Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” he says. “A couple of things. I need Donovan’s death certificate.”
My lips press flat. I’m not a petty person, and I’m not going to keep it from him, but this is certainly not the way I wanted to kick off a relaxing Friday night.
“I’ll have to dig it out of storage,” I say, “but I’ll get it to you.”
His dark brows arch, as if he was expecting more friction.
“Anything else?” I ask.
He nods, his hands forming an upside-down V in front of his nose. “Yes. I have a proposition for you.”
I lean against the doorway, arms folded. I know better than to make any kind of deal with the devil, but I’m curious.
“Go on,” I say.
“We both want this house,” he says. “And we both have entirely different intentions with it. We also both need a place to stay while we . . . sort out the next chapter of our respective lives and—”
“Hold up.” I lift a palm to silence the man because my thoughts trot one step ahead of him. “If you’re suggesting that you move in with me—”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting,” he says. “Hear me out.”
There’s nothing Lachlan can say to make me warm up to the idea of living with the one man my dead fiancé clearly didn’t want in his life, nor do I have any desire to associate with yet another Byrne.
“I may know a thing or two about fixing stuff,” he says. “If you let me stay here—and to be honest, I can’t believe I’m asking for permission to stay in my own home—if you let me stay here, I’ll help you finish the house.”
“What’s the catch?”
“Let’s give ourselves a timeline,” he says. “Six months. Tops. By the end of the six months, if you can convince me not to donate this place to the fire department, I’ll sell it, you’ll recoup your costs, and we’ll split the profits and go our separate ways.”
“And if I can’t convince you?” I ask.
“This place burns to the ground.” He slides his hands in his pockets, speaking as casually as if he were speculating about tomorrow’s weather forecast.
“Seems like your mind’s already made up.”
He lifts a muscled shoulder. “Of course it is. But I’m giving you a chance to change it.”
“Why?”
He blows a puff of air through his full lips. “Because this probate thing is going to take—minimum—four months, and I don’t want to spend the next one hundred twenty plus days in this Groundhog Day town, sleeping on a lumpy mattress at the Pine Grove Motel, figuring out how I’m going to get through these never-ending weeks.”
“So essentially, you’re bored,” I say. “You need somewhere to stay and things to do to occupy your time.”
“Only boring people get bored.”
I roll my eyes.
“I’m just saying, there’s a way this could work out for both of us,” he adds.
This house has five bedrooms—three of which are usable. Two functional bathrooms plus a powder room off the kitchen. I’ll admit it gets lonely from time to time, and a little bit of company wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world—but I don’t know Lachlan from Adam.
I cinch my arms tighter across my chest. “Tell me the real reason Donovan cut you out of his life, and maybe I’ll consider it.”
“He didn’t cut me out of his life,” Lachlan says. “I cut him out of mine.”
“Then why did he pretend you didn’t exist?”
“The only person who knows why is no longer with us, so . . . unfortunately I can’t answer that.”
Squaring my gaze on his, I say, “I’ll be straight with you. I’m not comfortable living with a stranger.”
A beautiful stranger.
Perhaps a wicked one too.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t just let you move in,” I say, my stare dropping to his tatted forearms before lifting to the ink that snakes down the side of his neck and disappears under his shirt collar.
“It’s not a matter of can or can’t, Anneliese,” he says. “It’s a matter of will or won’t. We both know this is the only chance you have at salvaging the work you’ve done here and getting any of your investment back.”
The image of a local sheriff placing a court-ordered eviction notice on my door plays in my head. He’s not wrong. Then again, I don’t know what would be worse: being evicted from this house and losing everything I’ve worked for . . . or living with Donovan’s estranged brother for the next six months and still losing everything I’ve worked for.
“What are the odds you’d see things my way?” I ask. “Honestly.”
His whiskey-colored gaze skims the ragged framework of the front door. He runs his fingertip along a deep scratch.
“I don’t know if I can give you a number,” he says after a bit of contemplation. “But I can give you my word—I’ll hear you out. That’s the best I can do.”