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understand the importance of getting back to their regular schedule, it would be her.
    “You still there?” the Retreat ’ s chief of operations, Randy Hayward, asked.
    Dodge paused in the veranda ’ s doorway and answered into his phone. “I ’ m here. You got rid of him?”
    “I wish it had only been him.” Hayward sighed, and his chair creaked repeatedly. That wasn ’ t good. Dodge could picture the bowling ball of a man rocking in his well-padded office chair just like he did whenever a crisis approached. “We found a freelance reporter, a tabloid photographer, and a scout for a TV crew poking around by the front gates right as a shuttle was taking some guests into town to go antique shopping.”
    His ulcer woke up and said good morning, piercing his gut with a railroad spike. “All gone, I hope.”
    “Of course, but that ’ s not all.”
    “What now?” It wasn ’ t even lunch and he already needed a bottle of antacid, a whiskey neat, and a certain redheaded sexpot to get the hell away from his resort.
    “Several of the guests are asking questions.”
    For a bunch of people who swore they valued their own privacy, they sure as hell loved snooping their way into everyone else’s business. “About what?”
    “Other guests, the staff, everything,” Hayward said. “I think someone might be trading a little positive media exposure for themselves in exchange for a scoop about whomever we have here drawing all the media attention to The Retreat.”
    “Great.” No matter the non-disclosure agreement each guest signed at check-in, gossip about one of the most famous rock stars in the past half century holing up post-rehab at The Retreat would be too good not to share—if they found out he was here. The media circus would go from one tent to twenty by nightfall. The Brasch Group would withdraw their financing offer, and his scumbag grandfather would reap the rewards of Dodge’s failure.
    Hayward cleared his throat. “And Mrs. Von der Gunston is checking out early. Said the place isn ’ t up to her usual privacy standards. Others are starting to grumble. You know how guests are like sheep. We have to find a way to get rid of the press, or we ’ re going to have more guests leaving or, even worse, someone finding out that you-know-who is here.”
    Like Dodge didn ’ t know that. “I ’ m on it.” He hung up, turned the phone to vibrate, and shoved it into his inside jacket pocket. The key to making a deal was knowing your partner ’ s quirks. His mother hated cell phones, and he sure as hell didn ’ t need an ill-timed ringing to put her off his plan to make things right.
    The Brasch Group ’ s representatives would be here in a few weeks for an in-person review and to sign the paperwork. By then, everything needed to be back to normal at The Retreat. He ’ d gone down in flames with Harper last night, but he hadn ’ t given up. Not by a long shot.
    “ Good morning, darling. ” His mom held out a small purple plate. “Would you like a muffin?”
    About as much as he wanted Harper to lead the press straight to Garth Hampton ’ s cabin. “ Thanks. ” He took the smallest bite possible, but the gritty dry whole wheat, flax, and God-knew-what-else concoction stuck to the top of his mouth like flavorless peanut butter.
    “Chai?” She reached for her favorite teapot.
    He choked down the muffin. “No, I ’ m good. ” There was no way he could have the muffin and the chai without his meat and potatoes stomach going into system failure as a protest. “I stopped by to ask a favor.”
    May settled back into the wicker chair ’ s forest green cushion. “Anything, you know that.”
    He rested his ass against the stone railing so he faced her. His mother, with her hemp shirt and long braid, might look like a pushover, but he ’ d learned a long time ago that wasn ’ t the case. The woman had a spine as hard as the porch railing and hated it when people beat around the bush. Time to go straight