Page 129 of Billionaire Bad Boy Auction

PORTIA

The late summer sun hung heavy over the lake. It was one of those perfect evenings with the sky starting to transform into what I liked to think of as an orange sherbet look. Orange and pink with faint, wispy clouds. I stepped back from the freshly repaired porch railing, wiping my hands on my shorts, and admired our work.

The last two weeks had been a labor of love. We had been spending our evenings at the house, painting and doing little things to make it just a little better. I didn’t mind doing the work. It was fun and it was something Dean and I could do together.

Dean appeared beside me, his bare shoulders glistening with sweat, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He handed me a cold soda.

“Not bad,” I teased, bumping my shoulder against his.

He turned that smirk on me, his blue eyes darkening in a way that still sent heat curling low in my stomach. “I’d say the same about you, but you haven’t done a damn thing except stand there looking pretty.”

I gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to my chest. “Excuse me? I brought drinks.”

Dean gestured to the untouched glasses. “You opened the fridge and poured liquid into a cup. Should I be impressed?”

Laughter bubbled up as I shook my head. This was us now—easy banter, shared projects, quiet moments that meant more than any grand gesture. We were building something meaningful. We were building a life together.

I leaned back against the porch railing, the freshly painted wood still warm from the sun. Dean stood beside me, his arms crossed as he surveyed the house with that critical eye of his. The place looked good—better than good. We’d put in the hours, sanding, painting, fixing little things that had been neglected for years. It felt like we’d breathed new life into it.

“She’s going to love it,” I said, breaking the comfortable silence.

Dean grunted in agreement. “Does this mean you’re going to get a fat commission when this place sells?”

I grinned. “You know it.”

I smiled, taking a sip of my soda. “You’ve gone above and beyond on this. I definitely got my money’s worth out of you.”

He chuckled. “The sex was a bonus.”

“For me or you?” I teased.

“Definitely for you,” he joked. “I’m the one always doing the work.”

“Hey!” I protested.

We fell quiet, appreciating the sunset and the sound of the crickets.

“Have you thought about it?” he asked.

I turned to look at him. His eyes were on me, watching me, looking for a hint about my answer.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest. “I’ve thought about it.”

He didn’t say anything, just waited, giving me the space to continue. That was Dean—always patient in his own gruff way. He had learned to let me express myself at my own speed.

“I put my place on the market this morning,” I admitted, watching his face for any reaction. “As a rental property. I figured if you’re serious about this, about us, then why wait?”

For a moment, he just stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then a slow smile spread across his face—the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and softened the hard edges of his grumpy exterior. It was rare, that smile, and it always felt like a small victory when I managed to coax it out of him. It never failed to send goosebumps over my body and turn my legs into jelly.

“Good,” he said simply, reaching out to curl a hand around my waist and pull me closer. His touch grounded me. I leaned into him without hesitation, not caring that we were both sweaty and probably a little stinky. “But you know you didn’t have to make it a rental. You could’ve sold it.”

I shrugged, resting my head against his shoulder. “I know.”

“Portia, are you still keeping one foot out the door?”

“No, but I did just buy it and I’d like to build up some equity. And this thing with me and you…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.