Chapter 26
Penelope
The house is officially mine.
John made it clear during the will reading—no surprises, no unexpected stipulations. Just a stack of paperwork confirming that every square inch of Mom’s home, every aging fixture and questionable design choice, now belongs to me.
I should feel something monumental, but mostly, I just feel pressure.
Pressure to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do with it.
Marie Yates, Blue Mountain’s reigning real estate queen, is already three steps ahead of me on that front. She perches on my mother’s— my— couch, making notes on an iPad and rattling off recommendations with the efficiency of someone who’s seen one too many neglected properties in this town.
“You could rent it,” she suggests, tapping her finger against her screen. “But it needs work. Fresh paint and some updates in the kitchen at the very least. That green bathroom? Yikes.”
I chew my thumbnail. Fair point.
“And selling?” I prompt.
Marie gives me a look that says she’s been waiting for me to ask. “The market’s not bad. This place has charm, history. Fix it up right, and you could get a good price.”
Charm and history —two things that sound a lot nicer in a listing than they feel when you’re living inside them.
Marie swipes at the iPad. “I can connect you with a contractor. There’s plenty to attend to—”
“Starting with your gutters,” Tuck interjects from the doorway.
Marie and I both turn. He’s leaning against the frame, sleeves pushed up, a sheen of perspiration over his brow. And suddenly, my personal handyman fantasies spring to life.
I tilt my head. “You actually checked the gutters?”
“You’re welcome.” He smirks. “Apart from where several birds’ nests have taken residence, they’re completely rusted out. No doubt you have a nice waterfall feature off the back porch during a storm.”
Marie looks between us. “Well, if you do decide to sell, Penelope, let me know. I’ll put together some numbers for you.” She hands me her card, gives Tuck a once-over, then strides out, gripping her trusty iPad.
The door clicks shut, leaving just me and the walking reminder of why I can’t seem to keep my mind focused. He’s so damn distracting…especially with a sweaty brow and leaf fodder in his sandy hair.
“So,” he says, folding his arms, which draws my attention to the pop of his biceps. “What’s the plan, Pen?”
I rub my temple. “Right now? Trying to wrap my head around the fact that I own an entire house and have no idea what to do with it.”
“Well, while you’re contemplating your real estate empire, want me to make a list of what needs fixing?”
I eye him warily. “This isn’t another ploy to make me stay here longer, is it? Because if you saw the flaming disaster my inbox has become, you’d understand I should’ve been back in the city days ago.”
“You know my take on that,” he says lightly. “Let your staff step up. You’re a classic micromanager, Pen. You should own the business, not let it own you.”
I snort. “Easy for you to say. My brand—my name —is on the line with every piece that goes out. There’s no option but to micromanage,” I argue. “So the sooner I figure out this whole house situation, the better. No more distractions, got it?”
Tuck grins, clearly taking that as a challenge.
“ No distractions …” He steps forward, his fingers hooking the strap of my top, sliding it off my shoulder. “So I shouldn’t do this ?” he questions, his fingers trailing lower.
“Hmm.” I tilt my head back, arching into his touch. “Did you say you came to check my drain pipes, Mr …?”
“Ma’am, I sure did.” His lips brush my collarbone. “And I have to say, those drain pipes are in urgent need of attention.”
He kisses my neck, and my body reacts instantly, like we didn’t just spend half the morning tangled in the sheets. It’s like the more we have sex, the more I crave it. I find myself reaching for him constantly, like I need another hit of the electric pulse he sends through me.
And the truth is, between orchestrating his ridiculous scavenger hunts—dragging me into lakes, and making me remember how to have fun—Tuck has made this whole ordeal bearable. More than bearable.
Along with checking gutters, he’s been the one helping me through the endless steps of canceling, transferring, and notifying all the institutions entangled in Mom’s life.
I’ve thrown myself into her affairs so completely, it’s been easy to ignore my own. But with Mia Madson expecting me at Monarch Mansion this afternoon, my grace period is officially running out.
I close my eyes, fingers tangled in Tuck’s hair, plucking away another stray sundried leaf as he presses me against the doorframe.
“Okay, Buster,” I murmur, breathless. “I’ll agree to the services you’re offering. But you’re on the clock.”
I give in once again to the sweet, beautiful, maddening distraction. Losing myself in him, over and over, like I have all the time in the world. Like this isn’t temporary. Like I won’t have to break the habit when things inevitably go back to normal.
