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Can u stop ignorin me pls?
Shit. Its one in the morn. Im a ducking idiot.
Ducking not ducking
F U C K I N G
Autocorrect is an asshole. I guess we have that in common 2nite.
This isn’t a version of Pierce I’m familiar with, and I can’t decide how I feel about it. Last night I was trying to convince myself that keeping this dating thing casual is for the best, but there’s a tight feeling in my chest over the sexting message. I’d actually like to know what made his day so bad, not just be a porny distraction, and that’s a dangerous thing to want, because it sets me up for inevitable heartache when he leaves the Hamptons. It’s easier when we’re having fun and pushing each other’s buttons. It’s for that reason that I don’t respond right away.
Marley and I make muffins, shower, and get ready to meet with the Paulsons. I put Pierce out of my mind until we’re done with the meeting.
Except that’s easier said than done, because we have to drive past his brother’s beach house on our way to the Paulsons’. Pierce is pushing a lawn mower, wearing heavy work boots and jeans, a white T-shirt pulled tight across his thick chest and bulging biceps.
He looks up, adjusting his ball cap as we pass. Marley’s too busy chattering away, rehearsing her spiel, to notice him.
I watch him grow smaller as we continue on. Less than a minute later, as we’re pulling into the Paulsons’ driveway, my phone buzzes with a message. Then it rings. I’m sure he recognized the car. Pierce and his late-night drunk texting will have to wait.
Our meeting with the Paulsons lasts three hours. We make them a cash offer, which they accept. They have their own legal paperwork drawn up, thankfully by someone reputable since they want to sell privately. By the time we’re done, we’re the proud new owners of a home that needs an epic facelift to bring it from the seventies to the twenty-first century.
Despite it being a private sale, the Paulsons agree to let us put up the SUTTER REALTY SOLD signs on their lawn. Marley smiles all the while as she hammers the post in with the rubber mallet. This is it. This is our opportunity to turn small profit into big financial gains. I’m so happy I could cry.
We walk around the house to the beach side, where we’ll put up the second sign. That’s the thing about beachfront, you want everyone to know from both sides who sold the property.
I glance in the direction of the Mission Mansion. It’s so close. I can almost hear the echo of flip-flops slapping against the marble floor. The smell of cinnamon and espresso coming from the kitchen. On days like this, I miss my grandmother so much, her warm smile, her soft hugs. I wonder if she’d be proud of us for not giving up. I hope so.
“We should grab some lunch. Celebrate,” Marley suggests as she sets the sign down and surveys the yard, deciding where exactly she wants to put it for the best visibility.
“Sure. We could grab something down the beach.”
“We can drive over.” She walks the perimeter of the yard. The yard we now own.
I glance in the direction of the restaurants close to the beach. From here I have a great view of Lawson’s house. Pierce is nowhere to be seen—which makes sense since lawns don’t take hours to cut. I need to return his call. I didn’t think our meeting was going to last quite this long, or I would’ve done it sooner.
I root around in my purse for my phone and find that I have both a text and a voicemail from Pierce.
Did you just drive by?
Obviously I was right about him seeing us. The voicemail is sent less than a minute after the text:
I just reread last night’s texts. Sorry about that. Yesterday was rough. I do like both you and your navel, though, and I would be totally down to sext with you. But only if that’s your thing. If not, that’s cool too. I’m pretty sure I just saw your car blow by. If you’re in the neighborhood, you should drop in for a visit. I can make you cinnamon roll French toast again. Or take you out for lunch. Or eat you for lunch. You know. Options and such.
I bark out a laugh. This is the Pierce I’m used to. I send him a message in response.
Rian: I’m sorry yesterday was so bad. I’m assuming lunch is no longer an option, but maybe you’d be up for an afternoon snack.
CHAPTER 19
BABY BROTHER TANTRUMS
PIERCE
It’s a gorgeous afternoon. The sun is shining. There’s a warm breeze coming off the water. I’d like to say I’m enjoying the awesome weather on this fine afternoon, but I’m not. I’m reading over legal documents. I’ve reread the same page four damn times and nothing is sticking in my head. I’ve taken four extra-strength painkillers and I’m still nursing a hangover. It doesn’t matter if the bourbon is expensive or not, it still makes for one hell of a pounding headache the day after you drink an entire bottle of it.
Yesterday blew.
Today blows even harder, and not just because I’m nursing an epic hangover.
My father called me yesterday morning, demanding that I make the trip to the city to meet with him and the team of lawyers he has working on the botched patent.
My plan had been to talk to him about my future career plans once we were done sorting things out, and how I’m not so sure law was where I wanted to focus my attention anymore. Unfortunately, the meeting didn’t go well.
The blow-up Amalie knockoff dolls are still being sold on several porn shop sites and my dad is pissed. And of course, all of this is my fault. I tried to tell him this wasn’t the McDonald’s of law, and that things don’t happen overnight. He also didn’t appreciate it when I pointed out that we’d had a spike in doll sales post blow-up doll fiasco.
Even with the small blip, sales are still declining overall. Lawson’s efforts in social media outreach and our affiliation with various charities may be slowing it down, but we continue to see a consistent downward turn in the Amalie Doll market. My current fuckup has not helped us recover those losses, only slow the inevitable decline a bit.
After eight hours in his office with zero fucking progress and a ferocious headache, I figured I should make a point of stopping to see my mother. She usually accompanies my dad when he has business in the city.
It had been a couple of weeks since I’d visited, and I don’t like going too long without seeing her. She had a cancer scare a few years back, and it made me aware that she wasn’t going to be around forever, and that I needed to spend time with her while I could—the quality kind.
When I mentioned stopping by their New York condo, my father had adjusted his tie, cleared his throat, and looked anywhere but at me when he told me she wasn’t there. It took another three minutes of prodding before he finally admitted that she was on a trip with a friend.
Which means they’d had a fight. Likely over the sex dolls.
I don’t remember a time when my parents’ relationship wasn’t tumultuous. The two of them have always had a difficult time with balance and confrontation, and clearly this situation has created conflict neither of them can handle.
The first thing I wanted to do when I left the office was call Rian. I don’t know why. We’d only been doing the dating thing for a couple of weeks. It wasn’t like we were at the point where I could dump my personal problems on her, but I kind of wanted to, which unnerved me. Pushing her buttons and getting under her skin would lead to sex, telling her about my garbage heap of a day would lead to the kind of emotional connection I think scared the crap out of her.
