Chapter 25
25
PORTIA
A week later, I was driving to the next town over. My phone was on speaker, Alexis’s voice filling the car as she tried to pump me up for the interview I was about to walk into. I needed this job. It was even better that it was out of town. Even if one small town bled right into the other, it was still out of Larkspur Lake.
“You’re going to kill it, Portia,” Alexis said, her voice filling the confines of my car. “This is your clean slate. Your second chance. You’ve got this.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t really feeling it. “I know. I just… I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”
“Because you care,” Alexis said simply. “And that’s a good thing. It means you’re not giving up. You want to do good. That’s also a good thing. If you didn’t care, you would be totally chill.”
I sighed, my fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “I just feel like I’ve been spinning my wheels since I got back. I am going to lose my mind if I don’t do something.”
I pulled to a stop at a red light and glanced out the window at the familiar stretch of road. Familiar yet unfamiliar. I hadn’t been out this way since I got back in town. Wildflowers dotted the edges of the asphalt, their bright yellows and purples a stark contrast to the dull pavement.
“You’re not spinning your wheels,” Alexis said firmly. “You’re regrouping. There’s a difference. We’ve talked about this. You’re being way too hard on yourself. And this interview? It’s your first step forward. You’re not just sitting around waiting for something to happen—you’re making it happen. Step one, get the job. Step two—kick ass.”
“I wish I could see it that way.” I sighed. The light turned green, and I pressed on the gas, my stomach tightening with every mile that brought me closer to the office.
“Well, you should,” Alexis said. “And hey, if it doesn’t work out, there are plenty of other jobs.”
“You and I both know that isn’t true,” I said. “When I have to be your waitress, please promise you’ll tip well.”
She laughed. “I’m a great tipper, but you’re not going to be waiting tables. You’re going to be selling mansions and making six percent commission. You’re going to have your own reality show, Selling Larkspur .”
I smiled despite myself. “Thanks, Alexis. You’re a good hype woman.”
“Damn right I am,” she said, and I could practically hear her grinning through the phone. “Now get in there and show them what Portia Watson is made of.”
I smiled, feeling a little more confident. “Thanks, I’ll call you after.”
“You better,” she said. “And good luck!”
I ended the call and tried to calm my nerves. My life felt so complicated. Dean had been distant. Weird even. He was obviously avoiding me. We live next door and he had either fallen off the face of the earth or he was pretending he had. There were never lights on at his place. I occasionally heard his motorcycle coming to and from his house which was the only sign of life from him. I wasn’t going to hunt him down. We had sex one time. I wasn’t going to turn into a clingy woman. He was not that kind of guy. I got it. He had made it clear. It wasn’t like I actually wanted anything serious with him either.
Dean was just Dean. I wasn’t going to wallow. I’d done that for a month. It was time to pick up the pieces of my life and move on from New York and Dean. I didn’t know if real estate in my hometown was the right move. I was not looking for jobs in town. If I could get this job, it would at least feel like I wasn’t a total failure. I’d make some money and move here rather than Larkspur Lake. Then it was like I still left home. Never mind the fact I was only fifteen minutes away.
I pulled into the brokerage’s parking lot, my stomach twisting with nerves. This should feel like a step forward—proof that I could still have the career I’d worked so hard for, even if it wasn’t in New York. But instead of excitement, there was a gnawing sense of unease sitting in my chest.
I shook it off, grabbing my bag and heading inside. I caught a glimpse of myself in one of my power suits. The tight black pencil skirt and white blouse were simple. Clean. It said powerful without being obnoxious. It was sexy without showing a lot of skin. It was the kind of outfit I wore when I was selling an apartment on the Upper West Side.
Even if I didn’t sell enough of those apartments to really make it in the cutthroat world of real estate in New York.
The office was sleek and modern, the kind of place that screamed success. I walked in, all polished confidence and practiced charm, like I did this every day.
The receptionist looked up as I approached. “Good morning! How can I help you?”
“Hi,” I said, returning the smile, though my stomach was still doing somersaults. “I’m here for an interview with Mr. Henderson. Portia Watson.”
Her fingers flew over the keyboard, and she nodded, still smiling. “Right, yes. He’s just finishing up a call. Have a seat, and I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thanks,” I murmured, turning toward the waiting area. It was all clean lines and neutral tones, with sleek leather chairs and a glass coffee table stacked with glossy brochures. My heels clicked against the polished floor as I crossed the room, the sound somehow louder in my head than it actually was.
I sank into one of the chairs, smoothing my skirt as I glanced around. The walls were lined with framed photos of sprawling estates and waterfront properties, their prices printed in bold numbers. My eyes lingered on a particularly stunning lakefront house—vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, a dock stretching out into the water. It was the kind of property that made your heart ache a little just looking at it.
I picked up one of the brochures, flipping through it absently. It was filled with listings that screamed luxury—custom builds, historic homes with impeccable charm, modern condos with skyline views. Each one felt like a reminder of what I wanted in New York but never quite achieved.
“Miss Watson?”
