Chapter One
Acquired By My Rival CEO
Emma
"Sorry, Emma. Can't go up against Cross Industries. You understand."
I slam the phone down hard enough to rattle my coffee cup. Cold. Again. That makes—what?—ally number twelve who's suddenly too busy to help save my family's firm?
I'm rearranging the Cross Industries documents by date when Mac walks in.
"You look like death warmed over, honey."
"Thanks. That's exactly what every woman wants to hear on a Friday."
He picks up my empty cup and sniffs. "This smells like it could strip paint."
"It's fuel." I snatch it back and immediately knock over my pen holder. Pens scatter across forty-seven pages of corporate legal speak that basically translates to "we own you now."
Mac watches me scramble to collect them. "When did you last go home?"
"I am home. This office—"
"Is not a bedroom, despite what you seem to think." He deliberately moves my perfectly stacked files. "Jesus, Emma. You've color-coded the hostile takeover documents."
"Organization helps me think."
"Obsession helps you avoid thinking." He crosses his arms. "The cabin. This weekend. Non-negotiable."
I reach for my phone to check messages, but he grabs it first.
"I have work—"
"You have a nervous breakdown brewing." He holds my phone above his head, taunting me. "The work will be here Monday."
I jump for it and miss. Pathetic. "Give me my phone, Mac."
"Cabin. Now. Or I'm calling your grandfather."
That stops me cold. Grandpa's been fragile since his stroke. "That's a low blow."
"I'm feeling mean today." He tosses my phone back. "Pack your bags, workaholic."
I start shoving documents into my briefcase, including the Cross Industries proposal. Liam Cross's signature stares up at me from the cover letter. Bold, confident strokes that probably cost my family everything.
"Fine. But I'm bringing work."
Mac grins. "I'd expect nothing less."
As I stuff the last file into my bag, I catch myself wondering what Liam Cross does on weekends. Probably counts his money. Definitely not obsessing over legal documents in a mountain cabin.
Two weeks earlier
"Gentlemen. Ms. Sinclair."
Liam Cross walks into my conference room like he owns it. Which, given his reputation, he probably will by next week.
I stand, extending my hand across the mahogany table my grandfather imported from Ireland. "Mr. Cross. Welcome to Sinclair and Associates."
His grip is firm. Warm. He holds on a beat longer than necessary, gray eyes never leaving mine. "Thank you for agreeing to meet."
"I don't recall having much choice."
His mouth quirks up at one corner. "There's always a choice, Ms. Sinclair."
He's taller than he looked in the financial magazines. Broader through the shoulders. The tailored suit can't hide the fact that he didn't grow up in boardrooms. There's detail about his hands that suggests he's done actual work with them.
"Shall we?" I gesture to the chairs.
His team arranges themselves with military precision. Mine wear the grim look of the condemned. Which isn't far from the truth.
Cross slides a leather portfolio across the table. "I think you'll find our offer more than fair."
I flip through forty-seven pages without reading a word. "Generous, even."
"I'm glad you think so."
"I think you'll find that generous and adequate are two very different things." I close the portfolio and slide it back. "This is a family firm, Mr. Cross. Four generations of Sinclairs have practiced law in this building."
"Sentiment is expensive in today's market."
"Some things are worth the cost."
He leans forward, and I catch his cologne. Clean and masculine and completely distracting in a hostile takeover.
"Is pride worth your employees' jobs, Ms. Sinclair?"
Heat flashes through me. "Excuse me?"
"Your firm is hemorrhaging clients. How long before you can't make payroll?"
I stand so fast my chair rolls backward. "This meeting is over."
"Sit down."
The command in his voice stops me cold. We stare at each other across the table. Tension snaps between us, raw and electric. It has nothing to do with business and everything to do with the way his eyes drop to my mouth for half a second before snapping back up.
"Please," he adds, softer.
I sit. Not because he told me to, but because my knees feel unreliable.
"I'm not the enemy here," he says.
"No? Then what are you?"
"Someone who sees potential in what you've built."
"Potential to strip for parts?"
"Potential to thrive." He pulls out his phone and slides it across the table. Financial projections fill the screen. "Your grandfather built a remarkable firm. You've maintained it against impossible odds. But maintenance isn't growth."
I study the numbers despite myself. They're good. Better than good.
"Why do you care?"
"Maybe I don't like seeing good things destroyed by bad management."
"Are you calling me a bad manager?"
"I'm calling you overwhelmed."
The truth of it slams into me, harder than any insult. I push his phone back. "We're not for sale, Mr. Cross."
"Everything's for sale. It's just a matter of finding the right price."
"Some things can't be bought."
"Such as?"
"Loyalty. Legacy. Love."
He studies me for a long moment. "You might be surprised what money can protect, Ms. Sinclair."
There's an edge in his voice. One that doesn't match the corporate raider reputation. But before I can analyze it, he's standing.
"Think about our offer. You have until the end of the month."
"That's not very long."
"It's longer than most people get."
His team files out with the same precision they entered with. Cross pauses at the door.
"For what it's worth, I hope you prove me wrong about the sentiment thing."
Then he's gone, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne and a business card on the table.
I don't touch the card for twenty minutes. When I finally pick it up, it's still warm.
Mac's voice jerks me back to my office. "Earth to Emma. You're staring at that proposal like it personally insulted your mother."
I slam the briefcase shut. "Let's go. Before I change my mind about this cabin thing."
As we head for the elevator, I can't shake the feeling that Cross's parting words meant more than business.
The mountain road winds up through pine trees, their branches heavy with fresh snow. My Honda wasn't built for this kind of terrain, but it's managing. Barely.
