Page 18 of Summer Love

He holds my gaze. “I could take the house off your hands fast. No showings, no complications. No hostile neighbors.”

The word is deliberate. Hostile.

“Wait. You’re my real estate agent and you want to buy the house?”

“I understand how that might look...”

“Like a conflict of interest?”

Ryan doesn’t blink. He leans forward, elbows on the table.

“I’m laying out all your options, Summer. The hundred-thousand offer, the four-hundred-thousand one that fell through, and mine. I’m not forcing you into anything. But I know this market better than anyone, and I know that if the house sits unsold too long, it’ll lose even more value. Every month that passes works against you.”

He’s trying to help me. Or he’s trying to play me. I can’t tell anymore.

“And why has there never been a ‘For Sale’ sign out front?” I ask.

Ryan taps the folder with his fingertips.

“Bad strategy. Trust me, it would’ve drawn more gawkers than buyers. With this kind of property, we keep it targeted.”

He leans back against the booth.

“Jace has never been very reasonable when it comes to that beach,” he says.

I take it without letting anything show. At least, I hope I do. He talks about Jace like someone he knows well—not a neighbor, not a file, but a guy he sized up a long time ago.

“Coral Bay’s small,” he adds. “People don’t forget certain stories.”

He doesn’t say which ones. It hurts. More than it should, after six years. I take a sip of water to give myself something to do.

“Anyway,” he says, wiping his mouth, “it’s good to see you again. Coral Bay’s more interesting when you’re around.”

I let it pass. My burger’s barely touched; I push the plate toward the edge of the table.

“How long are you staying?”

“Two weeks. Less, if I can.”

“Take your time. Coral Bay doesn’t open up to people in a hurry.”

He folds his napkin carefully.

“We could talk all this through over a drink,” he adds. “Tomorrow, seven o’clock, at the Salt Vine?”

My instinct says no. But Jace made a hundred-thousand-dollar offer on my grandparents’ house, a couple backed out because of his surf school, and I’m sitting in the diner where everything fell apart six years ago, unable to separate what’s true from what isn’t.

“Okay.”

A satisfied smile touches Ryan’s lips. He signals the waitress for the check and lays a bill on the table before I can react.

“It’s on me. Welcome to Coral Bay.”

Or not.

Outside, Main Street hums under the afternoon sun. I walk toward the lodge, to the sharp rhythm of my sandals on the sidewalk.

Less than twenty-four hours here. And already, nothing’s in my control.