Page 83 of Billionaire Bad Boy Auction

PORTIA

I hit send on the text to Dean and slipped my phone into my back pocket, pausing to take in the storefront in front of me. The bakery next door covered the block in the scent of sugar and yeast. I made a mental note to buy a croissant on my way out—for research purposes, obviously. It made the area feel safe and comfortable. Nostalgic. That was exactly what my business model was going to focus on. History and nostalgia.

This stretch of Main Street was perfect. Quaint but not outdated, bustling but not overcrowded. There was plenty of foot traffic, and anyone driving through town on Main Street would see the office. It was two doors down from Alexis’s shop, sandwiched between the legendary Sweet Haven Bakery and a pair of thriving salons. The bakery had been in business for decades, passed down through two generations of daughters already. They sold the best cakes in town. I didn’t know if that was a great thing. I worried about my restraint being so close to them. The smell alone was making me ravenous. I was going to have to demand they refuse to sell to me.

The empty storefront stared back at me like a blank canvas. I could already see my name on the sign. Watson Brokerage.

The thought sent a thrill through me.

“Are you going to stand there daydreaming all afternoon, or are we going inside?” Dad asked with a laugh.

I pulled open the door and stepped inside with Alexis and my father right behind me. I had butterflies of excitement in my belly. The inside was all exposed brick and hardwood floors, sunlight streaming through the front windows. My fingers trailed along the wall as I walked, the rough texture grounding me. This was real. This was happening.

“Look at this place,” I murmured, spinning in a slow circle. I could already picture it—a sleek reception desk here, a cozy seating area there, maybe a fiddle-leaf fig in the corner to add some life. The walls would be covered in pictures of homes I sold and was hoping to sell. I would definitely have to add a section about the history of the area. And maybe a community board where locals could post their yard sales and other events.

My father, ever the pragmatist, stomped on a floorboard near the back. It creaked ominously.

“That’ll need to be fixed,” he announced, as if I hadn’t heard it.

“Noted,” I said, fighting a smile.

He grunted and moved on to the bathroom, flicking the light switch like he expected it to explode. “Leaky pipe under the sink,” he called.

Alexis leaned toward me, whispering, “I think he’s enjoying this a little too much.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I whispered back.

Dad emerged, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Peeling paint near the ceiling. And the front door sticks.”

I crossed my arms. “Anything else, Inspector Watson?”

He ignored my teasing, scanning the space with that same appraising look he’d given every property he’d ever sold. “It’s got good bones,” he admitted finally. “Needs work, but nothing you can’t handle.”

He moved to the windows, running a hand along the sill before crouching down to inspect the baseboards. “Some water damage here,” he muttered, tapping the wood with his knuckle. “Could be an issue if it’s not sealed properly. You’ll get termites if you’re not careful.”

I nodded, jotting it down in my notebook. “Got it. Seal the wood. No termites.”

He straightened and crossed the room to the electrical panel, flipping it open with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times before. “Breakers are old,” he announced, squinting at the labels. “You’ll want to upgrade these before you start plugging in computers and fancy office equipment.”

“Fancy office equipment?” I echoed, grinning. “Dad, I’m not opening a tech startup. It’s a real estate office.”

“Still,” he said, closing the panel with a decisive click. “You don’t want to fry your printer or that espresso machine you’re probably already dreaming about.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help laughing. “Fine. New breakers. Anything else?”

He stepped back, hands on his hips, and surveyed the space one last time. The sunlight streaming through the windows caught the dust motes in the air. For a moment, I thought he might actually say there was just too much work to be done.

Instead, he pointed at the ceiling fan. “That thing looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since Nixon was president.”

Alexis snorted, and I shook my head, chuckling despite myself. I was glad he was here to point out all the stuff that I would definitely be bringing to the table to get a price reduction on the property. The landlord was going to cry when I presented the list. I saw potential, which was clouding my vision a little. My dad was pragmatic. And given his decades of experience selling properties just like this, he knew what to look for.

“Okay, so we know all the things wrong with it,” I said. “But now do you see the potential?”

He gave me that look—the one that said he wasn’t convinced but wasn’t going to crush my dreams either. “Potential, sure. But potential doesn’t pay the bills. You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you, kid.”

“I know,” I said, trying to keep the defensiveness out of my voice. “But I’m ready for it. This is what I want.”

He grunted, but there was a flicker of pride in his eyes. “Alright then. Let’s talk numbers.”