Page 100 of Billionaire Bad Boy Auction

“It’s a toolbox.” I chuckled. “I’m glad it showed up. I brought a few tools, but I’m glad we’ll have everything we need.”

She walked over to where there were a few pictures leaning against the wall. “Those are nice,” I said.

“I want them right there.” She pointed to an empty space on the wall.

I pulled out the new hammer and opened the hanging hooks I had sent. The picture frame wobbled in my grip as I held it against the wall, waiting for Portia’s verdict. She stood a few feet back, head tilted, lips pursed in that way that meant she was either deep in thought or giving me hell.

“A little to the left,” she said finally.

I shifted it half an inch. “Better?”

She hummed, tapping her chin. “Maybe just a hair higher.”

I raised it a fraction.

“Actually—”

“Portia.” I shot her a look over my shoulder.

She broke into a grin, the one that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “It’s perfect.”

“I fucking knew it,” I muttered and hung it in the right spot.

I stepped back and nodded. The office was coming together. The new pictures matched the framed photos of historic homes. She’d taken a pretty bland space and transformed it into an actual business. Her vision was impressive. It was one of the many things I adored about her.

The office was great, but the real transformation was Portia herself.

In two weeks, she’d gone from a nervous new business owner to a force of nature. Clients called daily. Oddly enough, many of the clients learned about her through Lila’s article. Lila did her a favor, which made me smile. The town was paying attention. And whether she knew it or not, she was making a name for herself fast.

Yesterday, she’d come over buzzing with news—forty units in a new lakeside building, all hers to sell. Forty clients. Forty commissions. Forty families who’d remember her name. She was on fire and I felt like I was watching a phoenix rising.

And it turns me on. I can’t even explain it. Watching her grow stronger gets me going. I watched as she picked up another frame from the desk, brushing invisible dust from the glass. She was in her element.

“Where do you want that one?” I asked.

She glanced up, her eyes narrowing playfully. “Somewhere you can’t mess it up,” she teased, handing it to me. “This one’s special. It’s a picture of the lake my dad took years ago. I want it right there—next to the window.”

I took the frame, careful not to smudge the glass. “Your dad’s got talent,” I said, walking over to the spot she’d indicated.

“He takes—rather took—a lot of the pictures for his listings,” she said. “He was going to retire and do more photography on the side. I feel guilty bringing him back in.”

“I have yet to see your dad here once,” I said. “I don’t think you’re pulling him from anything. He’s there if you need him but we both know this is your thing.”

She smiled. “I like to think so.”

Her phone buzzed on the desk. She glanced at the screen and frowned. “That’s weird.”

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Who is it?”

She answered, professional and polished. “Portia Watson.”

I saw the change instantly—the straightening of her spine, the subtle shift in her stance. Whoever was on the line had her full attention. I had seen her field many calls and none of them had her standing at attention.

“Oh! Yes, I’ve heard of your firm.”

My stomach dropped. Brokerages didn’t call others to shoot the shit. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt something was coming. Something I wasn’t going to like.

Portia turned slightly away, listening intently. “San Francisco?” She sounded breathless.