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His smile grows larger when Ignacio grunts from the porch like an untrained animal issuing a warning shot before he attacks. The sound of ownership, even the hint of I don’t want her but you can’t have her either makes my hackles go up further, which is saying something because I climbed out of my car livid with that man.
I turn my head, narrowing my eyes at my ex to find his gaze locked on the man in front of me. I’d be a fool to think if I piss him off enough by flirting with Mr. Morgan that he’ll refuse to work with him. There’s always another realtor that’s willing to step in, especially with the rumor of a better up-and-coming neighborhood on the horizon.
“Did you have any questions about your property, Ms. Holland?” The question comes loud enough for the neighbors to hear, and of course there’s a flirtatiousness to his tone, one that suggests he’s here to help. “We could go for a coffee and discuss anything you’d like.”
Another growl from Ignacio, another step back for me.
It’s not unheard of around here for women to use their bodies to get what they want, but that’s just not me. I want to save my house from getting torn down because of the memories that live there, but sexual favors in return would have both of my parents rolling over in their graves.
“Or dinner, if you think we’d need a more intimate setting?”
“Are you fucking done?” Ignacio snaps from the front porch.
Mr. Morgan smiles, his eyes alight with mischief, and the man doesn’t even bother to look over at the unhappy guy speaking to him.
“Fuck. Off,” Ignacio hisses.
“Here’s my card in case you have any questions.” Mr. Morgan slips it into my hand as I continue to glare at Ignacio. “Any questions at all. My personal cell number is on there, just in case something pops up after hours.”
I look down at the card in my hand before looking back up at him. “I don’t—”
“Day or night, Ms. Holland. I’m always available for you.” With a wink, he walks away and climbs into his car.
Ignacio glares at his car, a different one from the one he was driving when he visited my house, until it turns down the street and disappears.
“You were rude to that man,” I hiss.
“He was hitting on you.”
“And? You don’t fucking own me, Ig. This possessive alpha man bullshit has no place in any interaction we have.”
His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t argue the point. “What are you doing here, Tinley? You’ve made it perfectly fucking clear where you stand.”
“I want you to explain this.” I pull the envelope out of my purse and hold it up. He keeps his eyes on mine, not even bothering to look at the thing.
“I wanted you to have a choice.” His words are slow, coming out with so much gravel it’s almost like he’s chewed and swallowed glass.
“A choice? What? Between full-time and part-time?”
His head tilts, brows drawing closer together. “What? Did you even open the fucking envelope?”
A door across the street closes, drawing my attention. An old man waves from his front porch, coffee cup in hand as he takes a seat in an old rocking chair. He holds the thing up in salute as if giving us permission to continue in the front yard with the drama. We’re a damn spectacle, and I hate that my world is being rocked with a damn audience.
“Do you want to come inside?”
Not particularly, but I don’t want all of this to unfold for the entire street to bear witness to either.
Without a word, I climb the steps and follow him inside.
The entire thing is gutted down to the studs. As I follow him deeper, I realize an entire wall is missing, opening up the room so the living area can be seen from the kitchen. There are no cabinets, no countertops, no sink.
“You’ve been busy,” I mutter.
“I’ve had time on my hands,” he says, making it clear he’s done the demolition himself. “I’ve been staying at that other rental property.”
The one with three bedrooms. The one with enough space for a teenager, game room included. The one that would impress a judge.
“What’s in the envelope,” I demand.
“Open the fucking thing, Tin.”
“I—I—” I stare down at the thing in my hands, and I just can’t bring myself to do it.
“For fuck’s sake,” he says, grabbing the thing from me and ripping it open. “You’ve had this damn thing how long? You haven’t even opened it? Who does that? Do you know what’s been riding on this, how long I’ve been agonizing over what’s in here, thinking you opened it and made your choice? Jesus, Tin. Look.”
I search his eyes before looking at his hands, but I don’t find an explanation there either.
