At Wits' End: An Enemies To Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Kenzie Reed

  It hangs heavy over our heads, though. We all feel like there’s something wrong with this potential deal, but we also know that there’s no legal way to get out of it.

  We’re signing the paperwork September 8, which is tomorrow, and it’s a damned if we do, damned if we don’t situation.

  As I work in the winery office, my phone rings, and I’m surprised to see that it’s Murray. “We have some things we need to clear up about this sale before you cause any more unnecessary grief,” he says. “I may be able to answer some of your questions.” His voice is raspy and hollow. I doubt he’s getting much sleep. He stands to lose as much as we do if the deal doesn’t go through.

  “I can be there in two hours,” I tell him.

  “Kind of needs to be now. I have a showing in two hours.”

  With a sigh, I drive to his office.

  He keeps me waiting for fifteen minutes. When he finally lets me in, I’m shocked at how pale and drawn he looks. His suit hangs off him, and not in a way that makes it look like he’s been dieting.

  I sit down at the desk, across from him. There are papers scattered across the surface. His eyes are bloodshot, and the sour smell of coffee breath wafts my way.

  He clears his throat and leans back in his chair, scowling and blinking at me.

  “Well?” I say with annoyance. “Why am I here?”

  “Here’s what I have to tell you.” He sits up straight and runs his fingers through thinning hair.

  His nervousness is contagious; my stomach clenches in frustration. If only we had more time to look into these people.

  “The president of the homeowners’ association of the subdivision in Idaho received a call from Pamela, who had no authorization to contact him, and he was very annoyed at being harassed. He’s considering filing a complaint. You’re going to instruct her to back off, or she’ll be served with papers.”

  That’s so ridiculous I burst into laughter. “Are you serious with this? Please, try to win against Pamela in court. It’d be a first.”

  He continues talking, grinding his words out angrily. “Mr. Ferguson was kind enough to send over the most recent copy of the company’s bank statements, and I have forwarded those emails to your families. The statements show that they are financially solvent. That is all you’re going to get. Your harassment is at risk of tanking a very lucrative deal and costing hundreds of contractors their jobs, to say nothing of millions of dollars of property tax that would benefit this region. Your families’ names are tied to this, and it’s not going to look good for them. I don’t want to hear from you or speak to you again, other than having you show up and sign off tomorrow.”

  He stands up. “You may go.” He gestures at the door.

  “Holy frijoles. You actually thought any of that would work on me? On Pamela?” Shaking my head, I stand up.

  My phone bleeps with the text message sound I assigned to Donovan. “Endless Love.” I know, cheesy.

  I’ll just talk to him when I get home. I’m only about fifteen minutes away. I’m so mad right now I can’t even form words.

  I stomp out of the office building, hop in my car, and tap out a quick message.

  I’ve only been driving for a few minutes when my front right tire starts wobbling alarmingly. I step on the brakes, and it’s like stepping on a sponge. The brake pedal sinks to the floor. By a stroke of incredible good luck, I’m driving up a hill when that happens, so my car isn’t going too fast. I quickly head into a bank of bushes, and slam into the side of the hill. The seatbelt tightens, and the airbag explodes in my face.

  There’s a chemical smell in the air. My ears ring, and my chest throbs, and my body’s rigid with fright.

  The car’s wheels are still spinning, and my heart pounds with panic. Other than a bleeding lip and an aching shoulder, I seem to be mostly okay. When the airbag deflates, I turn the ignition off, grab my purse, and leap out of the car.

  A car is screeching towards me, and my heart speeds up even faster. Murray? One of Mr. Ferguson’s goons? Is that them coming to finish the job? I bolt across the road and duck behind a tree, until I see that it’s Donovan, driving like a madman. He slams to a halt next to my crashed car just as I burst out from behind the tree.

  “Here! I’m here!”

  “Oh my God. Don’t scare me like that.” He grabs me and hugs me so hard I groan in protest.

  “Ouch! My shoulder hurts, Donovan. I’m fine, I swear,” I say into his broad chest. He releases me quickly.

