Chapter 38
38
DEAN
“K eep an eye on the torque specs for the new build,” I said, tossing a wrench onto the workbench. “And double-check the alignment before you bolt that front end down. I don’t want it coming back because it’s wobbling at highway speeds.”
Jake nodded, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. “Got it, boss. Anything else?”
I glanced at the clock. “Yeah, I’m heading out for the rest of the day. If anyone calls, tell them I’ll be back in tomorrow morning.”
“Everything okay?” he asked. Jake knew better than most that I didn’t take time off unless it was serious.
“Everything’s fine,” I said, shrugging into my jacket. “Just something I need to take care of.”
He didn’t press. “Alright. We’ll hold down the fort.”
“Good.” I grabbed my keys off the hook by the door and paused. “Oh, and if Seth’s buddy shows up?—”
Jake groaned. “We kick them out.”
“Yep. I don’t want them hanging out.”
“Got it.”
I was making changes. I didn’t want them around. My shop wasn’t a flop house. They weren’t going to bring their bullshit around anymore. I had let things go for too long. I let Seth and his cronies crash on the couch and stay out of the heat all day. I should have kicked them out a long time ago.
But that was in the past. When Seth got out, things were going to be different.
I pulled on my helmet and climbed on my bike. I had the tools I might need in my saddlebags. But those were backups. If the delivery tracker was right, my little surprise should have been delivered to Portia’s office by now.
I rode into town and maneuvered the bike into a spot near her office. I carried my helmet inside. Portia was sitting behind her desk, her phone pressed to ear as she scribbled on a notebook.
She looked up as I walked in, her eyes lighting up with that smile of hers—the one that always hit me right in the chest. She held up a finger, mouthing one second before turning back to her call. I stood and just watched her.
Not creepy at all.
Her office was different now—more her . The walls were painted a soft sage green. She’d hung these big-ass framed photos of Larkspur Lake that made the room feel like it belonged in some fancy magazine. Her desk was cluttered but organized, pens and notebooks scattered in a way that somehow looked intentional. There were plants—real ones—sitting on the windowsill. She’d even added one of those cozy throw rugs that made the place feel less like an office and more like a living room. There were a couple of chairs and a couch. People could just sit back and chill and talk about the home they wanted to buy or sell.
The little kids area was in the corner with toys, coloring books, and plenty of books for the kids to read. It was good. It was a lot different from the realty office I used to buy my property. But that was Portia. She knew how to come to people where they were.
I didn’t realize I was staring until she hung up the phone and raised an eyebrow at me. “Sorry,” she said.
“I was just admiring the new additions,” I said. “It looks really good.”
She glanced around, a hint of pride in her expression. “Thanks. It’s coming together. Still needs a few finishing touches, but I like it.”
“You should,” I said. “It looks good. Professional. Inviting.”
“I got a delivery earlier,” she said with a grin. “Care to explain?”
I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Just figured you might need a toolbox. Everyone should have one.”
She stood and walked over to the sleek black toolbox sitting by the door. “A toolbox? Dean, this isn’t just any toolbox—this is a lot.”
“It’s fully stocked—wrenches, screwdrivers, pliers, everything you’ll need for basic repairs around the house or the office. Even a power drill in there.”
“This is way too much. I mean, I appreciate it, but I don’t even know how to use half of this stuff.”
“Then I’ll teach you,” I said simply. “But as long as I’m around, I’ll be more than happy to handle these things for you.”
She walked over and kissed me. “Thank you. It was thoughtful.”
“It’s a toolbox.” I chuckled. “I’m glad it showed up. I brought a few tools, but I’m glad we’ll have everything we need.”
She walked over to where there were a few pictures leaning against the wall. “Those are nice,” I said.
“I want them right there.” She pointed to an empty space on the wall.
I pulled out the new hammer and opened the hanging hooks I had sent. The picture frame wobbled in my grip as I held it against the wall, waiting for Portia’s verdict. She stood a few feet back, head tilted, lips pursed in that way that meant she was either deep in thought or giving me hell.
“A little to the left,” she said finally.
I shifted it half an inch. “Better?”
She hummed, tapping her chin. “Maybe just a hair higher.”
I raised it a fraction.
“Actually—”
“Portia.” I shot her a look over my shoulder.
