can’t be good. Mr. Hawkins knows. I just know it. I’ve just lost the biggest deal of my career. It’d be stupid to think it would be anything but bad. I release an almighty sigh and begin toward the glass stairs that connect the sales floor to the executive level.

  “Quinn, I heard about the Prince Street deal …” someone says from deep within the bowels of the sales floor.

  “It’s nothing,” I yell back over my shoulder, waving a nonchalant hand in the air, my quavering voice doing little to help dispel the obvious doubts of my colleagues. But I ignore everyone and everything, my jaw clenching hard as I proceed up the stairs and into the sleek lobby of the executive floor.

  Mr. Hawkins’ glamorous executive assistant glances up from her computer, and I almost expect her to stop me, to ask me what I’m doing, but she doesn’t. In fact, all she offers is a look of condolence complemented by a pitiful smile as I continue past her. God, even she knows I’m about to have my ass handed to me. My clammy hands ball into trembling fists at my sides as I try to count to ten. I stop momentarily at the imposing double doors, knocking just once.

  “Enter!” a booming voice from the other side demands, and I’m literally quaking in my pumps as I reluctantly step inside.

  Edward Hawkins is an institution. A force to be reckoned with. At seventy-eight years old and standing at only five-feet-two-inches, with thick wire-frame glasses and sheet-white hair, he’s the most unexpectedly intimidating person I’ve ever come across in this cut-throat industry, and that’s saying a lot in a city like New York. He meets my eyes with a threatening glower, turning in his chair and reclining ever so slightly, his stubby fingers steepled beneath his w
hite-bearded chin. But I remain defiant, my chin raised slightly higher in a show of confidence I sure as hell don’t feel on the inside.

  “Sit.”

  Now, let me get one thing straight. I’m definitely not a “yes, sir; no, sir” kind of gal. I’m a self-respecting, confident woman who just so happened to grow up in a house full of men and thus can take care of myself in almost any and every situation. But when Edward Hawkins fixes you with that all-penetrating and intimidating look in his steely eyes, and tells you to sit, then you better damn well sit your ass down.

  “What is this I’m hearing about Prince Street?” he asks in his native New Yorker-accent.

  I clear my throat, forcing a smile as I take a tentative seat in the chair across from his sprawling mahogany desk. “It’s nothing more than a misunderstanding, sir.”

  My cell rings again from deep inside my purse and I do all I can to pretend as if I don’t even notice it. But I do notice it. So does he. He glances at my purse, his bushy brows drawing together. I blink once, my face impassive as the loud vibration continues through the heavy silence.

  “You told me on Friday night that the deal was done,” he says finally, regarding me with a hard look over the top of his spectacles. “So, were you lying then or are you lying now?”

  I swallow hard, carefully considering my words. He’s got me there. When he called me, late Friday evening, I was so happy to be able to give him the good news, and of course I told him the deal was done. Because, as far as I was concerned, the deal was done. Shareeq and I shook hands, and where I come from that means something; all a man has is his word and his handshake. Clearly, I was wrong.

  “I’m on my way to meet with Shareeq right now to get everything sorted.”

  Mr. Hawkins narrows one of his eyes, looking at me long and hard. “Do I need to remind you that this is a one-hundred-million-dollar deal?”

  “No, sir.” I shake my head.

  He quirks a dubious brow. “And do I need to remind you what losing a deal like this can do to a person’s career?”

  I shake my head again, vehemently this time, not trusting myself to speak.

  With one last lingering look of disappointment, he dismisses me without so much as another word, turning back to his computer, and I take that as my cue to leave, jumping up quickly and hurrying to the door.

  “Wagner?”

  I stop, my hand on the door handle, and I glance over my shoulder to find him still staring at his illuminated monitor. “Y-yes, sir?”

  “Don’t bother coming back to the office without that signed listing contract.” He flashes me a hard yet fleeting once-over. “Do I make myself clear?”

  With one swift nod I slip out of the office as seamlessly as I can, fully aware of that same relentless vibration coming from the depths of my purse yet again. I hurry across the shiny floor, cursing out loud when I make it out into the silent foyer, and I frantically press that elevator call button over and over again, as if my life depends on it.

  ***

  Illusions is a pretentious bistro in the thick of SoHo, and with the morning traffic against me, it takes more than thirty-five minutes to get here. It’s quicker on the damn subway. By the time my town car pulls up to the curb out front, I’m a clammy, breathless mess as I cut across the sidewalk, bursting into the restaurant with such gusto, all heads turn to see what the commotion is about.

  “Can I help you, miss?” The hostess glances up from her lectern, eyeing me cautiously.

  I ignore her, scanning the dining room until I find a familiar head of perfectly highlighted hair, Mihir Shareeq’s face falling in stark shock when he catches sight of me, causing Adam Delaney to turn and do an almost hilarious double take.

  “You!” I yell, pointing a finger at Adam from across the room, because now is not the time for manners. “Outside. Now!” I storm back out to the bustling downtown sidewalk, taking my first real breath in what feels like forever.

  “Quinn?”

  I turn, finding Adam stepping out of the restaurant, buttoning his blazer, his brow raised in piqued interest as he looks me up and down. He pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger in an attempt to hide his growing smirk, and my anger increases exponentially.