  I step back and turn to look at my car, shaking my head. “My brakes just suddenly stopped working and my front tire was wobbling. I mean, you got me this car, what, like, three months ago? Brand new? I swear someone cut my brakes and loosened my wheel.”

  “Then someone is a dead man.” Donovan’s eyes blaze with anger. He runs his hands up my arms, pats my shoulders, peers into my eyes. “Are you all right? Do you know where you are right now? What year is it?”

  “I’m standing on a road in Greenvale being felt up by my husband. Not that I’m objecting. And it’s 2021. Why were you rushing here?”

  He scowls at the car. “I called you at the winery, and the girl who answered the phone said you’d rushed out of the office to meet Murray, and I just had a bad feeling. I just got a report from my investigator. Mr. Ferguson’s real name is Lukas Goleb. He did time in prison in Slovenia, for racketeering and construction fraud. Only got out a couple of years ago, and it’s not quite clear why he was allowed to emigrate to the U.S. and change his name, but I suspect bribes. The Sunny Acres subdivision, in Idaho? Pamela gave me the contact info for the president of the homeowners’ association. After she talked to him last week, he sent out word asking if anyone was having any problems with their homes, and apparently they are. Over the past few weeks they’ve had unseasonably heavy rain. Now all of a sudden roofs are leaking, basements are flooding, windows and doors aren’t opening properly, and the Sunny Acres corporation stopped taking their calls. He said that preliminary investigations show that the houses were built with cheap materials, not the sustainable materials that were promised in the specs.” He shakes his head. “I think they weren’t counting on the bad weather, and it exposed their shoddy construction faster than they expected. They probably wanted to do the same thing here in Greenvale, then vanish before things started to fall apart. Also, I don’t know this for a fact yet, but a huge project like that would be the perfect way to hide mob money.”

  “Oh, damn.” I look at him, stricken. “We’re supposed to sign that contract tomorrow morning, Donovan. I don’t think we have enough time to get out of it.”

  “First things first. We need to call the police about your car.”

  A short while later, my car has been towed into town and I’m at the police station filling out a report. Unfortunately, by amazing coincidence, the video security camera that faces Murray’s parking lot has been turned off for the past few days. It’s going to be hard to prove that Murray was responsible for my car being sabotaged.

  “What could he possibly have been thinking?” I say to Donovan.

  His jaw is set in a grim line. “I think he’s getting so desperate that he wasn’t thinking straight. Just acting out of sheer panic.”

  “And we still don’t have a way to get out of the damn contract,” I say in despair.

  “Don’t give up hope yet. I’m going to drive you to Vito’s house right now, and I want you to stay there. I don’t want you to go anywhere without your family for the time being. I’ve got an errand to run.”

  “What are you going to do?” Like I don’t already know the answer. He’s going to go have a conversation with Murray. Fisticuffs will probably ensue.

  He smiles at me wryly. “I promised I’d never lie to you again, babe. So it’s best if I just say nothing.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  DONOVAN

  Murray’s house is a blandly attractive, oversized Colonial located in a suburb on the north side of Greenvale.

  Cesa
re, Rocco, my cousin Brandon and I came here because Murray wasn’t at his office. His secretary bitterly told us his home address, and asked us to remind him that he’s two weeks late paying her.

  “You don’t have to be here,” I tell my cousin. He and Cesare shoot each other suspicious looks as we stalk up the paved walkway.

  “Yes, I do,” Brandon says. “She’s a Witlocke now, and that piece of garbage tried to kill her.”

  Cesare relaxes a little.

  As we walk, I see that the front lawn is shaggy with neglect and the flowers in the beds are wilting.

  Seems like Heather, with her legendary shopping sprees, is spending him into the poorhouse. Ah, the high cost of infidelity.

  “What if he won’t open the door?” Cesare asks as we walk up the front steps.

  “We kick it in,” Brandon says.

  Cesare grins. “I like this guy.”

  They fist-bump.

  “Yeah, yeah, new BFFs,” I say with an eye-roll.

  “Well, he does have a pretty sweet car,” Brandon says. “Gotta give him respect for that.”