He wants to convince me we could do this—that he’d make a good father, that we could actually parent together. And he’s so persuasive sometimes, it gets me thinking that maybe it is possible.
I even catch myself picturing it—Tuck’s sky-blue eyes in a child’s face, the same mischievous sparkle. The idea is dangerously easy to entertain.
Perhaps raising a child could be as simple as taking turns, balancing needs, figuring it out as we go. Maybe it’s not impossible.
But while I can imagine a child with Tuck’s genes, the logistics blur into chaos. What would co-parenting even look like? What legal acrobatics would we need to pull off? The whole thing is a tangle with no clear end.
All I know is that no matter how tempting the escape he offers, reality is always there—lurking, relentless, impossible to outrun. And right now, I have a wedding dress design to pretend I have under control.
After being thoroughly serviced by Mr. Handyman, I stir.
“Tuck…” I trail my fingers lightly across his chest.
“Mmm.” He reaches for me.
“Could you…maybe come with me?” I ask, my voice hopeful.
His eyes open, studying me. “Why?”
“Because I might need your help. A little distraction. A buffer. I need time to rethink Mia’s dress, but the last thing I need is for her to suspect that. I mean, you know me, Tuck. I always get it done. It’s just that sometimes…my inspiration takes its sweet time showing up.”
“You can’t lie to her, Pen.”
“It’s not lying! It’s managing expectations while I make sure my client gets the absolute best. I know I can deliver. Of course I will. I just need a little time. You even said yourself the design could be better. And no matter what, Mia will have an incredible dress by her wedding day.”
“Just…not well in advance of her wedding day, like she’s probably expecting?” Tuck muses.
“Exactly.” I flash him a winning smile. “C’mon, Tuck. Help me out. What else do you have to do with your time?”
“Clearly, not much,” he says, stretching. “Alright. As long as this counts in my favor. My selflessness, my unwavering support, my—”
“Alright, alright.” I grin, tossing the covers back and climbing out of bed. “You are the definition of a stand-up guy. Now get up, get dressed. It’s a bit of a drive, if I remember right.”
It actually takes all of twenty-two minutes, including one wrong turn. And it’s still impossible to miss—once you get the approach right.
Perched on the edge of the lake like something out of a period drama, the estate is all grandeur and excess—manicured gardens sloping toward the water, gilded light fixtures glowing behind arched windows, a giant ballroom upstairs, and stacked terraces with stunning views. The perfect place to host a wedding that will undoubtedly make international headlines.
Mia and Mason’s wedding .
The setting makes sense. It’s where Mason proposed. Right there by the water, with swans gliding across the surface and a string orchestra playing like a damn movie scene. He flew in their family and friends from all over the country to witness the moment—because, of course, he did. No half-measures when you’re Mason West wanting to claim the woman of your dreams.
After passing security checks, we barely have time to take it all in before Violet appears.
She’s in another sleek, tailored outfit that I can’t help admiring the cut of, her pretty gray eyes sharp beneath the perfect sweep of her dark bob.
We follow Violet down a stone path, past marble statues and precision flower beds. As we ascend the stairs, she explains plans for the wedding, including how it will be set in a giant marquee overlooking the lake and gardens.
Mia’s waiting on the stone terrace overlooking the majestic scenery, no doubt reminiscing about her perfect proposal. She’s elegantly casual in floral shorts and a white lacy blouse and, as ever, incredibly stunning.
More than that, she looks absolutely enthralled with what she’s viewing. And for the first time, I see the place through her eyes: not just as a fancy venue, but as the setting for the most important moment of her life.
At first, she seems as friendly as ever, turning to me with a broad smile. But that enthusiasm dims somewhat as Tuck steps forward.
Is it my imagination, or does she seem a little tense? Does she sense there’s a problem with the dress? But how could she?
No, I’m projecting. Surely.
But she practically cold-shoulders Tuck to efficiently introduce her manager, Jess, a fresh-faced blonde who formally shakes our hands.
“Can you believe it’s almost here?” Mia asks breathlessly. “Mason and I are getting married in just a matter of weeks! Feels surreal.”
I nod, glancing around. Surreal is one way to put it. Another is blindingly extravagant. The grandeur of this estate, with its priceless artworks and decor, is like stepping into an old-world movie set.
It makes me think of another era. Of sharply dressed men in pinstriped suits, whiskey glasses in hand, murmuring over business deals in the lounge. Women draped in fur and pearls, their laughter tinkling like the crystal chandeliers overhead, as they glide upstairs to the ballroom.