  “Don’t give me that look, Delaney. You know full well what I’m doing here,” I hiss between gritted teeth, stepping right up against him.

  He barely bothers to conceal his smugness, leveling me with a single look. And I swear, it takes every last ounce of self-control I have left in me not to clock him with my surprisingly strong left hook. “What the hell are you playing at?”

  He scoffs, innocently holding his arms out at his sides. “Hey, babe, it’s just business.” He glances up toward the sky, scratching his chin in mock-consideration. “Isn’t that what you told me when you stole Columbus Circle?”

  “First of all, don’t call me babe!” I warn him. “Secondly, I didn’t steal anything.” I poke him in his chest. “I won that listing fair and square. I can’t help it if you can’t pitch to save your damn life.”

  He rolls his eyes indulgently before grinning down at me with that condescending smile I just want to slap right off his pretty-boy face. “Look, why don’t you just come inside, we’ll chat with Shareeq and maybe we can do a co-listing?”

  I fold my arms over my chest, glowering at him.

  “I don’t know why you don’t take me up on my offer to partner up. The two of us together could kill it in this city. Number-one agent—” He points to himself, pausing as he looks to me. “And what? Number … twelve?”

  “Eight!” I seethe. “And I wouldn’t partner up with you if my life depended on it.”

  He scoffs, quirking a brow. “That’s not what you were saying a few months ago when you were sleeping in my bed.”

  I swallow back a string of profanities.

  Yes. Call me a masochist, but Adam and I dated. I’m a sucker for punishment. I refer to our two-month tryst as an unfortunate lapse in judgment, a moment of insanity, something I’ve wished I could take back every day since.

  “I swear to God, Adam—” My hand balls into a fist, but before I can do anything, my phone rings yet again, only this time I choose to answer it in the hope it will stop me from killing this impossible asshole in broad daylight where there are far too many witnesses.

  “What?” I snap abruptly as I hit the answer-call button.

  “Quinn?”

  My brows knit together in confusion at the sound of the familiar voice coming through from the other end of the line, crackly and muffled, nearly inaudible. I turn away from Adam, shoving a finger into my other ear in the hope of hearing over the excessive sound of New York City going about its usual business around me. “Hello?”

  “Quinn, it’s me, Cash.”

  I can’t help but balk. I don’t even remember the last time my big brother called me. “Cash? W-what’s—”

  “You need to come home, Quinny,” Cash says with a heavy sigh of despondency.

  “What? Cash! What are you talking about?” I shake my head in exasperation, glancing furtively over my shoulder to find Adam watching on like the nosy prick he is. He probably thinks I’m speaking to another client he can steal from me. I get back to my brother’s confusing, cryptic phone call. “What is it? What’s wrong, Cash?”

  “Quinn, it’s Dad,” Cash’s deep voice continues. “H-he’s dead.”

  Chapter 2

  It’s been almost ten years since I’ve been home. Ten years. And yet the two-hour drive from the city, following the banks of the Yellowstone as it runs through the mountains and the valleys, is a drive I know like the back of my hand. Every corner, every dip, every bump in the road is familiar. I could drive it with my eyes closed and never once take a wrong turn. And yet it’s been ten long years since I’ve bothered driving this road because I’m too damn stubborn and proud.

  As I navigate my Land Rover rental through the winding roads of the Rocky Mountain foothills, beneath the sky-high ponder
osa pines, their branches creating a canopy overhead, my heart races as an unbearable anxiousness begins to consume me from the inside out, the closer I get to my destination. My palms are clammy. My stomach twists. Sweat beads on my brow. I can barely even breathe. I had no intention of ever coming back here. Not after everything. I shouldn’t be here. It doesn’t matter that it’s almost ten years later. I’m still the girl who left Colt Henry at the altar. The girl who broke the heart of the hometown hero. To the people of Black Canyon, I’ll probably always be that girl, no matter how many years have passed.

  I still remember the look in his eyes when he came to find me afterwards. When he forced me to tell him what I feared admitting out loud.

  I still remember that look of betrayal, the hurt and the pain that I was responsible for inflicting upon him. I still remember it like it was yesterday, not ten years ago. Because that kind of thing will stay with you forever. That look in his eyes haunts me, flashing in my mind every time I close my eyes, as if to remind me of everything I once had, what I’ll never have again because I was stupid enough to let it go in the first place.

  I swallow the guilt and remorse that lingers at the back of my throat, reminding myself of my father and the reason that I’m here.

  It still feels like some horrible nightmare. Except it wasn’t a nightmare. It was real. It is real. A quick glance in the rearview mirror reminds me just how real it all is. The bruise on my forehead and the graze on my cheek that I suffered when I collapsed from shock, right there on the sidewalk in front of Adam Delaney, is real. The shattered screen on my cell phone from when it fell with me to the pavement, is real. And, the call that started it all was and still is, painfully real.

  My father is dead. The one man I’ve looked up to all my life. My hero. My everything. The one man who has always been there for me, to protect me, to keep me safe, to make everything better. He’s gone and I didn’t even get to say goodbye or tell him that I love him just one last time. I lost the last ten years with him because of my mistake, and now there’s nothing I can do about it.