“I don’t want to talk right now,” I said, hiccupping as the giggles subsided. “Just keep your shorts on, don’t try to slip it in, and don’t make it weird.”
Will brushed my hair over my shoulder and kissed my jaw. “Sure you don’t want to tell me what you said to the Douchelord?”
“Why should I start giving you what you want now?” I asked. His thumbs worked the knots in my neck, and he had my eyes crossing in bliss.
“Because somewhere in your feisty little gremlin heart, you care about me,” he said. “And I’m not letting go until you remember that. I’ve told you before: I’m not giving up.”
*
Will was busyflipping pancakes in the kitchen when I dragged myself out of bed the next morning. He handed me a plate and turned back to the stove without discussion. We’d slept together, perfectly civil and clothed, and it’d felt like my universe was sliding into its rightful orbit again.
Not that I was sharing that sentiment with Will. Not yet.
When I took a bite, I realized these pancakes were filled with raspberries. I couldn’t remember ever telling him that I preferred raspberry, or ordering pancakes with him. I stared at the wedge on my fork, confused. People didn’t just toss raspberries into pancakes. Blueberries had that market on lock.
“Hey,” I called. “About—”
“You mentioned it in Montauk,” he yelled into the dining room. “Eat.”
I promised myself it was just pancakes, nothing bigger or more symbolic, and only staged a small revolt when Will invited himself on my open house hunt.
“How does this work?” he asked as I merged onto the highway, heading north.
“What? Open houses? Or me tolerating your existence?”
Will turned his head, glaring at me. “The open house,” he said. “You just walk around and decide whether you like it? Or have you already decided that you’re buying? Is there a bidding war, and if so, I’m very interested in watching you eviscerate people.”
“No bidding wars. Not unless it’s an auction, and we aren’t going to any of those today,” I said, waving at the quaint homes along the coastal road. “Most of the time, I hear about properties before they come on the market. There are a lot of pocket listings—when an agent has an agreement with the seller but the property isn’t listed—and there are also a number of investors who buy and hold. None of this is public, and those are usually the ones I want. But today, we’re seeing a home that has been on the market for over a year and will happily sell below the asking price.”
I pulled up at a graying Colonial that didn’t look like it could limp through another winter. The location was magnificent; I could hear waves crashing against Swampscott’s rocky shoreline from the driveway, and the Galloupes Point neighborhood was hot without falling prey to the trendy trap. If this home was waiting for a buyer after all this time, either the seller was inflexible or it was a sneeze away from falling off this cliff and into the ocean. Or both.
“Don’t break anything,” I said to Will as we approached the door. “No commando tactics, please.”
“Your call,” he murmured, his hands raised. “I was going to run some breaching drills, but hell, if you don’t want me knocking down doors, I won’t.”
The agent spotted us and turned on his sales smile as he marched in our direction. “It would be best if you didn’t,” I whispered.
“Good morning,” the agent called. “You’re really in for a treat with this property. It was built in 1921, one of the first homes on the Point, all original floors and fixtures, and can you say ocean views? This neighborhood is always in demand, and it’s wonderful for growing families, too.” He smiled at us purposefully, and I reached into my tote for a business card. “What are we looking for today?”
He was wearing a shiny badge engraved with his name and agency, and I gave him a patient smile with my card. “My client here,” I gestured to Will, “is looking for something to restore. He’s a big fan of sustainable preservation, isn’t that right?”
“Huge fan,” he agreed. “The biggest fan.”
“He’s also looking for a place to wrestle whales and break rocks with his bare hands, so naturally,” I said, gesturing to the beach, “this listing came to mind.”
“Please, feel free to explore the home,” the agent said, flustered. He handed Will a folder filled with glossy images of the home from all the right angles.
The first floor was as I expected: worn, dated, dark. As the agent promised, the views were incredible, and I found myself walking through the kitchen and onto the grassy patio that bordered the ocean. The home sat on a parcel of land that curved out into the sea like a hook, and it created a safe harbor from the choppy Atlantic.
“Those are killer waves,” Will said from behind me. His chest was close enough to my back that I felt his presence, his warmth, but not his touch. “And I bet—” He pointed over my shoulder, to the craggy stone projecting into the sea, “—you’d find some shipwrecks out there.”
If I leaned back, I’d be in his arms and…I couldn’t decide whether I wanted that. “Why?”
“There’s a sandbar out there.” He gestured to the ocean, but I couldn’t discern anything but waves. “It’s probably only visible at the lowest tide. And that outcropping? The rocks? They extend about a quarter mile from the shore. No sailing vessels are getting into this cove in one piece.”
“I’ll be sure to add that to the marketing materials,” I said. “I’m sure those are real selling points.”
“This is not cheap,” Will murmured, flipping through the folder. He pointed at the seven-figure listing price. “You can afford this?”
