I Flipping Love You (Shacking Up #3)(58)

We’re meeting with the Paulsons tomorrow morning at eleven. We go to bed early, but nerves make my sleep restless. At one a.m. my phone buzzes with a text.

I debate checking it. Sometimes Marley texts me from her room with ideas or thoughts because she doesn’t want to forget them, or she’s too lazy to get out of bed.

I know who I want it to be. I need to be logical about this thing with Pierce. He’s been very clear about going back to Manhattan at the end of the summer, so wanting more out of this is pointless. We’re just casual, his lack of communication today reminds me of that.

It’s with this thought in mind that I pull my pillow over my head and forgo checking my messages. My alarm goes off at a stupidly early hour. We have plans to bring fresh-baked muffins with us to the Paulson meeting. Bran muffins and the elderly are always a win.

My brain is already booting up as I hit the snooze button on my phone. There’s no way I’ll go back to sleep. Message alerts clog my screen. There are new ones from Terry—the man still hasn’t given up, which is … unbelievable. There are ten from my sister—I was right about her messaging me with stuff she didn’t want to forget. But there are also texts from Pierce. Several of them. Sent just after one in the morning; the messages I ignored last night.

I fight with myself to leave it alone and not check them right away.

Instead, I go through the ones from Terry. He would still like to reschedule our date. He would also like to know if I’m still getting his messages or if I’m ignoring them.

I move onto the messages from Marley. Basically it’s a list of things we need to address with the sellers today.

My mouth goes dry as I finally click on the messages from Pierce.

Had a shit day. Just got home now. Had to go to NYC for a bullshit meeting that took all fucking day. Phone died at noon. You still awake? Wanna sext with me to make me feel better?

Is sexting not your thing? I’m drinking bourbon now. Alone. It sucks.

I’d like to sip bourbon out of your navel. I like your navel. I like you.

Im drunk as shit. I wanna cu.

Can u stop ignorin me pls?

Shit. Its one in the morn. Im a ducking idiot.

Ducking not ducking





F U C K I N G


Autocorrect is an asshole. I guess we have that in common 2nite.

This isn’t a version of Pierce I’m familiar with, and I can’t decide how I feel about it. Last night I was trying to convince myself that keeping this dating thing casual is for the best, but there’s a tight feeling in my chest over the sexting message. I’d actually like to know what made his day so bad, not just be a porny distraction, and that’s a dangerous thing to want, because it sets me up for inevitable heartache when he leaves the Hamptons. It’s easier when we’re having fun and pushing each other’s buttons. It’s for that reason that I don’t respond right away.

Marley and I make muffins, shower, and get ready to meet with the Paulsons. I put Pierce out of my mind until we’re done with the meeting.

Except that’s easier said than done, because we have to drive past his brother’s beach house on our way to the Paulsons’. Pierce is pushing a lawn mower, wearing heavy work boots and jeans, a white T-shirt pulled tight across his thick chest and bulging biceps.

He looks up, adjusting his ball cap as we pass. Marley’s too busy chattering away, rehearsing her spiel, to notice him.

I watch him grow smaller as we continue on. Less than a minute later, as we’re pulling into the Paulsons’ driveway, my phone buzzes with a message. Then it rings. I’m sure he recognized the car. Pierce and his late-night drunk texting will have to wait.

Our meeting with the Paulsons lasts three hours. We make them a cash offer, which they accept. They have their own legal paperwork drawn up, thankfully by someone reputable since they want to sell privately. By the time we’re done, we’re the proud new owners of a home that needs an epic facelift to bring it from the seventies to the twenty-first century.

Despite it being a private sale, the Paulsons agree to let us put up the SUTTER REALTY SOLD signs on their lawn. Marley smiles all the while as she hammers the post in with the rubber mallet. This is it. This is our opportunity to turn small profit into big financial gains. I’m so happy I could cry.

We walk around the house to the beach side, where we’ll put up the second sign. That’s the thing about beachfront, you want everyone to know from both sides who sold the property.

I glance in the direction of the Mission Mansion. It’s so close. I can almost hear the echo of flip-flops slapping against the marble floor. The smell of cinnamon and espresso coming from the kitchen. On days like this, I miss my grandmother so much, her warm smile, her soft hugs. I wonder if she’d be proud of us for not giving up. I hope so.

“We should grab some lunch. Celebrate,” Marley suggests as she sets the sign down and surveys the yard, deciding where exactly she wants to put it for the best visibility.

“Sure. We could grab something down the beach.”

“We can drive over.” She walks the perimeter of the yard. The yard we now own.

I glance in the direction of the restaurants close to the beach. From here I have a great view of Lawson’s house. Pierce is nowhere to be seen—which makes sense since lawns don’t take hours to cut. I need to return his call. I didn’t think our meeting was going to last quite this long, or I would’ve done it sooner.