She broke into a grin, the one that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “It’s perfect.”
“I fucking knew it,” I muttered and hung it in the right spot.
I stepped back and nodded. The office was coming together. The new pictures matched the framed photos of historic homes. She’d taken a pretty bland space and transformed it into an actual business. Her vision was impressive. It was one of the many things I adored about her.
The office was great, but the real transformation was Portia herself.
In two weeks, she’d gone from a nervous new business owner to a force of nature. Clients called daily. Oddly enough, many of the clients learned about her through Lila’s article. Lila did her a favor, which made me smile. The town was paying attention. And whether she knew it or not, she was making a name for herself fast.
Yesterday, she’d come over buzzing with news—forty units in a new lakeside building, all hers to sell. Forty clients. Forty commissions. Forty families who’d remember her name. She was on fire and I felt like I was watching a phoenix rising.
And it turns me on. I can’t even explain it. Watching her grow stronger gets me going. I watched as she picked up another frame from the desk, brushing invisible dust from the glass. She was in her element.
“Where do you want that one?” I asked.
She glanced up, her eyes narrowing playfully. “Somewhere you can’t mess it up,” she teased, handing it to me. “This one’s special. It’s a picture of the lake my dad took years ago. I want it right there—next to the window.”
I took the frame, careful not to smudge the glass. “Your dad’s got talent,” I said, walking over to the spot she’d indicated.
“He takes—rather took—a lot of the pictures for his listings,” she said. “He was going to retire and do more photography on the side. I feel guilty bringing him back in.”
“I have yet to see your dad here once,” I said. “I don’t think you’re pulling him from anything. He’s there if you need him but we both know this is your thing.”
She smiled. “I like to think so.”
Her phone buzzed on the desk. She glanced at the screen and frowned. “That’s weird.”
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Who is it?”
She answered, professional and polished. “Portia Watson.”
I saw the change instantly—the straightening of her spine, the subtle shift in her stance. Whoever was on the line had her full attention. I had seen her field many calls and none of them had her standing at attention.
“Oh! Yes, I’ve heard of your firm.”
My stomach dropped. Brokerages didn’t call others to shoot the shit. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt something was coming. Something I wasn’t going to like.
Portia turned slightly away, listening intently. “San Francisco?” She sounded breathless.
I put down the hammer and waited for the other shoe to drop. I knew it was coming.
She was quiet for a long moment before responding. “I’d be interested in hearing more. Can you send over the details?” A pause, then a light laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yes. I appreciate the call.”
When she hung up, she kept staring at the phone like it might bite her.
I already knew. But I asked anyway. “Who was that?”
She looked up, and there it was—that spark I had seen when she told me she was going to open the brokerage. Ambition. Excitement. Hunger.
“That was a brokerage in San Francisco,” she said slowly. “They’re interested in me.”
I kept my face neutral, my voice steady. “That so?”
“Yeah.”
The word hung between us, heavy with unspoken implications.
In the silence, a terrible truth settled in my gut like a stone.
Portia didn’t belong here. Not really. This town was my home—the lake, the shop, the life I’d built. But her? She was wildfire contained in a mason jar, and San Francisco was offering her the open sky. She was meant to do big things. She couldn’t do that here.
And if I wasn’t careful, I’d be the one holding the lid.
I forced a smile. “Sounds like a hell of an opportunity.”
Her eyes searched mine. “It is. Huge. When I got fired in New York, I had sent them my resume.”
I nodded, the weight of her words pressing down on me like a physical thing. “Right. That makes sense.” My voice sounded distant, even to me. I grabbed the hammer from where I’d set it on the desk and shoved it back into the toolbox.
“I’ve got to go,” I said abruptly. I didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. If I did, she’d see it—the gut-punch realization that she was already slipping through my fingers before I’d even figured out how to hold on to her.
“Oh. Okay. Is everything okay?”
“Yep,” I lied, snapping the toolbox shut with more force than necessary. “Just remembered something I need to take care of at the shop.” I walked over and gave her a kiss. “I’ll catch you later.”
“Dean—” Her voice stopped me just as my hand hit the doorknob.
I paused but didn’t turn around. My chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a chain around it and was pulling tighter and tighter. I had to get away from her before I begged her to stay. There was no way I was going to do that to her or to myself.