Chapter Three
LISETTE
“I’m just asking you to meet with him, Lisette. Why do you have to be so difficult? This is why Mom should have left her estate to me. Honestly, I have no idea what she was thinking,” my mother rails.
Maybe she wanted someone who cared about what happened to her belongings?
I don’t say that out loud. Arguing with my mother never goes anywhere.
Her feelings get hurt, and she either pouts or gets even.
“Fine, Mom. I will meet with him. But I’m not sure I want to sell the Victorian. ” Grandmama loved that house. So do I.
I hurry toward my car, eager to get off the sidewalk. After the café, it feels like everyone is still staring. Plus, it’s cold out. Colder than I thought it was going to be today.
“You know as well as I do that the house would need extensive repairs to be livable…”
Only if you wanted to live in a brand-new mansion like she and my stepdad. Grandmama Florine’s house is cozy. Modern enough for someone who appreciates the past. Definitely livable. It seems like she kept up with the maintenance, but what do I know about living in a hundred-year-old house?
“Listen, honey,” Mom continues, “I didn’t contest the will because I wanted to respect Mom’s decisions. But it doesn’t mean I can’t advise you in places you clearly need it.”
Grandmama’s will left her five thousand dollars. The rest of the estate—her money, her house, even her car—came to me. However, the will had a clause. If Mom tried to contest it, she wouldn’t receive a dime.
I think she had been counting on the estate passing to her, but I don’t know why. It feels like my stepdad’s influence. Ever since Mom married Richard, everything has become about money. Investments. Property. Appearances. Sometimes I wonder where her opinions end and his begin.
I’m only half-listening by the time I reach my car. I spot something on the windshield and realize there’s a business card under my wiper blade. That’s strange. None of the other cars parked nearby have one.
“Mom, I’ll have to call you back later.” We hang up, and I reach for the card. The back has a picture of the mountains around Hollow Peak. Flipping it over, I see a picture of a man in his early thirties with a way-too-white smile.
Philip Weeks, the realtor my mom wants me to contact.
The card has his number and his slogan: Let Weeks close your house in weeks!
Ugh. That’s terrible.
I look around again but don’t see the man. How did he know this was my car? Did he see me earlier?
Or did Mom tell him what to look for?
I don’t like either possibility.
Climbing behind the wheel, I tuck his business card in with the other papers, drop them on the passenger seat, and start back to the house.
I’ve spent the last week sorting through Grandmama’s important papers and collecting as many family photos and heirlooms as I can. The real work will be deciding what to keep from a woman who lived in the same place for over fifty years.
The house is on two acres with old cedar trees and a beautiful view of the mountains. It’s serene. So different from the hustle of Denver.
I’m lucky that I’m running my own small business and could take some time away to deal with the estate. No one’s in a hurry for old books to be restored.
I turn off Main Street onto a side road that winds around toward the hot springs. Suddenly, there’s a loud flapping sound, and the car swerves with a strange thunk.
I clench the wheel and hit the brakes, edging off to the side of the road into the grass. When I turn off the car, I realize it’s tilting toward the right.
What the heck? Do I have a flat?
I hop out to check, and sure enough, the back right tire is a pancake. And there’s not a soul on the road.
Okay. Okay, I got this. I had to practice in my Driver’s Ed class back in high school. Changing a tire is simple.
Opening the rear hatch, I shove the carpet panel aside to find my spare tire, which is apparently the baby version of a real tire, and the lug wrench.
But no jack.
The slot for it is empty. I do a quick search of the car and realize it’s gone. If it was ever there to begin with. I bought the car used. A working jack wasn’t something I checked for.
With a huff, I close the hatch and go back to the passenger seat to grab my phone and call for a tow truck.
“How can there be no signal?” Half a bar flickers on my phone screen, mocking me.
Shoving it back into my pocket, I lean over the seat and dig through my purse, the glove compartment, even the back of the seat pockets, looking for anything to help with this situation.
There’s nothing.
Someone has to come by eventually, right? Or I could walk back to town. It’s not that far—maybe two miles… in the chilly winter air. I should have ignored the weatherman and brought a coat.
Just as I’m regretting all my life choices, I hear a vehicle approaching.
My heart jumps, hoping it’s Dorian. Maybe he finished with Sol and was coming to the house.
But as I turn, I see a fancy red sports car pulling up behind me, driven by none other than Philip Weeks. Looks like I’m going to talk to him sooner than I planned.
Philip climbs out of his car and flashes a smile at me. I’m temporarily blinded by the sunlight glinting off his teeth.
“Got a flat?” he asks, as if it’s not obvious by the awkward tilt of my car.
I paste on my best smile, glad for whatever help I can get. “Yes, and I seem to be missing the tire jack.”
His forehead scrunches. “I’m not sure this car came with one. When you pay almost a hundred grand for a car, I think they expect you to call for assistance.” He laughs, then offers his hand. “I’m Philip Weeks.”
“Lisette.” His handshake is kind of limp, and I let go quickly, resisting the urge to wipe my palm on my jeans. “I got your business card.”
He grins. “I’d love to talk to you about your grandma’s house. You could get a lot of money for it.”
“I’m still working through the paperwork of her estate.”
He nods. “Let me see if I can help with the tire. At the very least, I can give you a ride home. You’ll love the leather seats.”
Because they’re in a sports car? Or because he has something else in mind?
I shudder and silently pray that he has a jack.
Philip digs through a trunk too small for a suitcase and holds up a tire jack like a trophy. “You’re in luck. Lucky Lisette. It sounds as pretty as you.” He sets the jack on the ground beside my flat tire and removes his coat, handing it to me.
“Hold this while I take care of you.”
“Uh, okay.” Now I’m his butler. Nice.
He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, flexing as he checks to make sure I’m watching.
I am, but not for the reasons he thinks. I’m trying to figure out if this kind of charm really works on women. It must, or he wouldn’t use it, right?
Philip maneuvers the jack under my car, scans the instructions, then slowly raises the side of the vehicle.
He touches the tire. “Looks like you ran over something. Good thing you weren’t hurt.” His eyes move over me slowly enough to make my skin prickle.
I don’t remember hitting anything. Weird. “Thanks for stopping to help.”
“Every princess needs a knight to come to her rescue.” He stands and shifts closer until I’m caged in between him and the back of the SUV.
Why couldn’t it have been Dorian who stopped?
I shuffle back a step. “The tire’s in here.”
He doesn’t even glance at it. “Maybe we could have dinner together. Talk about your grandma’s house. Get to know each other.”
“I don’t—”
Philip gently grips my upper arm, stopping my retreat. “I won’t bite.”