Rescuing the Bad Boy (Second Chance #2)(102)

Night blanketed the guesthouse, the lights at Alessandre’s lit for safety only. Aless was in Evergreen Cove and was flying back home after the closing tomorrow. Donovan squinted at the clock. One a.m.

Not tomorrow, then. Today.

Donovan’s mansion—Donovan’s legacy—would be sold to Alessandre and become a D’Paolo bed-and-breakfast. Pieced and parceled off, the bedrooms would be outfitted with locks and furnished with matching, elegant armoires and beds. Vacationers visiting the Cove would stay in a landmark, sip tea in the great room with the newly rebuilt fireplace, and relax and read in the library.

The library.

He sat up too fast, head swimming from the alcohol, heart beating erratically as those two words echoed off the halls of his head. Dully, his brain chugged, but he managed to make out one clear thought.

No.

The library, the great room, the ballroom, hell, the kitchen. The maple tree at the back of the property, the cobblestone drive. The utility room.

The shower.

God. The shower.

Hell no.

The idea of strangers in the rooms where he and Sofie had made love made him heartsick. Especially the library. Where he told her he loved her.

He still did.

Dammit. He still f*cking loved her.

Proving rum the worst ally ever, pain crept in and latched on to his chest, spreading through his lungs and seizing his next breath. Part of him wanted to curl up and hide. Do that wallowing thing he’d set out to do when he uncapped the bottle.

But the twelve-year-old boy inside him, the one who’d straightened his back and thrown a punch at his old man, uttered two words. “Straight through.”

Donovan reached for his cell phone and dialed Alessandre’s number. He had twelve hours to stop the sale. If Aless didn’t answer, he’d call Scott Torsett, the prick. Or maybe the realty company. He’d call every number they had. Send a fax. Wait… he didn’t have a fax machine.

He frowned at the empty bottle in front of him. Rum certainly hadn’t improved his problem-solving skills.

Alessandre’s voice answered and Donovan barked into the phone, “Aless! I need to…” His words faded as he realized he was talking to voice mail. He ended the call, tossed the phone on the coffee table, propped his elbows on his knees, and stared it down.

What to do? What the f*ck to do?

He was too plowed to drive. All he had was his phone.

Connor.

Connor would know the answer. Connor would stop the sale, or know who to call to stop the sale.

Donovan found Connor’s name in his phone, tapped the screen, and lifted the cell to his ear. On the fifth ring, he was ready to give up hope.

Then his best friend answered with a groggy, “What’s wrong?”

Donovan smiled. He hadn’t smiled in weeks. Of course Connor thought something was wrong. Donny never called his friends. They called him.

“I’m not selling the mansion.”

A moment of silence stretched on the line before Connor heaved a sigh. “Shit, man, I just moved my plants out of there.”

“I need her, man. I love her.” Donovan rested a hand on his pounding forehead.

“I know.”

He’d never said it to anyone but Sofie. Never been in love with anyone before Sofie. Saying it now opened him up in a way that felt like letting the sun in after years of blackness.

“What do I do?”

“Don’t call her,” Connor said. He heard a few muffled sounds like his friend was shifting or sitting up in bed. “You sound deranged.”

“I’m drunk.” He was. So stinking drunk. The room had started to spin. “I mean it, though. I’m not selling. I love Sofie.”

“I know, but you need to tell her that sober.”

“I can’t get a hold of Aless.”

“He was at the mansion earlier. I was there doing some last-minute yard stuff and showed him around. He’s probably on his way to New York right about now.”

Back to New York? Donny pinched his eyes closed and tried to decode those words with his sluggish, rum-soaked brain.

“Why would he fly back to New York?”

“Dunno. Just said he was headed back. Maybe he changed his mind about buying it.”

Maybe. But unlikely.

“Sleep it off, man. He’ll be home soon. You can tell him then you’re not selling.” Connor grumbled good night.

Donovan ended the call. His friend was right. He should sober up and wait him out. But he wasn’t going to sleep. He stalked to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee.

He was going to stay awake and wait for Aless to get home.

After two cups, and staring bleary-eyed at an infomercial on TV, Donovan remembered thinking he needed one more cup if he hoped to stay up much longer.

The next thing he knew, he was jolting awake to a clap of thunder shaking the house.





Donovan spit the mouthwash he’d been swishing between his teeth into the grass. It was pouring, an absolute skin-soaking downpour. The only upside to traipsing to Aless’s house across the connected yards was that the rain was washing off some of the booze smell on his skin.

He decided to file that in the plus column. He had a plus column. Go figure.

A stupid grin pulled his cheeks as he saw Alessandre’s kitchen light flick on, followed by the bathroom light. Donovan broke into a jog, ran up the stairs along the side of the house, and used the code on the keypad at the back door to let himself in.