Free One Way to Succeed (Casas de Buen Dia Book 1) by Marjorie Pinkerton Miller

profit. City hall had been raided by FBI investigators looking for evidence of collusion or worse between city officials and developers. And what had once been a steady supply of old, decaying small hotels for renovation had dried up. The properties were still there—they just had been priced out of reach of a small business like Rick’s that needed to make a profit on every project.
    With Amy quickly assuming many of the minor contract and permitting issues that had been soaking up his time since Max left, Rick hoped he would finally have enough time to take on Max’s old duty of filling the pipeline with potential renovations. Max had preferred to sit in the office, make phone calls, and scour the Internet for available properties. Rick, however, preferred to do it the old fashioned way: on his bicycle.
    He closed his office door, changed into shorts, and called Amy on the intercom. Her office was right next door, but he was trying to avoid face-to-face meetings with her, wanting to hammer home the impersonal nature of their business relationship. Asking her to go to his family’s estate for dinner on Friday night was risky enough, given how attracted he was to her. He needed to make it perfectly clear that what looked like a “date” was anything but.
    “Amy, I’m heading out,” he announced into the square box.
    “For how long?” Her voice crackled over the old device.
    “All morning. I’m going to look around for prospects.”
    “What?”
    “What, what?”
    “Jesus, Rick. Do we have to use this stupid thing?” He could hear her snap the box off. Five seconds later, he opened his door and nearly ran over her.
    “Rick.” She had a way of saying his name that signaled exactly what mood she was in. This one was all business, just like her posture: hands on her hips, feet apart in what could only be called a power stance.
    “Yes?”
    “We can’t keep using that stupid intercom. It is so inefficient. Half the time, I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
    “I don’t have time to come to your office every… every… every time I need to tell you something,” he argued. He realized he was stammering in the face of her unyielding posture.
    “Then let’s start using messaging,” she said. “Or texting. Something other than squawking over that box. Really, dude. We have to yank this office out of the dark ages.”
    Rick couldn’t think of what to say. His mind was too busy assessing the powerful effect she was having on him—especially on his anatomy. As she turned on the spot and strode back to her office, Rick felt his body heat up. From the back, she could have been a model for the hourglass figure that adorned the restroom signs in his little hotels. From the front … well, he couldn’t let himself think about her front.
    Now, he had to worry about his ability to sit on the bike seat. He headed to the restroom to wash his face in cold water. He let the water drip off his chin as he looked in the mirror. He was surprised by the wild look in his own eyes.
    ~
    Riding around the streets of the Movie Colony, the neighborhood just north and east of downtown, Rick remembered why he loved this town. It wasn’t for its crowded nightclubs; or for its artsy, gay-infused culture; or its thriving business scene. It was for the quiet, palm-lined streets, barely improved beyond jagged-edged strips of asphalt, which had never been finished with concrete curbs or gutters. It was for block after block of humble ramblers once favored by the Hollywood stars who fled to the desert in the California winter to get away from the rain and the chill of L.A. while staying within an hour of the city as required by their studio contracts.
    Nowadays, the rich and famous had moved farther west into the Las Palmas neighborhood, where sprawling mansions hid behind tall oleander and ficus hedges, depriving a casual bike rider from even a glimpse at the stately edifices. And, more and more, even the more modest