Sebring (Unfinished Heroes #5)(8)

“Yes,” I answered.

“Great!” she cried. “I’ll let them know and set it up. This is looking good. We haven’t had a second visit since we put your place on the market.”

That day was apparently my day for people to tell me things I already knew.

Because I already knew this, I had no reply.

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed we’ll have an offer by Friday,” Pam carried on.

“I will too,” I said. “And if you can have their agent tell you when they’re done, I’d appreciate it if you’d text me when I’m good to come home.”

“Of course,” she stated.

“Wonderful. Thank you, Pam. Have a good evening.”

“You too, Olivia.”

I took the phone from my ear and disconnected.

Then I looked around my house.

From my position standing in the acres of extraordinary ivory, russet and bronze-veined marble countertops and custom-made cream cupboards, I could also see the kitchen seating area (which was not a place to eat…it was a place to sit on couches by a fireplace and converse). I could also see the great room, the formal dining room and vast expanses of wood-that-was-imported-from-Europe floors.

It looked fabulous, as it would. I was responsible for every inch of fabric, every stick of furniture, down to the ribbed silver or mirrored Kleenex box holders.

It was like my office. Classic elegance, except more refined.

I did not hesitate to congratulate myself on wringing a miracle, because even with its extreme beauty, it was also welcoming and comfortable.

I loved it.

But it had to go.

It had to go because, along with all I’d mentioned, there were also four bedrooms, a casual family room, a game room, a study, a “mom’s room” (that looked like a place set up to make crafts or wrap packages, as everyone knew it was mom’s job to be craftsy and wrap presents), a laundry room that was as big as a bedroom, a larder that was as big as most full baths and a master suite that the Queen of England would feel comfortable in.

This didn’t count the mini-me-mansion guest house with its own sitting room, small kitchen, bedroom and bath at the back of the property.

All of this (save the guest house, of course) was in a u-shape flanking an in-ground, heated swimming pool with a massive mosaic-tiled deck. This situated on a huge lot situated in Governor’s Park, in other words, smack in the middle of the city proper of Denver.

It cost millions of dollars.

It was too much for me.

When viewing it, as gorgeous as it was, I’d wanted nothing to do with it.

But when I moved out of my father’s home, he would not hear of me living in one of the lovely high-rises that straddled the south side of the city that offered two-to three-bedroom condominiums.

A Shade lived like a Shade.

Not a real Shade, those being degenerate criminals, two of whom hid this behind Christian Louboutin shoes and Givenchy blouses.

But the Shades we showed the world. Those of us left who had not escaped my grandfather’s need to perpetuate a massive, grisly, scheming, brutal Fuck You! to those many who thought (rightly) they were better than him as well as to those who didn’t care either way.

Namely my father, because even if Georgia lived in a fabulous penthouse apartment, she thought her place was too much too.

Therefore, since my father wanted me to have that house, I had no choice but to have it.

Now, it wasn’t only too big for me—a single woman rambling around what could be described as nothing other than a mini-five-thousand-square-foot-mansion—we couldn’t afford it.

Dad’s rambling manse would never go. He’d die in there in a shootout rivaling the Alamo before he’d let anyone take it from him.

And Georgia was turning a semi-blind eye to the money situation, aware of it but certain she could do something to turn it around while breaking her neck to do just that.

But I kept the books. I knew.

So my house was on the market and neither of them was stupid enough to say a word, because even if neither of them would admit it out loud, both of them knew why.

I walked the warm-colored wood floors of my hall, past the informal family room, the study, these separated by a powder room, both to my left. To my right was a series of arched windows and French doors that led to the deck and pool.

I arrived at the end of the hall where my bedroom suite was. This included a comfortable sitting room, his-and hers-walk-in closets and a colossal bathroom that had a dressing area at the back with a built-in dressing table that any fabulously wealthy housewife would give her eyeteeth for.

Alas, none of them were in the market for a house. I knew this since mine had been available for four months with only one second viewing that hadn’t even happened yet.

I sat on the side of my bed and was toeing off my pumps when my phone in my hand rang again.

I looked at the screen and wished I didn’t have to take the call.

But she’d called yesterday and I hadn’t called her back. I knew the headache I’d catch when I stopped avoiding her was not worth the peace of mind avoiding her afforded me.

So I took the call.

“Hello, Mom,” I greeted, leaning back into a hand in the bed.

“I called you yesterday, Olivia.”

More of someone telling me something I already knew.

“I’m sorry. Something came up and took my attention,” I lied.