I haven't been to the cabin since Grandpa's stroke. Two years of avoiding the place where my parents used to take me every summer. Where we'd sit by the fire and Dad would read legal briefs while Mom rolled her eyes and made s'mores.
The GPS tells me I've arrived, but that can't be right. There are lights on in the windows. Smoke rising from the chimney.
I park next to a black Range Rover and sit in my car for a full minute. Someone's broken into my family's cabin. Perfect. Because this day couldn’t get any worse.
I grab my phone to call the police, but there's no signal. Of course there isn't.
The front door opens, and a man steps onto the porch.
A very familiar man.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Liam Cross sets down an armload of firewood and stares at me. He's wearing jeans. Actual jeans. And a flannel shirt that does things to his shoulders that his expensive suits only hinted at.
"I could ask you the same question." He walks down the porch steps. "This is my rental."
"Your rental?" I climb out of my car and immediately regret wearing heels. "This is my family's cabin!"
"Well, according to Mountain Retreats dot com, it's mine for the weekend."
I march up to him, which is a mistake because now I can smell that same clean cologne from the boardroom. "Mountain Retreats dot what?"
"The rental website. I booked this place three weeks ago."
"You can't book this place. It's not for rent."
He pulls out his phone and shows me a confirmation email. The address matches. The photos match. Even the stupid wind chime my grandmother hung on the porch is in the listing.
"There's been a mistake," I say.
"Clearly." He's looking at me with the same intensity he had in the boardroom, but without the corporate armor, it feels different. Personal. "You're going to have to leave."
"I'm not going anywhere. This is my cabin."
"Do you have a rental confirmation?"
"I don't need one. I have a key."
I stomp up the porch steps and jam my key into the lock. It turns. The door opens.
"See?"
"Congratulations. So does mine." He holds up a keypad entry code on his phone.
We stand there staring at each other. The wind picks up, cutting through my blazer, and I realize how much colder it is up here than in the city.
"Look," he says, and his voice is different too. Less corporate shark, more human being. "I'm sure we can figure this out. Why don't you come inside before you freeze to death?"
"I'm not freezing."
"Your lips are turning blue."
I touch my mouth reflexively, and his eyes follow the movement. A current arcs between us, sharp and undeniable, just like in the boardroom, but without the conference table to hide behind.
"Fine. But only until I can call Mountain Retreats and sort this out."
I follow him inside, and my heart does a complicated flip. The cabin looks exactly the same. My grandmother's quilts on the couch. My grandfather's law books on the shelves. The stone fireplace where my parents used to sit and argue about cases.
Liam's expensive luggage sits next to the couch, an unwelcome occupation.
"You've made yourself at home." My voice is tight.
"I paid for the weekend."
"Well, so did I. Sort of." I set my briefcase down with more force than necessary. "This is ridiculous. One of us has to leave."
"Agreed. Have a safe drive back to the city."
"I'm not the one leaving."
"Neither am I."
We glare at each other across my grandmother's coffee table. Outside, the wind rattles the windows, and I notice fat, heavy flakes that weren't in the forecast.
"Is it supposed to snow?"
Liam looks out the window, frowning. "Not according to the weather app."
My phone buzzes with an emergency alert. WINTER STORM WARNING. TRAVEL ADVISORY IN EFFECT.
His phone buzzes at the same time.
"Well," he says. "This is interesting."
We're both staring at our phones when the power flickers and the lights go out.
The backup generator kicks in, flooding the cabin with dim light.
"That won't last long," Liam says, checking his phone. "Maybe six hours if we're lucky."
I'm already pulling up weather apps, but they're all saying the same thing. Storm intensifying. Roads closing. Temperature dropping fast.
"There has to be another way down the mountain."
"In a blizzard?" He moves to the window and peers out at the swirling snow. "You'd die before you reached the main road."
"So what do you suggest?"
"We survive," he says. "We'll have to do it together."
The word "together" hangs in the air between us. I set my phone down and really look at him for the first time since I arrived. Without the corporate setting, without his team of lawyers, he's just a man. A very attractive man who's currently standing in my childhood sanctuary.
"The generator won't heat the whole cabin," he says. "We'll need to keep the fire going."
"Fine. You handle that. I'll figure out the sleeping arrangements."
"There's only one bed."
Of course there is. "The couch folds out."
"It's twenty degrees outside and dropping. The sitting room will be freezing without power."
I walk to the bedroom and flip the light switch. Nothing. The backup generator doesn't reach this far. I can already feel the cold seeping through the windows.
"We're adults," I call back to him. "We can share a bed without..."
"Without what?"
I return to the living room where he's building up the fire. The flames cast shadows across his face, making him look less like a corporate raider and more a figure of raw, captivating power.
"You know what."
"Do I?"
The way he's looking at me makes my stomach flip. "This doesn't change anything between us professionally."
"Of course not."
"I still think you're trying to destroy my family's legacy."
"Noted."
"And you still think I'm an overprotective control freak."
"I never said control freak."
I grab my suitcase. "I'm going to change into warmer clothes."
"Emma."
I stop at the bedroom door. "What?"
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about this. The mix-up. The storm. All of it."
There's a hint of vulnerability in his voice I haven't heard before, .
"Yeah, well. Not exactly how I planned to spend my weekend either."
I close the bedroom door and lean against it. Through the wood, I can hear him moving around, banking the fire, checking supplies. Taking care of things.
When I emerge in flannel pajamas and thick socks, he's made coffee and laid out extra blankets.
"We should probably talk about ground rules," he says.