Page 72 of Hideaway Heart

“I never said that,” I argued, but it sounded like the kind of thing I might announce just to mess with him.

“You absolutely said that,” Austin countered. “We were in my garage. It was the night you bet me I wouldn’t be able to stay away from Veronica for two weeks.”

Devlin laughed. “How fast did you lose that one?”

“Lightning fast,” I said. “I don’t think he lasted more than a few days.”

“We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you.” Austin pointed a finger at me. “You told me you were two-thirds of the way to respectable adulthood, and a wife and some kids were going to be the final third.”

“Maybe you should move out of Dad’s house first,” Devlin joked.

“Fuck off, both of you.” Sweaty from dancing, or maybe the inquisition, I plucked my shirt away from my chest a few times. “All I meant was that I am now mature enough to handle the kind of committed relationship and responsibilities that come with having a wife.”

“So romantic,” Austin joked.

“Yeah, make sure you say it like that when you propose,” Devlin joked. “But add in the part where she’s going to bring you the last third of the way to respectability. That will really seal the deal.”

“Good thinking.” Austin pointed his beer at Devlin.

Devlin tapped his bottle to Austin’s. “If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s make a pitch.”

“Speaking of pitching, what’s the property you’re in town about?” I asked, eager to change the subject.

“One of our biggest clients, a resort company, wants to acquire Snowberry Lodge.”

“Seriously?” About twenty minutes from Cherry Tree harbor, Snowberry was one of the area’s first ski resorts, maybe even one of the nation’s first ski resorts. I pictured its dated Swiss Miss architecture and rickety old chairlifts. “That place has to be sixty years old. I didn’t even know it was still open.”

“It’s almosteightyyears old, and it’s falling apart. Our client would tear it down. They just want the property it sits on for a new luxury hotel and winter sports complex. They’ve already acquired most of what’s around it.”

“Who owns Snowberry?” I wondered.

“The McIntyre family,” said Devlin.

Austin huffed. “Good luck getting them to sell.”

“You don’t think they will?” I asked.

“Dad and I did some restoration work there about five years ago,” said Austin. “They’re just the kind of family that hangs on to the past. They don’t want anything to change. I can’t see them selling their family business to a resort company that’s going to tear it down.”

“They’d be crazy not to,” Devlin said, pushing his wavy hair off his forehead. “Snowberry Lodge is a relic. Sure, it has some charm, but it’s small and antiquated. People are looking for luxury amenities these days, not just decent skiing. They want water parks and arcades, spas and upscale shops, multiple bars and dining options. In the summer, they want golf and tennis. Snowberry can’t compete with the big modern resorts.”

“Still,” Austin said doubtfully, “people are stubborn and sentimental. They don’t want to be told their family’s dream is obsolete.”

“I can bring them around.” Devlin’s tone was brimming with confidence. “The money is good.”

Austin clearly wasn’t convinced. “Money isn’t everything to everyone.”

“It will be something to them,” Devlin insisted. “The fact is, they can’t afford to stay open even two more seasons the way things are going. Why not sell now and at least make a good profit?”

“Pride?” I suggested.

“Pride won’t keep the lights on,” Devlin scoffed.

“I’m pretty sure Snowberry Lodge was the first ski resort in Michigan, maybe in the Midwest,” Austin said. “The state might even have an interest in seeing it preserved.”

“The state is going to like the tax revenue from all the conventions and tourism the new resort will bring. Trust me. Dollar signs are going to talk.” Devlin gave us an easy, winning grin. “Plus, the patriarch of the family died last year, and Snowberry is now mostly owned by the grandmother. Little old ladies love me.”

“Your pitch meeting is with the grandmother?” Austin asked.