my parents’ cars. It’s no big deal.”
Emerson studied her. “Are you sure you don’t mind? It’s going to blow your whole day.”
Cassie smiled warmly. “I don’t mind.”
“You can drive my mom’s car.”
“I have before. Not a problem.”
On a sigh of relief, Emerson asked, “What’s a good time?”
“You tell me. Gordie and I can go whenever.”
“Is noon too late?”
Cassie shook her head. “Actually, that would be perfect. Gives me time to get things settled at the store, make sure everything is covered. We’ll meet you here?”
“Perfect.” Emerson’s expression became serious. “Thank you so much.”
“Of course. That’s what friends are for.”
CHAPTER NINE
“ Hello, Mr. Cross. My name is Emerson Rosberg. My mother was Caroline Rosberg. I’m sure you remember her; she sold you part of the Lakeshore Inn several years ago. I got your number from her attorney, Brad Klein. He mentioned you were interested in possibly purchasing the rest of the inn as well as the rental property in the village of Lake Henry. I was wondering if we could have a conversation about it. Maybe next week? You can call me on this number, which is my cell, or you can contact Mr. Klein and he’ll get the message to me. I look forward to hearing from you. Thanks.”
Relaxing in the Town Car was lovely. Arnold Cross would have it no other way. If he was going to be sitting on his ass for hours on end, he was going to do so in luxury and style. Not quite a limo—that was a little too obnoxious even for him—the car had tinted windows, satellite television and radio, a built in Wi-Fi hot spot, and a mini fridge. Add in the buttery soft leather seats and the privacy panel he could slide up or down with the flick of a switch, and it might as well have been a limo.
A glance out the window told him they were about forty-five minutes from his home in Saratoga Springs. The races were over for the season, though there were a couple harness races tomorrow. Nobody really cared about those, but he planned to go the track and watch anyway, and take care of a couple of business transactions while there. He was greatly anticipating the warmth and comfort of his own bed. They’d been on the road for nearly three hours after his meeting in Manhattan, but Emerson Rosberg’s call had him too wound up to doze in the car, so he gazed out the window and watched the lights of Albany whiz by.
Considering the majority of his business dealings took place in Manhattan, he’d save himself more than half an hour of drive time if he lived in Albany. But just the thought of the hundreds of underhanded, slimy politicians living in this city made his skin crawl. He had no intention of mingling with them. Despite the power that could come with it, Cross surprisingly hated politics and steered clear. He preferred to watch it zip by the windows of his car as he passed through town. No, he would never live here.
His fear of flying was irrational. He knew this. He wasn’t afraid of heights. It wasn’t the crowds—he had more than enough money to fly first class or better yet, charter his own plane. No, that wasn’t the problem. The issue was that no matter how hard he tried, he could not wrap his brain around the idea of a giant hunk of metal weighing God knows how many tons simply floating through the air. It made no rational sense to him, which was silly. He knew this, too. But it didn’t matter. He could not bring himself to put his life in the hands of some pilot he didn’t know from Adam. No, there were other means of travel. He had the money, so he hired Jeff, his personal driver of the past three years. He paid the man well, and in exchange, Jeff drove him wherever he wanted to go whenever he needed to be there.
Thoughts turned back to the phone message. Well, wasn’t that interesting? He’d been trying to buy the rest of that godforsaken inn for five years now, and that damned Caroline Rosberg wouldn’t even entertain the
Emerson studied her. “Are you sure you don’t mind? It’s going to blow your whole day.”
Cassie smiled warmly. “I don’t mind.”
“You can drive my mom’s car.”
“I have before. Not a problem.”
On a sigh of relief, Emerson asked, “What’s a good time?”
“You tell me. Gordie and I can go whenever.”
“Is noon too late?”
Cassie shook her head. “Actually, that would be perfect. Gives me time to get things settled at the store, make sure everything is covered. We’ll meet you here?”
“Perfect.” Emerson’s expression became serious. “Thank you so much.”
“Of course. That’s what friends are for.”
CHAPTER NINE
“ Hello, Mr. Cross. My name is Emerson Rosberg. My mother was Caroline Rosberg. I’m sure you remember her; she sold you part of the Lakeshore Inn several years ago. I got your number from her attorney, Brad Klein. He mentioned you were interested in possibly purchasing the rest of the inn as well as the rental property in the village of Lake Henry. I was wondering if we could have a conversation about it. Maybe next week? You can call me on this number, which is my cell, or you can contact Mr. Klein and he’ll get the message to me. I look forward to hearing from you. Thanks.”
Relaxing in the Town Car was lovely. Arnold Cross would have it no other way. If he was going to be sitting on his ass for hours on end, he was going to do so in luxury and style. Not quite a limo—that was a little too obnoxious even for him—the car had tinted windows, satellite television and radio, a built in Wi-Fi hot spot, and a mini fridge. Add in the buttery soft leather seats and the privacy panel he could slide up or down with the flick of a switch, and it might as well have been a limo.
A glance out the window told him they were about forty-five minutes from his home in Saratoga Springs. The races were over for the season, though there were a couple harness races tomorrow. Nobody really cared about those, but he planned to go the track and watch anyway, and take care of a couple of business transactions while there. He was greatly anticipating the warmth and comfort of his own bed. They’d been on the road for nearly three hours after his meeting in Manhattan, but Emerson Rosberg’s call had him too wound up to doze in the car, so he gazed out the window and watched the lights of Albany whiz by.
Considering the majority of his business dealings took place in Manhattan, he’d save himself more than half an hour of drive time if he lived in Albany. But just the thought of the hundreds of underhanded, slimy politicians living in this city made his skin crawl. He had no intention of mingling with them. Despite the power that could come with it, Cross surprisingly hated politics and steered clear. He preferred to watch it zip by the windows of his car as he passed through town. No, he would never live here.
His fear of flying was irrational. He knew this. He wasn’t afraid of heights. It wasn’t the crowds—he had more than enough money to fly first class or better yet, charter his own plane. No, that wasn’t the problem. The issue was that no matter how hard he tried, he could not wrap his brain around the idea of a giant hunk of metal weighing God knows how many tons simply floating through the air. It made no rational sense to him, which was silly. He knew this, too. But it didn’t matter. He could not bring himself to put his life in the hands of some pilot he didn’t know from Adam. No, there were other means of travel. He had the money, so he hired Jeff, his personal driver of the past three years. He paid the man well, and in exchange, Jeff drove him wherever he wanted to go whenever he needed to be there.
Thoughts turned back to the phone message. Well, wasn’t that interesting? He’d been trying to buy the rest of that godforsaken inn for five years now, and that damned Caroline Rosberg wouldn’t even entertain the
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