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“No, I could never… no. I don’t need your money, I need a job.”
“Have you thought about selling your parents’ house?”
Her parents’ house?
“What do you mean?” Her eyes widened. “My parents didn’t leave it to some obscure religious cult?”
He stared down at her and she felt her body temperature rise a couple degrees.
“Birdie, you own the house. It’s in your name.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “Shelby and Harvey Wellborn left their house to me?”
“Not exactly, the estate was in probate for some time. Maisie was named as the benefactor in the event of their death, but since she was never located, ownership transferred to you. How did you not know?”
Because Marshall handled that.
Shaking her head, trying to remember if her husband had ever mentioned this, she said, “I don’t remember. My parents weren’t a topic of discussion. I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with them. But we went over our assets on a yearly basis with our attorney.” Who was corrupt, but still. “He never once mentioned me owning a home in Wayward, Georgia.”
“The house is on prime property. Like Folsom’s station, close to town and the water. You might get a nice influx of cash if you were to sell. At the very least, selling it could give you time to make other decisions.”
“Like what?”
Her heart did a back-flip as she witnessed a version of Lucas Santos, one she had never been formally introduced to.
Sheepish Lucas.
Sheepish Lucas cast a small hint of vulnerability to his persona. And it was heady. Intoxicating.
His hands found her waist and stared at, it seemed, the necklace she wore. As if unable to look her directly in the eyes. “I don’t know. Whether you might want to stay? You don’t have to do this alone.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I do. Mia is my daughter. I’m responsible for her. Promises were made and I intend to keep them.”
“Promises? You mean to Marshall?”
She breathed in, her heart skipping a beat. “Yes,” she lied. “To Marshall.”
His hand reached behind her neck and pulled her closer. “I can help. She’s my responsibility too.”
“I know that and I appreciate you saying that. I really do.”
“Look at us,” he said, his thumb stroking the side of her face. “Co-parenting like a couple of parental pros.”
Then, it happened.
Lucas Santos’s dimples came out to play. One corner inching up into a smirky grin. His white teeth blinding against his beautiful olive skin. Thick, black hair that was oh so soft and finger-marauding worthy falling on his brow.
It was hard for her to concentrate. Keep track of the conversation.
So much so, she forgot her recent vow that she wouldn’t allow this to happen again. Ever.
So much for vows.
She leaned into his ear, just like he did in the garage turned sauna and said, “Out of curiosity, do you have any fantasies pertaining to your office?”
* * *
Jesus.
