Chapter 33
33
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 Quaint but not outdated, bustling but not overcrowded.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.”
That was as close to approval as I was going to get. And I was more than happy to take it.
Alexis clapped her hands together. “Then let’s pop some champagne and make it official!”
I laughed. “I still have to sign the lease.”
“Minor details.” She waved a hand.
My father sighed, but I caught the pride in his eyes before he turned away. “Well, sweetheart, if you’re sure about this?—”
“I’m sure,” I said. “This is my place. My business.”
For the first time in years, I wasn’t running from something. I was building toward it. I was ready to put down roots in the one place I thought I would never end up at.
Dad looked around the place one more time and nodded. Now, he was seeing the potential. “Then let’s celebrate. Dinner’s on me. Alexis, you’re basically part of the family. You’re welcome to come.”
Alexis winked. “You two enjoy your father-daughter time. I’ve got a hot date with a bottle of wine and my couch.”
The restaurant was one of Dad’s favorites—a cozy Italian place with checkered tablecloths and candles stuck in old Chianti bottles. The smell of garlic and simmering tomatoes wrapped around us as we settled into a corner booth. I inhaled the scent and found I was truly starving.
“So,” Dad said, unfolding his napkin and putting it in his lap. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
I swirled my wine. “I know.”
“It’s a tough business,” he continued. “Brutal, sometimes. And not every season will be kind.”
“I’ve been in the business long enough to know that.”
He leaned back, studying me. “But you’ve got something I didn’t when I started.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Me.” He grinned, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “And this town? They’ll see you for who you are. Hardworking. Independent. Someone who actually gives a damn about the people here.”
My throat tightened unexpectedly. I took a quick sip of wine to cover it.
Dad reached across the table, squeezing my hand. “I’m proud of you, kid.”
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I blinked them away, laughing softly. “You can’t just say things like that when I’m holding a full glass of wine.”
He chuckled, releasing my hand to dig into the bread basket.
“So,” I said, tearing off a piece of bread and dragging it through the marinara sauce on the plate. “What do you think the other realtors in town are going to say when they hear a Watson’s back in the game?”
Dad paused mid-bite of his breadstick, narrowing his eyes like he was already running through the list in his head. “Well,” he said after a moment. “You’ve got old man Thompson, but he’s been coasting for years. He won’t see you coming until it’s too late. He gets by on his name alone. He doesn’t know how to get his clients the best deals.”
I smirked. “Good. Let him coast right into retirement.”
“Then there’s Karen Michaels,” he continued, leaning back in his chair. “She’s sharp, but she’s all about those high-end vacation properties. You won’t be stepping on her toes too much.”
I nodded, making a mental note. Karen was good—too good to underestimate—but Dad was right. Her niche was different from what I had in mind.
“And Greg Hargrove?” I asked, keeping my tone casual even though Greg had always rubbed me the wrong way. He was the kind of guy who thought charm could make up for competence. He’d been my dad’s biggest competition over the years.
Dad snorted. “Greg? He’ll talk a big game, but he’s lazy. Always cutting corners. You’ll outwork him without breaking a sweat.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Confidence boost, Dad. Thanks.”
He gave me a knowing look. “You don’t need my confidence boost, kid. You’re already three steps ahead of anyone else in this town. You’ve got the guts to come back here and start over, and that’s something most people never have the courage to do.” He paused, taking a sip of his wine. “But keep your eyes open. Small towns have long memories, and not everyone’s going to be happy to see you back. Some people might see you as competition or think you’re just here to stir the pot.”
I nodded, absorbing his words. I knew he was right. Larkspur Lake was a tight-knit community, and while that meant I could count on support from some, it also meant I’d have to deal with the whispers and sideways glances from others. But I wasn’t here to prove anything to them. I was here for myself—to build something real, something lasting.
The waiter arrived with our entrees, steaming plates of pasta and garlic bread that made my stomach growl in anticipation. Dad dug into his spaghetti with gusto. I followed suit, savoring the rich flavors. For a while, we ate in companionable silence.
An idea popped into my head. I couldn’t even say where it came from. It was just there. “I’m having dinner at my place on Sunday. I’d like you and Mom to come.”
“We’ll be there.” He tore off a piece of bread, his tone casual. “Anyone else joining us?”
I took another sip, buying myself a second. “Dean.”
Dad’s hands stilled. His expression didn’t change, but I knew him well enough to read the tension in his shoulders. After a beat, he nodded. “Alright.” He reached for the butter knife. “Your mother will pick out a nice bottle of wine to bring.”
Relief washed over me. “Thank you, Daddy. For everything.”
He grunted, but I didn’t miss the way his eyes softened. “Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
He pointed the butter knife at me, his voice gruff. “No business talk at dinner. I don’t care how excited you are about floor plans.”
I held up my hands in surrender. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“Details.”