Final Offer (Dreamland Billionaires, #3)(18)
“That’s…” Delilah’s tan face pales.
“A million dollars?” My shoulders slump. “Even if I picked up a second job waiting tables or something, I would never be able to afford it.”
Violet snaps her fingers. “I’m sure Mitchell down at the bank would be willing to give you a loan.”
“After I turned him down for a date? No way.”
“What if the town pitched in—”
I stop her with a wave of my hand. “Absolutely not.”
The skin between Delilah’s eyebrows creases. “There’s got to be another way. Maybe some legal loophole that lets you keep the place regardless of who owns it.”
My chest aches. “There is none. I checked with the lawyer, and whether I like it or not, Cal is within his rights to sell the property.” No matter how much I love the house and the memories I’ve made here, there is nothing I can do to save it from being listed for sale.
A hint of a smile crosses Violet’s lips. “What if—”
“Oh, boy. Here we go.” Delilah grimaces.
Violet is known for her crazy plans and being the mastermind behind schemes that ended up with us in handcuffs once or twice. Sheriff Hank could never actually go through with arresting us because he felt the justice system was a slap on the wrist compared to our angry parents.
Violet clears her throat while throwing a pointed glare in Delilah’s direction. “What if you don’t end up selling the house?”
My brows furrow. “What do you mean?”
“You could set the list price so unreasonably high that no one in their right mind would be willing to buy it.” Violet’s hazel eyes glint, shining bright from the countless plans bouncing around her head. With her dirty blond curls and rounded, angelic features, no one would think twice about the little devil that lingers beneath her porcelain skin.
“That’s…” Delilah’s voice drifts off.
“Actually genius,” I finish for her.
Violet perks up.
Delilah looks over at me. “You know, Violet’s plan might actually work.”
Could it really? Part of me is afraid to hope it might, just in case Cal ruins the possibility of me keeping the house.
Better to try and fail than not to try at all.
I throw my hands in the air with defeat. “Screw it. It’s not like I have much else to lose.”
8
ALANA
Cal didn’t give me more than a weekend to process the news about the lake house before he texted me bright and early Monday morning asking to meet up at Early Bird Diner for lunch. For both our sakes, I decided to comply.
Because Mondays aren’t bad enough, my entire morning before our lunch meeting is a complete and utter disaster. Normally my job as a Spanish teacher at Cami’s school follows a predictable routine. But naturally, given my luck today, everything has gone wrong, from a broken fire alarm interrupting my tenth graders’ final presentations to a first grader throwing up in the back of my class right before lunch. The only thing motivating me to make it through today is the fact that I only have two weeks left before the summer break.
I’m already late by the time I arrive at the diner, so the parking lot is full. I circle around Main Street twice to find a spot with no success. The town is beginning to advertise for the mid-June Strawberry Festival, Lake Wisteria’s biggest event of the year, so a majority of the parking spots are taken up by the mayor and his helpers hanging up promotional signs to entice tourists.
It takes me five minutes to find a place to park. It’s fitting, with how sucky my day has been, that I would find one right next to my failed dream.
The store has sat empty for years, the landlord unable to permanently fill the space for longer than a few years at a time. Business after business have tried to make it, but they have never been successful. Even a bakery opened here once, which was a whole new level of torture given my dream to open my own shop in the space. They shut down not even a year later.
What makes you think you would be successful then?
My throat thickens, and I turn my back on the storefront.
You have bigger issues to deal with right now.
I hold my head high as I walk toward the diner.
“Hey,” Cal calls, startling me.
I turn toward the direction of his voice. He leans against the brick wall outside of the front entrance, appearing completely out of place with his perfectly pressed white linen shirt and his custom-tailored pants. His outfit reminds me of the other rich tourists who visit, looking like they belong yachting in Ibiza rather than on our lake.
He slides his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to get a better look at me. “Cute dress. Did your mom make it?”
The mention of my mom has my throat closing up. Grief is a strange thing. It comes and goes, usually at the most inconvenient time, turning our lives upside down while we process the loss yet again.
I instinctively reach for the gold necklace she gave me for my quincea?era, rubbing the cool metal between my fingers back and forth. “Yeah.” My voice cracks.
“How is your mom doing by the way? I didn’t see her car at the house. Is she visiting your family in Colombia for the summer or something?”
My heart pounds hard against my rib cage as I halt midstride. “You really don’t know.”