  My cell phone chirps, and I look at the message. It’s from Angus:

  As your friend and attorney, I advise you not to do what you’re about to do. But you’ll do it anyway. I would too if it were me. Call me when you need bail posted.

  I reply with a terse, Thanks.

  Murray’s Porsche is sitting in the driveway. Brandon stalks over to it. I’m about to ring the doorbell when the sound of a lawnmower snags my attention.

  We stalk over to the side of the house, following the sound. Murray, looking miserable, is wrestling with a push-mower. I suspect he used to pay someone else to do this, because he looks as if he doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. His face is red and sweaty, but when he sees the four of us advancing on him, it goes white.

  He tries to run and call for help on his cell phone at the same time. He fails, tripping and falling to the ground. I’m on him in seconds.

  “Help!” he screams to the neighbor in the yard next to his. The guy just stares at him.

  I grab him by the collar and lift him off his feet as Rocco, Brandon and Cesare crowd in around me. Murray’s face is ghost white, and his ankles thrash.

  From the driveway, I hear the sound of shattering glass.

  “Do not ever go near my wife again,” I snarl into Murray’s face.

  “I didn’t!” he wheezes. “You’re crazy! Let me go! I’ll have you thrown in prison!”

  “Doubt it,” I drawl. “Jail, certainly. Good thing I can afford the bail. Let me tell you something, Murray. We all know you lured Sienna to your office and had her car sabotaged while she was talking to you. Soon, everyone in town will know. Sienna’s very well liked here, Murray, and I think you’re going to find you don’t have too many friends in town anymore. Also, whatever happens to my wife will happen to you, so you’d better hope that she doesn’t get so much as a paper cut.”

  And I hurl him to the ground. Everything in me wants to pound his face to jelly, but I resist. For now. I try to stay on the right side of the law, and something tells me that Murray’s going to be suffering the consequences of his actions in multiple ways.

  Murray crawls away from us, crab-style. Rocco tries to run after him, but I catch him and spin him around. In the distance, sirens wail. I guess one of the neighbors called the cops.

  “Leave it!” I shout at Rocco as he struggles in my arms. “Murray will never make another sale in this town. People will cross the street to avoid him. Your family needs you, and he’s not worth going to prison for. We’ve made our point.”

  “You’d better hope you don’t run into me in a dark alley!” Rocco shouts after Murray. “If you’d killed Sienna, they’d be fishing pieces of Murray out of the river for weeks!”

  I let go of him, and he storms off to the front of the house. Cesare and I follow him, to find that Brandon’s kicked in all the windows of the Porsche and now he’s dragging a pen knife through the paint on the hood.

  “I really like this guy,” Cesare says.

  ***

  Sienna

  “Well, hello, jailbirds,” I call out as Donovan, Cesare, Brandon and Rocco stride through the door of the closing agent’s office.

  After they were all arrested yesterday, I was afraid that they might not make it to the closing in time. Angus had them bailed out first thing this morning.

  They’re all rumpled and unshaven. They didn’t even have time to go home and shower.

  “Really, Brandon.” April shakes her head in disapproval, but she can’t hide a little smile.

  “Sorry, Mom. Won’t happen again. Probably,” he says, sitting next to her. His father Phillip gives him an approving wink.

  Sheriff Shaughnessy’s come to keep the peace, and he stands across the room with one of his deputies, watching us through narrowed eyes. A pale, wretched Murray, who looks like he just crawled out of a coffin, is sitting at the far end of the table with several attorneys, a notary public, a secretary, and a closing agent.

  “They shouldn’t even be here!” he complains loudly to Sheriff Shaughnessy. “They came to my house and terrorized me!”

  “I know that,” the sheriff says with a sigh of exasperation. “I was there, remember? Nothing is going to happen while I’m here. You can go request a restraining order if you like.”

  “Damn right I will.” Murray huffs and readjusts his tie.

  “Hello, lovely. You’ve got a thing for bad boys, right?” Donovan winks at me and settles down in the chair next to me. Cesare and Rocco sit down with my family, and the Witlockes wave at them in greeting. Donovan leans over and whispers in my ear. “We can play convict and prison guard later if you want.”

