Final Offer: Chapter 13

I leave Lana in the kitchen while I walk the appraiser out. When I come back, I find she hasn’t moved from her spot by the window that overlooks the lake. Her fingers tap against the counter to the beat of her hum.

I seize the opportunity to take her in without being judged for it. She looks heaven-sent, with the golden glow of the sun surrounding her like a halo, highlighting the warm tones of her hair and the edges of her curves.

Those fucking curves.

Lana is soft in all the right places. Her love of baking and all things culinary has turned her body into a work of art, with hips meant for gripping and an ass meant for worshipping.

Don’t think about her ass.

Too late. My eyes drop, burning a hole into her leggings.

“As much as my ass appreciates the attention, I’d like to get along with my day. I have a ton of work to grade before tomorrow.”

My mouth dries up along with any type of rebuttal as my gaze swings from Lana’s legs to her face. Her brow lifts. She was always a straight shooter—a fact I appreciated until now.

How long has she been watching me stare at her?

Given your luck lately, maybe a whole minute. There’s a reason my brothers used to tease me for being Space Cadet Cal. I have a propensity to drift off and forget where I am until someone tugs me back to reality, usually by calling me out.

I clear my throat, forcing some oxygen into my airway. “We’re selling this house in three months for a million dollars whether you like it or not.”

She steps closer, encroaching on my space. “Oh, why? Because you said so?”

“Because that’s the only option. The sooner you accept it, the easier this process will be.”

“Or I could hire a lawyer.” She bats her lashes.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Fuck. “Except you’re not going to do that.”

Her scoff comes off as condescending as the rise of her chin. “I don’t take orders from you.”

“Pity. I remember there was once a time you would beg for them.” My thumb traces the bottom of her lip, earning a sweet inhale from her.

She leans into my touch before shaking her head and giving my chest a shove. “You’re just trying to distract me.”

“From what? Stabbing me in the back?”

Her eyes sparkle. “Only cowards go for the back.”

If I didn’t already know I was a bit unhinged, my dick getting hard at the way she threatens me with a vicious smirk would motivate me to get my head checked.

I pin her in place with my stare. “You want to list the house for more money than it’s worth so no one buys it, don’t you?”

“What? Why would I want to do that?” The glint in her eyes and the small hitch of her lips kill her attempt at feigning innocence.

“Beats me. I’m not sure why you’re trying so damn hard to save this place. It’s a complete dump.”

She rears back. Whatever playfulness was in her eyes dies, replaced by a burning gaze and one end goal.

Shit.

Her nostrils flare. “You might see this place as a dump, but I see it as a home—my home—and there is no way I’m giving it up without a fight. So, you better lawyer up and take me to court, asshole.” She storms out of the kitchen, leaving me to stew in how our conversation went wrong.

Fuck.

I place one of my grandfather’s Victorian era revolvers in a box marked for the Smithsonian. It’s the third weapon I’ve found in the godforsaken attic. The longer I spend in here, the more I question who my grandfather really was.

Maybe Lana was right when she said I didn’t know my grandfather as well as I thought I did.

I keep to his side of the attic and avoid the corner that houses all my old belongings and hockey memorabilia since I told Lana I wouldn’t get drunk up here again. Besides taking a few breaks at the guesthouse so I can have a few sips of vodka without breaking my word, I keep true to my promise about not drinking in the house.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, so I pull it out and take a seat on one of my grandfather’s trunks. I texted Iris an hour ago, only for her not to answer until now. She is slowly getting busier, which only makes it harder for us to talk as often as we used to before she got married.

Iris

Hey. How’s it going?

I hit a minor snag.

Iris surpasses texting and calls me instead.

“What’s going on?” she asks. A car horn honks in the background, making her dog, Ollie, bark.

“Lana threatened to lawyer up, so either I agree to sell the house for three million or I’m screwed.”

Silence.

“Are you there?” I check my phone for a dropped call.

She coughs. “Yeah, just trying to wrap my head around that one based on the photos you sent me of the place. The view might be nice, but it’s not that nice.”

“The bones are decent.”

“That’s exactly what Declan said about our new house right before he took a wrecking ball to the place.”

“Only because he was impatient and didn’t feel like dealing with old construction issues.”