Hmm. And in a few minutes, Mia’s going to want an update on the dress that’s supposed to match it all.
No pressure.
I get a brief reprieve as Violet invites us to sit, and we’re served coffee and snacks.
But predictably, it comes.
“So,” Mia says, casually leaning against the carved armrest, eyes sweeping to mine. “The dress.”
I attempt a confident gaze back.
Her massive engagement ring catches the light as she lays a hand to her chest.
“Penelope, I know you’re here under such sad circumstances, and I just want you to know—there’s absolutely no pressure.” Her megawatt smile doesn’t falter. “I have the utmost confidence in you. I mean, I hired the best, right? And after all those initial fittings, I’m sure it must be close to completion?”
Before I can answer, Jess chimes in, her tone crisp and professional despite the fact she looks barely old enough to order a drink.
“We just need to flag that from here on, Mia’s schedule is ultra-tight. We fly in only two days before the wedding. That’s why we’re staying these extra few days now—to ensure everything is perfectly synchronized.”
I glance at Tuck, then attempt a response.
“That is…really tight. But don’t worry, Mia. The beadwork is stunning, and the silhouette is exactly what we talked about. Romantic, elegant—”
“And no sweetheart neckline, right?” Mia questions.
I freeze. “What?”
Tuck nearly chokes on his coffee.
He side-eyes me, clearing his throat.
“What could you possibly have against a sweetheart neckline, Mia?” he asks.
Mia rolls her eyes. “I love my mother, but her wedding dress was all about showcasing Raquel Madson’s iconic bosom .” She air-quotes it, deadpan. “As we discussed, I don’t want to replicate her style, which featured a very deep sweetheart neckline that had all eyes glued to her cleavage.”
I feel Tuck shift beside me, doing a slow, exaggerated nod, as my stomach nosedives.
Because the dress, the actual, almost-finished, if not quite perfect dress, has a very distinct sweetheart neckline. A feature that somehow stuck in my head as what Mia wanted.
Shit.
Mia keeps talking, blissfully unaware that my blood pressure just skyrocketed.
“I mean, that was all in the original design brief, anyway. Right?”
“Oh. Of course .” My voice goes a little high-pitched, but I plow through, pasting on a too-wide smile. “Absolutely, no sweetheart neckline! Check! ” I make an exaggerated tick in the air like an idiot.
Crisis management mode kicks in. Breathe, Penelope . I was already thinking about making changes, right? This is just forced inspiration. A whole new bodice. Yay.
I need a distraction. I need a shift. I need—
“ A bachelorette party !” I blurt.
Mia blinks. “What?”
“I mean, are you doing one in LA?” I probe.
“Er, no.” She frowns.
“Well, Jess just said you fly in just two days before the wedding? That’s mighty tight. So…why not tomorrow?” I fling my hands wide. “A proper send-off before married life. It’s practically essential.”
Slowly, deliberately, Mia folds her arms and turns—not to me, but to Tuck .
Her glare is pure, simmering fury.
Tuck senses it immediately. He cuts his eyes to me in a silent: What did you just do? before instinctively leaning back, as if putting a few extra inches between them might save him.
Mia’s voice drops to a lethal calm. “Perhaps this guy could explain why I might not want a bachelorette party? Huh, Tuck?”
He blinks. “What’s that now?”
Mia just stares, waiting.
Realization dawns, and Tuck winces.
“Oh, you mean Mason’s bachelor party. That it kinda…went off the rails?” He scratches his jaw. “Yeah. That was…unfortunate.”
“‘Unfortunate’ ? ” Mia explodes. “He ended up in the hospital , Tuck!”
Tuck’s sheepish look elevates as he scratches his neck, viscerally uncomfortable. “Well—yeah. And we were all really worried, but, uh…luckily, he made a full recovery.”
Mia’s eyes practically shoot sparks.
“And you know it was Brady’s friend at fault, right?” Tuck tries. “He spiked the drinks. He’s the reason—”
“And who ,” Mia cuts in icily, “got the call-up to be best man, Tuck? You or Brady? Who became such close friends with Mason through all those years sharing a place in New York?”
Tuck shifts uncomfortably.
Mia flattens a hand on the table. “You were the one in charge of planning the party. And ensuring nothing went wrong. And yet—” She gestures wildly. “Collapsed. Unconscious. Hospital.”
Wow. She has been holding onto this for a while .
Tuck flicks me a gee, thanks for nothing look, and I really do feel bad. But mostly, I feel relieved that the topic of the dress is well and truly buried.
