Punctual. That’s a good sign. I make a mental note as Gabe kicks his legs out and folds his hands behind his head. “She’s actually sort of related.”
A ripple of unease churns my gut. I’m not a fan of nepotism. I saw way too much of that in Hollywood. “Related to whom?”
“To us,” he says. “Well, me. My wife.” He draws out the word like a guy who has not yet exhausted the novelty of it. To be fair, it’s been three weeks since the wedding, and also his wife is awesome. “Gretchen’s brother, Jon—his dad has this sister—”
“Jon’s late father,” Mari puts in, always big on establishing the human connection. “Who is no relation to Gretchen because she and Jon had different fathers.”
I’m already lost in the branches of my brother’s new family tree. “So, we’re not talking immediate family here?”
Gabe glares. “Will you let me finish, chief tight-ass?”
I sigh and wave him on, glancing at the clock again. I suppose I’ll live without the coffee.
“Anyway, Gretchen’s brother’s father’s sister has these twin daughters, and one of them—”
“Vanessa Vincent,” I interrupt. I like how the name sounds rolling off my tongue, strong and no-nonsense. “Harvard MBA, two years with PricewaterhouseCoopers, expertise in forensic accounting, compliance, and internal audit management.”
Gabe blinks. “You know all of this?”
“I know everything.” Not always, but ever since my personal life took a big nosedive, I’ve made it my business to foresee all possible landmines. Fool me once and all that.
“Anyway,” my brother continues, “she completed our Community Compatibility Questionnaire.” He pauses here and smiles at Mari. “Nice job on that, by the way.”
My sister nods. “Glad to know the psych doctorate is useful to you,” she says dryly.
I give them the universal hurry up hand signal, my duty as the eldest brother. “You were saying?”
Gabe swings his focus back to me. “Vanessa’s answers in the personal information section were really interesting. Under ‘level of interest in finding a spouse or mate,’ she chose negative three.”
I frown at Mari. “I thought it was a scale of one to ten?”
“It was,” she says. “Ms. Vincent somehow found a way to alter the online questionnaire to insert a new answer.”
Noteworthy. Noteworthy and…interesting.
“The rest of her responses were the same,” Gabe continues. “Under ‘I see myself getting married in the next five years,’ she went with negative six.”
Mari clears her throat. “There’s also a write-in answer with that one. It reads, and I quote, ‘roughly the same as the odds I will wake tomorrow with an overwhelming urge to drive a flaming fork through my eyeball.’”
“I see.” I already liked Ms. Vincent’s resumé, but this is giving me a new dimension.
A dimension I relate to on a primal level. The CFO will be my closest working colleague at Juniper Ridge. While a part of this social experiment hinges on participants pairing up, the opposite is vital for me.
“Thank you for the information,” I tell them. “I’ll take it into consideration.”
Gabe glances at his watch and stands up. “Gotta go. Lauren and I are filming B-roll over in the residences.”
Mari follows, her bun flopping slightly to one side. “Good luck with the interview,” she tells me. “Call us when you’re done. I want to go over my proposal for the psych profiles of culinary community members.”
“No crazy chefs,” I tell her. “Or bakers. Or—”
“Yeah, thanks.” Mari rolls her eyes. “Without your input, I’d definitely put psychotic criminals in charge of our food supply.”
She’s out the door before I can retort, which is just as well. I didn’t have anything clever to say anyway. I glance at my watch and see there’s no time left for coffee.
Heaving myself out of my chair, I make my way down the hall and into the lobby. For a former cult compound, this place is pretty nice. Case in point, this lodge with its high ceilings and springy cork floors and enough offices for all six Judson offspring. There’s also an on-site film studio, which I’ll be keeping my distance from as much as possible.
Trudging into the waiting area, I’m struck by its lone occupant. Dark hair with just enough wave to leave it rippling around her shoulders as she taps away on a laptop. Slender curves, which I absolutely shouldn’t be noticing. I can’t see her eyes until she looks up and hits me square in the chest with the full force of liquid brown irises the color of warm cognac.
She shuts the laptop and shoves it in her bag on the chair beside her, then stands with a bright smile. “Hello.”
“Ms. Vincent, I presume?” My voice cracks only a little as I extend a hand and do my best to cover the fact that she’s knocked me off balance. “I’m Dean Judson, CEO. Thank you for waiting. Would you like coffee?”
“Absolutely.” She shakes my hand with a firm grip. “It’s great to finally meet you. My cousin told me so much about you.”
“That would be—Jonathan.” I met him when I first came to Oregon to rescue my brother from himself. Since Gabe wound up marrying into Jon’s family, I can’t claim much credit for how great my brother’s doing.
“I’m glad you brought that up, actually,” I tell Vanessa. “The fact that you’re here—it has nothing to do with any family connection. Your credentials were simply impeccable.”
“Impeccable, huh?” She grins and slings a gigantic purse over her shoulder in a cross-body style. I keep my eyes locked on her face, unaffected by the sight of the strap pressing a soft path between her breasts.
“Impeccable,” I repeat. “Former accounting manager for America’s second-largest television network. Treasurer and CFO for a Silicon Valley startup.” I take a step back, intent on keeping a professional distance between us. “In your last role, you raised more than $50 million in venture capital for a company devoted to establishing sustainable farming practices in third-world countries.”
Vanessa gives a low whistle. “You did your homework. Some of that wasn’t even on my resumé.”
“I believe in being thorough.” There’s an understatement. “Come on. Coffeemaker’s this way.”
I lead her into the breakroom, hoping like hell one of my siblings was kind enough to brew some.
No dice. Lana didn’t even wash her mug that says, “I’m actually not funny. I’m just mean and people think I’m joking.”
I rinse it and set it in the drying rack before rummaging in the back of a lower cupboard for my favorite mug. I’ve had it twelve years and keep it tucked away so it doesn’t end up lost or broken or nabbed by one of my five siblings. Turning to face the coffeemaker, I assess the task at hand. Christ, this thing has more buttons than my HP 12C Platinum accounting calculator.
But if I can mastermind a decade of Hollywood’s biggest real estate deals and filmmaker financing, I can make a simple cup of coffee. I punch a few levers and yank at something that spurts a sharp hiss of steam. Finally locating the part that holds coffee grounds, I dump the soggy ones in the trash and hunt for a new filter.