Page 9 of Summer Love

My jaw tightens. He scores a point, and he knows it.

“One offer, and it wasn’t serious,” I say. “What’s the holdup?”

Ryan leans back. His fingers tap the edge of the desk—slow, steady, like a metronome.

“The problem isn’t the house itself. The structure’s old but solid. The view’s gorgeous. The location would be exceptional if…”

“If what?”

“Let’s say the immediate surroundings complicate things.”

“What surroundings?”

“The beach is… very active. Potential buyers are looking for something quieter.”

His words are smooth, measured, almost too polite.

“What do you mean, ‘very active’?”

“The area around your house has a few… characteristics that can put off family or residential buyers.”

I stare at him. He holds my gaze without blinking, a half-smile on his lips, like he expects me to figure it out on my own.

But I don’t get it. Or rather, I get that he won’t tell me more.

“Ryan, I took a flight, rented a car, got a flat, and slept on a mattress from another century. Tell me what’s wrong with my house.”

His smile widens, just barely.

“You should go see for yourself. It’ll tell you more than any explanation.”

He checks his watch in one fluid motion—reflex or performance, impossible to tell.

“I’ve got a meeting in five minutes,” he says, standing. “But listen—walk around the house, spend some time there. We’ll talk after.”

He rounds the desk; I stand too.

“One o’clock, at the Lighthouse Diner?” he says. “We’ll go over the numbers, I’ll show you the comps in the area. In the meantime, go take a look around the neighborhood, all right?”

He adds with a mocking smile:

“We’ll see if the New Yorker can do better than us.”

Suggesting lunch in town instead of a meeting at his office isn’t exactly professional. And Ryan Caldwell knows it.

I hesitate a moment, then accept, because I need those numbers.

“One o’clock. I hope their pancakes are still as good,” I say with a lightness I don’t feel.

A bitter taste rises in my throat. There are memories at the Lighthouse Diner I’d rather leave where they are. But at lunchtime, between the takeout counters and the food trucks, Coral Bay doesn’t offer many places to sit down and talk numbers. I guess I don’t have a choice.

“Perfect,” Ryan says.

He shakes my hand—again, a beat longer than necessary. His gray eyes linger on me, unreadable.

“Good to see you again, Summer.”

He pulls a business card from his inside jacket pocket and holds it out.