Iris shouts at Ollie to stop chasing squirrels before remembering I’m on the line. “Why does Alana want to sell it for that price?”

A small smile breaks through my annoyance. “Because she thinks if she sets the price unreasonably high, then no one will buy it.” I explain the rest of Lana’s plan, including how she wants to remodel the property to justify a high list price.

Iris whistles. “Damn. I respect her efforts.”

“Whose side are you on?”

She chuckles under her breath. “Yours always, although I gotta give it to her. She must really want that house if she is willing to fight you this hard on it.”

“I wish I could just tell her about the stupid will.” I rub my temple.

“Except you can’t, so we need a better plan.”

“Like what?”

She clears her throat. “If she wants to sell it for a higher price, then do it.”

“Are you for real?”

Iris cackles. “Just think about it. What’s the worst that can happen if you remodel the house?”

“Based on watching you and Declan argue for hours over paint swatches and tile samples, a lot.” The two of them have mulled over every single detail, down to what color the grout should be.

“It’s actually kind of fun, although if he had things his way, the entire house would be black.”

I’m not looking for fun. I want easy. Simple. Safe. Because the longer I stick around Lake Wisteria, the more I put myself at risk for remembering all that I left behind.

The life I could have had.

The only woman I ever loved.

The future I threw away because of an addiction.

If I want to get out of this town unscathed, then I need to sell the house sooner rather than later.

Before I make a decision about the house price, I want to be well-informed about the other houses in the area. I spend the next two days researching every single surrounding lakefront property that has sold in the last five years. Out of those seventy homes put on the market, ten were purchased for over three million dollars. The other sixty properties were bought for half the price, which was still more than the quote we received from the appraiser.

Basically, my shot at hitting gold with Lana’s list price will come down to two things: a kick-ass renovation job and enough money to make it happen within three months.

I call the one construction company in all of Lake Wisteria, only to be given the brush-off once I give them my full name. They weren’t even willing to add me to their waitlist, which apparently is five years long.

Did you expect anything less from a town full of people who hate you?

The next town isn’t much better. Although they have a shorter waitlist, the six-month wait time can’t be changed regardless of how much money I am willing to pay.

Frustrated and about ready to pull my hair out, I decide to take a walk to clear my head. I pass the main house on my way to the road. The driveway is empty, so Lana must still be at work.

I keep to the sidewalk during my walk. Each house is acres apart, with their own private driveways leading up to their houses. The houses I used to recognize as a kid are all gone, replaced by mega modern mansions on massive plots of land overlooking the glittering lake.

With each step I take, the truth becomes more obvious. While my grandfather’s estate has stayed the same, a majority of the houses have been bought out and completely rebuilt.

Lana might have been on to something when she mentioned remodeling.

Fifteen minutes into my walk, I come across a construction site that is completely blocked off from the public by a perimeter fence. Pinned to the fence is a large sign promoting Lopez Luxury.

A quick search on Google tells me they’re a rather new company—less than ten years old—and based out of Michigan.

Just what I need.

I dial the number and ask to speak with someone who can help me get a renovation done in three months. This time, when I give my full name, I’m transferred directly to Julian Lopez, the head of the company, no questions asked.

“Mr. Kane.” The low rumble of Mr. Lopez’s voice fills my ear.

“Mr. Lopez.”

“Please call me Julian. So, I hear you need a renovation job done in three months.”

“Can you help me?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Depends on if you’re willing to do the same.”

Of course, there is a catch. “What do you want?”

“To have my company chosen for one Kane Company project.”

“Are you looking to expand your services to the hospitality industry?”

“Something like that.” His deep chuckle lacks any kind of warmth—just like his personality.

Brady’s lawyer said my brothers couldn’t get involved with the house sale, but he never mentioned anything about offering someone a job in the company in exchange for services.

Look at you finding legal loopholes.

I know my brothers will find Mr. Lopez something to do, however small. “If your team can remodel my house in three months, then—”

“Done. My assistant will be in contact with you to schedule a meeting with one of my best contractors.”

The line goes dead without him bothering to say goodbye. Mr. Lopez reminds me of Declan, with his sharp tone and no-bullshit attitude.

Another piece of my plan slides into place, slowly building my confidence. Declan might think I’m good at failing, but I plan on proving him and everyone else who doubted me wrong.