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He leans back and tucks his hands behind his dark head of hair. “I think we no longer need to worry about Mr. Vittori.”
My fingers stop tapping. “How so?”
“He withdrew all his offers on the available houses in the area.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. According to city hall, he hasn’t purchased any properties or lots, so maybe he moved on to another town. It’s not like you gave him much of a choice.” His dark brown eyes light up.
“I don’t like it.”Or him.
I’ve been wary of Lorenzo Vittori since he randomly returned to Lake Wisteria twenty-three years after his parents died, and it isn’t because of him bidding against me on lakefront properties or the gossip spreading around town about him wanting to run for mayor.
The town might have welcomed him back, but I don’t trust him or his fake acts of altruism. It doesn’t matter how many times he attends Sunday Mass or how many hours he spends volunteering at the animal shelter. For all I know, he is funneling his uncle’s dirty money through different businessesand charities, all under the guise of being a good Samaritan who wants to make a difference.
He might have spent the first ten years of his life here, but a lot has happened in the years since then.
My twenty-five-year-old assistant, Sam, waltzes into the conference room armed with his headset, tablet, and a bright smile that reaches his brown eyes. “The architect team is waiting in conference room B to review the plans for the townhouses. I also set up the design team in room C, so once you’re done there, head on in so they can present their ideas for the cul-de-sac.”
“Great.”
He readjusts his headpiece over his dark blond hair. “Oh, and then, when you have some free time, call Lake Aurora’s mayor. He had a few questions about the town’s infrastructure and wanted to run an idea by you.”
“Thanks.” I rub my eyes. Despite getting eight hours of sleep last night, I still feel tired.
When the Dwelling shares were listed on the New York Stock Exchange and our company went public a few years ago, I was invigorated by my newfound billionaire status and the prospect of turning my father’s struggling construction company into Lopez Luxury. But now that I’ve accomplished everything my father dreamed of and more, I’m uninspired, exhausted, and growing resentful of every project I take on.
I’ve considered different options to reignite my passion, such as taking on an individual project again or changing up my team of designers, but I never seem to follow through. Part of me is afraid that I’ll never return to the office once Iremember what it feels like to invest my blood, sweat, and tears into a project.
Last night proved that. Dahlia wasn’t the only one who had a spark in her eye at the prospect of fixing up the Founder’s house.
I did too.
After a long day full of meetings, I’m relieved to return to my isolated mansion on the northern shore of the lake, located far away from the restaurants, parks, and couples who remind me of what I want but don’t have.
I’ve had three other houses in the last four years which were in the southern part of town. While the sand dunes and beachfront were far nicer than the smaller, rockier northern shore, I couldn’t stand being surrounded by tourists, couples, and families.
I dump my keys and wallet in the glass dish beside the front door before taking a hard left toward the chef’s kitchen with windows facing the Historic District, although I’m quickly distracted from the panoramic views by my growling stomach.
Neat rows of premade meals line the middle shelf of my refrigerator, courtesy of my housekeeper. I microwave the first one within reach and take a seat at the kitchen island before connecting my phone to the speaker system.
Even with the music blasting around the house, the scraping of my utensils against the plate sounds worse thanfiring up a concrete saw at midnight.
I don’t enjoy silence as much as people think I do. In fact, I’ve grown to hate it over the years because it reminds me of what I lack.
A home rather than a house.
A wife to love, cherish, and support.
A reason to wake up every morning that isn’t my job or the people who rely on me for a steady paycheck.
Money might buy me a lot of things, but it can’t cure the gaping hole in my chest that only deepens with every passing year. What used to fulfill me barely scratches the incessant itch anymore. Overworking myself. Casual dates that never lead to anything more. Spending all my free time with family while ignoring the wish to start my own.
None of it has the same appeal, and I’m getting worried.
Mejor solo que mal acompañado, my dad said in that deep, rumbling voice of his after I caught my group of friends making fun of me behind my back.
Pain slices through my chest. When I was younger, I would roll my eyes and ask what website my dad stole his latest quote from, but now I have an appreciation for how he had the right saying for every situation.
