I Flipping Love You (Shacking Up #3)(88)

“I’ll still go through the numbers tonight.” I run my fingers along the rim of my cup. “If it was a year from now, we’d be in a better position.”

“I know,” she says softly. “And we don’t know when or if it will be on the market again.”

I dig my toes into the sand. In my head I had this amazing plan for the Mansion. We’d turn it into a bed-and-breakfast and live in one of the outbuildings. My eyes burn as the dream I’ve held onto all this time seems so far out of reach, dissipating into vapor.

We watch the waves break against the shoreline in silence for a few minutes.

Marley sighs. “Sometimes I miss our old life. I know it’ll never be like it used to, but I don’t ever want to worry about being able to afford to pay the credit card bill at the end of the month again.”

“We won’t let that happen.” I feel a pang of guilt over the fact that in the past few months I’ve spent more time with Pierce, and some of the luxuries we’d lost have been mine again. The stability and security have been nice, better than nice. I worry about Marley, because she’s a lot like me. We’ve only been close to each other, which means she’s all alone now.

“I hope not.” She rests her cheek on her knee. “Are you going to tell Pierce?”

“Keeping it from him is pointless.”

“Are you worried he’ll tell his brother and that the Mills family will get their hands on it?”

“That’s a risk, regardless. We just have to hope there are other projects that are more lucrative for them.”

“I’m going to cross everything that that’s the case.”

Marley leaves me to tell Pierce. One benefit of the Mission Mansion coming on the market is that we’ll definitely be able to price our flip on the higher end, because of its proximity and desirable location.

Pierce is rearranging the rented furniture for staging purposes when I return. Amalie sent him with a load of supplies, and aside from the inspection, our job today is to set up the house. Tomorrow the cleaners come, and then we’re show ready.

He shifts the couch around, biceps flexing, then steps back to inspect its placement. He knocks it with his hip a couple of times before he seems content, then notices me standing off to the side. His gaze moves over me, assessing, as he grips the back of the couch. “Lawson called while you were outside with Marley.”

I cross the room and stand on the opposite side of the sofa. “So you know the Mansion is coming up for sale.”

“I do.” He hops over the back of the couch, spreads his legs wide, and pulls me between them, palms wrapped around the backs of my legs.

I run my fingers through his hair. “Who told him?”

“I’m assuming his agent.”

I note that he never refers to Lawson’s agent as our agent. Maybe for my sake. I don’t really know. “There’s an agent open house tomorrow. Marley and I are going.”

“Are you going as a buyer or an agent?”

I lift a shoulder and admit what I don’t want to acknowledge. “Likely as an agent. I’m not entirely sure we could afford to take it on as a project.”

“Do you want me to come with you? I’ll understand if you’d rather I not be there.”

I consider how it would feel to have him with me while I revisit my past, possibly for the last time. Probably is more like it. “I think I want you there.”

“Think about it. Sleep on it. And in the morning, if you want, I’ll come with you and if not, I’ll be right here, waiting for you when you get back.”

*

The following morning I find a brand-new dress that probably costs more than two months of mortgage payments hanging in my closet and a pair of strappy sandals. I almost cry, but manage to rein in the tears.

Pierce assures me it’s not meant to guilt me into letting him come along, but I want him there. Last night, I mentioned his offer to come along to Marley to see how she’d respond. She didn’t seem upset about it, but then, sometimes it’s hard to tell with Marley.

Pierce looks like he craps gold bars in his tailored Tom Ford. I’m nervous when we pull up to the Mansion and pass over our keys to the valet. There’s a six-car garage, because one or two cars is clearly not enough when you have an eight-thousand-square-foot mansion.

I’ve gone over the figures, run the numbers a dozen times, lowballing the potential profit on the flip, trying to make it work. Making an offer is a bad financial move. Even if we could afford it, the renovations alone would sink us.

The seller’s agent offers to show us around the Mansion, obviously unaware of our history with the home, but with so many agents coming through, it’s easy to decline and tour on our own.

It’s almost exactly as I remember it, but everything is dated and worn. Even the furniture is mostly the same—a shrine to a lost life. In the interest of selling quickly, my father had opted not to hold a contents estate sale. He sold the Mansion and everything in it. Once the money was transferred into his offshore account, he and my mother disappeared.

No one has lived here in the past decade; the owners purchased with the intent to renovate, but they lost interest and moved on to other pursuits. Now that the market is hot again, they want it off their hands.

My heart feels like it’s in my throat as we pass through familiar rooms. I run my finger along the edge of the massive table in the formal dining room, set with my grandmother’s china—she would roll over in her grave if she knew they’d used it to stage the showing. I remember afternoon tea with her friends, crustless sandwiches and petit fours, pinkies in the air as we sipped tea, and my grandmother winking over her cup at the ridiculousness of it all.