“I want you to sell the house,” he says, like it's obvious. “List it. Represent me.”
My throat tightens. “Ummm …"
"Charles," he supplies, realizing we were never introduced.
"Charles, this house is easily worth one-point-five—maybe one-point-six million,” I stammer.
“Appraised at one point six just last month.” He winks.
I do the math 2.5% commission—that’s $40,000. I feel like I’ve been handed a winning lottery ticket. One I’m not sure I deserve.
“I … I can’t accept that. I haven’t sold anything close to this. And you barely know me.”
“Nobody’s sold their first million-dollar property until they do,” he chuckles. “And I trust the Rothschilds. If their roses bloom under your care and their dog prefers your company, that’s more than enough résumé for me.”
Tears sting my eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper.
We exchange numbers, and I promise to call this afternoon. As I walk away, my feet feel light. I haven’t skipped since I was a kid, but I’m damn near close. Until my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Nessa
You're never gonna believe this. The wedding is OFF. Bride caught her fiancé in a supply closet with … her brother. Yeah. Her BROTHER. Sorry about the gig cancellation, but you can’t make this shit up. Zentrology night soon?
I burst out laughing. God, I needed that. A canceled gig used to send me spiraling. Now it has freed up my afternoon.
I shoot her back a quick thumbs-up and aYup, tell me when.Then I fire off a text to my favorite real estate photographer. Thankfully, Charles’s house is listing-ready. No updates needed, just clean, stage, and shoot.
I place an order for new signage at the print shop, barely squeaking in without a rush fee. For once, my timing doesn’tsuck. Feeling productive, I head to the river lot with my paint samples in tow.
And that’s when I see it.Histruck. I slam on the brakes. Sam isn’t supposed to be here.
I spot him near the tiny home, shirtless, headphones in, back turned as he hauls pavers from the truck bed. He’s sweating, glistening, tan from the sun. Each muscle shifts under his skin as he places stone after stone in a perfect circle—he’s building a fire pit.
A goddamn fire pit. I hate him. I want to throw a rock at him. I also want to climb him like a tree.
Down, girl. Hormones aren’t a reason to forget he blew up your life.
I sit frozen behind the wheel, watching him work. Watching as his forearms flex, his ball cap pulled backwards, his jeans hanging low on his hips. This man, who drove me out of our home, is now sweating through redemption one heavy stone at a time. And my treacherous, sex-deprived body wants to forgive him for it.
The worst part? This would’ve turned me onanyway.Even if we weren’t … estranged. Even if I wasn’t pissed, my libido clearly didn't get that memo.
He moves in rhythm, setting another stone into place, and all I can think about is the way his hands used to settle on my waist, how he'd kiss behind my ear when I couldn’t sleep. How he always knew when to take control in a way that didn’t feel like losing it.
Like I could just … let go. Trust him to carry the weight for both of us.
And that’s the problem. He was supposed to be safe. And then I remember: he gave away our savings. To his sister. And the fire inside me blazes hotter than whatever pit he's trying to build.
“What are you doing here?” I call, slamming the car door harder than I meant to.
Sam turns, startled. “Becca—you weren’t supposed to be here yet.”
“This is my property. My cabin. Built withmymoney. You got a problem with that?” I fire off.
He winces but stays calm. “No. I thought you were at the catering gig. It’s on our calendar.”
“Oh,nowyou’re using the calendar?”
He lifts his phone like it’s proof of innocence.