Still, I should probably step in before Tuck gets burn scars from Mia’s thorough roasting.
“Don’t you see?” I say quickly. “This is exactly why you need a successful bachelorette party. Balance the scales.”
What does that even mean? No idea. But I’m rolling with it.
Tuck, wisely, keeps his mouth shut.
Luckily, Violet steps in. “Actually, Mia, maybe Penelope has a point. You did say you wanted to embrace the whole Blue Mountain experience. I’m not suggesting a full-scale party, but a small, intimate gathering could be a lovely pre-wedding experience.”
Mia hesitates, her fury dissipating slightly.
Tuck raises both hands. “Obviously, I wouldn’t be involved.”
Mia’s nostrils flare.
“It would be fun!” I say quickly. “You, me…Violet and Jess. And Vivian. We could invite Mason’s mom…” I scramble for a guest list. “ All the moms ! Tuck’s and Brady’s—because you really have to meet them if you haven’t already!” I press.
Mia’s brows lift. “I could invite my mom too,” she muses.
“That’s all we need!” I seize on the tiniest crack of agreement. Anything to buy me time on the very defined sweetheart neckline situation. “Low-key. Classy. Just fun !”
Mia sighs, but a small smile tugs at her lips. “Fine. But nothing like that party he threw.” She dagger-eyes Tuck again. “No questionable cover band, no jelly shots, no drugs, no effigies of any of my movie characters, no blow-up sex toys.” She folds her arms. “Oh yes, don’t think I didn’t hear all the details, Tuck.”
Tuck’s mouth opens, then closes.
“Deal!” I smile brightly, as if I didn’t derail this entire meeting to avoid a dress-related meltdown.
But as we wrap up and make our way back toward the car, I realize something.
Tuck is brooding.
He’s walking beside me, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight, gaze trained ahead.
Oh .
I brace myself.
“Epic distraction, Pen. Masterful,” he finally says.
I glance at him innocently. “What?”
“Bringing up that whole bachelorette party thing.” He stops abruptly, turning to face me. “You used me to deflect from the wedding dress.”
Oh. So, this is happening.
I clasp my hands, trying to prompt his forgiveness.
“I admit, it was a handy coincidence, but definitely not premeditated. I honestly forgot how disastrous the bachelor party you organized turned out.”
Tuck scoffs. “Right. Throwing me under the bus was a coincidence. Sure.”
“She was already mad, Tuck! I didn’t know she was still holding all that in about Mason’s party. I mean, she’s right to be angry, that’s fair. But I assumed she’d already let you have it about all that.”
Tuck exhales, shaking his head. “Nah. When we spoke in the aftermath, it was all about being so concerned about Mason, and then relieved he ended up okay. I think perhaps, since the shock wore off, she’s had time to dig deeper into her…rage.”
I wince. “I guess that’s what happened. Sorry.”
He just looks at me.
“Tuck, you know me better than that. I wouldn’t deliberately make you suffer to avoid my own fuck up.” I pause. “That said…it was a useful outcome.”
There’s still some residual irritation in his eyes. But now, it’s mixed with a faint glimmer of humor.
“This is another point in my favor, you know.”
I frown. “Another point?”
“Yes,” he insists. “Because, in the span of an hour, I took the fall for a nearly fatal bachelor party and got verbally flogged by Mia while you walked away unscathed. That’s next-level sacrifice.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, fine. Add it to your list.”
But as we resolve that issue, my other problems poke at me like the devil with his pitchfork. I’ve bought myself time, but that’s all it is. The dress still has a sweetheart neckline. And now I’m juggling a party-planning job on top of fixing it.
“Damn, Tuck. How could I have gotten it so wrong?” My voice tightens with emotion. “The sweetheart neckline?” I cringe. “How did I screw up so badly? And more to the point, what the hell am I going to do now?”
Tuck watches me quietly, then cocks his head.
“Well, you can waste time dwelling on your fuck-up, or—”
I groan. “Or fix the fuck-up.”
“Exactly.” Then, with more enthusiasm, he pumps his fist. “Fix the fuck-up!”
I give him a look .
He doubles down. “Fix the fuck-up! Fix the fuck-up! ”
I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Tuck—”
“No, no, this is the plan. You get your sketchpad, and I get pizza and wine.” He throws an arm around my shoulders, steering me toward the car. “It’s gonna be a long night, Pen. Might as well carb-load.”
I exhale, but I can’t help but smile as I mutter, “Fix the fuck-up.”
“That’s the spirit.”