  “For the last time!” Sara cries out. “We. Have. Ears.” She claps her hands over her ears to protect the offended organs.

  “Really, Sienna.” Fernanda shoots me a severe look. “Bad enough that you are married to one of them, but to have to imagine that? Nuccio would be turning over in his grave.”

  I glance at Donovan.

  “Any sign of the buyers?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “How are you feeling, by the way?”

  I shoot Murray a dirty look. “Sore. But fine. Could have been much worse.”

  Donovan slings his muscular arm around my shoulders and shoots a death stare in Murray’s direction, then smiles at me. “I should hire a bodyguard for you.”

  “No way,” I protest, at the same time that my uncle nods vigorously.

  “Good idea!” Vito says with warm approval in his voice.

  Then we settle back and wait. Our real estate attorney, David Somerville, keeps glancing at his watch.

  Liam Ferguson, AKA Lukas Goleb, is nowhere in sight, and neither is anyone from his office, and the signing is supposed to take place in five minutes.

  Murray has refused to say whether or not he’s heard from Mr. Ferguson, but it’s clear that he hasn’t.

  “How’s Heather?” I call out to him. He shoots me a look of pure hatred. We all know that without this deal, Heather’s going to be out of town so fast her heels will leave scorch marks.

  “So, not well, then?” I arch an eyebrow.

  Chief Shaughnessy sighs. “Sienna, don’t stir up trouble, please.”

  “No, sir. Not me, sir.” I widen my eyes, all innocence, and glance up at the wall clock.

  Fernanda looks at Murray and starts muttering and making hand gestures.

  “Make her stop that!” Murray complains to Chief Shaughnessy.

  “Make her stop what?”

  “She’s hexing me!”

  The chief glances at his watch and sighs again, then looks back up at Murray. “That’s not a violation of any law, I’m afraid.”

  The minutes tick by. When nine fifteen comes and goes, Donovan’s father stands up. The rest of us follow suit.

  “Wait!” Murray protests. He turns to his attorney, sweat trickling down the sides of his face
. “This isn’t fair. They have to be liable for this. They drove him off with their badgering and false accusations.”

  One of his lawyers clears his throat. “Let’s move this to my office, and we can discuss what your next steps will be.”

  When Murray walks out, his whole body is slumped, as if his skeleton has turned to Jell-O. His attorneys follow him, looking glum.

  Chief Shaughnessy throws a sharp look in our direction. “No more assaults. No more vandalism. You’re out on bail – for now. You were released on bail because you agreed to behave yourselves. We will be pursuing the case against Murray, and you will leave it in our hands. Am I clear?’

  “Crystal.” Donovan nods at him.

  The chief shakes his head. “I’m going to stand here and wait five minutes with you to give them time to leave.”

  Montgomery clears his throat. “Now what?” he says to our closing attorney.

  Mr. Somerville frowns. “I’m going to make some calls and continue trying to reach them. I’d say we need to wait until the end of the day before we’re one hundred percent certain that the deal is off. Let’s convene this evening at my office, around six p.m.”

  We sit there in silence, the long minutes stretching out. Then we exit the building and head out to the parking lot.

  “See you at Le Gourmand?” Donovan says.

  We booked a private room there ages ago, before we knew things might go south.

  As we drive, I turn to Donovan. “Do you know what happened?”

  He smiles, his eyes glinting in triumph. “I suspect I do. Yesterday, at my direction, my attorney left word with Liam Ferguson’s secretary that we knew his real identity and that we also knew what was going on with the Sunny Acres subdivision, and we were going to be all over them like flies on honey during every step of the construction here. We’d know about every single nail they hammered in. We’d know if they tried to cut a single corner. My attorney also told them we’d be notifying the state and making sure that they were subject to frequent inspections. Add in what’s happening with the subdivision in Idaho, where they’re sure to be facing a slew of criminal charges and lawsuits, and I suspect he and his cohorts are going to fold up shop and flee the country, if they haven’t already.”