I looked up and saw another young woman. I followed her to an office. I went in and sat down. The second I sat across from the brokerage owner, I realized something was off. The man was nice enough as he introduced himself, but this wasn’t what I expected.
The interview wasn’t challenging—it was condescending. The man across from me smiled too much, spoke to me like I was some lost little girl instead of a woman who’d built a career in one of the most competitive real estate markets in the country. It might have flopped in the end because I couldn’t close deals fast enough to invest in the next sale, and I didn’t have the clientele the brokerage needed in the city, but I wasn’t a newbie. I knew real estate.
“We don’t get a lot of high-maintenance types around here,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “But I’m sure we could find you something simple to start with.”
Simple?
I spent years fighting tooth and nail for my place in the industry, and this man was offering me simple like I was fresh out of college.
I kept my expressions neutral, but inside, I was fuming. I forced a polite smile and straightened in my chair. “I’m not sure you understand, Mr. Henderson. I’ve been in real estate for several years. I’ve handled high-value properties in New York City. I’m not looking for something ‘simple.’ I’m here to bring value to your team.”
His smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, I don’t doubt that, Miss Watson. But Larkspur Lake isn’t New York. Things move a little slower here. People like to take their time, get to know you. It’s a different game.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk like he was about to impart some great wisdom. “We have a lot of retirees here, folks who’ve been in the same house for decades. They don’t need a big-city agent swooping in and trying to sell them on something flashy.”
My jaw tightened, but I kept my voice steady. “I understand the market here is different, but that doesn’t mean I can’t adapt. I grew up here, Mr. Henderson. I know the community.”
“Of course,” he said, nodding slowly like he was humoring me. “But let’s be honest—you left for the big city and came back when things didn’t work out. That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in our clients.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak. He wasn’t just questioning my skills; he was questioning my worth. My mind raced, trying to find the right words—something sharp, something that would cut through his condescension. But before I could respond, he stood, signaling the end of the interview.
“Thanks for coming in, Miss Watson,” he said, gesturing toward the door as if I’d overstayed my welcome. “We’ll be in touch.”
I rose slowly, my legs feeling unsteady beneath me. My face burned with a mix of anger and humiliation, but I forced myself to keep my chin up. I wasn’t going to let him see how much his words had stung.
“Thank you for your time,” I said, my voice clipped but polite.
I was in such a hurry, I nearly collided with a woman coming around the corner. It took my brain a couple of seconds to register the face I was staring at.
My old boss. The woman who’d fired me back in New York.
I froze, my heart pounding. “What are you doing here?” I blurted before I could stop myself.
She tilted her head, smirking. “I could ask you the same thing. Didn’t peg you for the small-town type.”
I clenched my jaw, schooling my expression. I was not going to let her see just how much I disliked her. That gave her the upper hand. That would make her think she won. “Just exploring my options.”
Her smile widened. “Funny. I thought you’d be clawing your way back to the city by now. Guess I was wrong.” She looked around the main street area of town. “Little places like this are desperate for a helping hand. I thought my brokerage might do well to expand. Too bad you aren’t still with us. It might have been your bread and butter.”
I forced a tight smile, my chest burning with anger and humiliation. “Yeah. Too bad.”
I didn’t wait for a response. I just walked away, my heels clicking against the pavement as I made my escape. I got in my car and blasted the AC. I was suddenly very hot. My pits were sweating. I drove away with my mind racing.
I didn’t drive straight home. I couldn’t go back there the same failure I was when I left an hour ago. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Maybe it was my own ego, but I really thought I was going to walk into that small-town firm and blow their socks off with my experience. I was expecting to walk away with a job.
I pulled into a scenic overlook, staring out at the lake, the rolling hills stretching beyond it. I sat there, letting my frustration burn itself out, until the realization hit me like a gut punch. I didn’t want that job.
Not just because of the brokerage owner’s condescending tone or because running into my old boss had ripped open old wounds. I didn’t want it because it wasn’t right.
I’d spent so much time trying to rebuild what I’d lost that I’d never stopped to ask myself if I even wanted it anymore. And my personal life was getting just as messy as my professional one. What if I was running headfirst toward two things that were going to hurt me?
That thought scared the hell out of me.
I sat there at the overlook longer than I intended, the silence of the lake only disturbed by the occasional car driving by. The water shimmered under the late afternoon sun, calm and unbothered, but my mind was anything but.
I leaned my head back against the seat. “What are you doing, Portia?” I muttered to myself. It wasn’t the first time I’d asked myself that question lately. But this time, it felt heavier. More urgent.
I thought about New York—the city that had chewed me up and spit me out. I’d gone there with fire in my chest and stars in my eyes, convinced I’d make it big. And for a while, I did. Or at least, I thought I did. But then it all fell apart. The deals dried up, the clients moved on, and before I knew it, I was sitting in my car after what was definitely a failed interview.
“Failure,” I whispered the word like it was something dirty. Because that was how it felt. Like a stain I couldn’t scrub off no matter how hard I tried. It felt like everyone was watching me, waiting to see if I’d stumble again.
I couldn’t let them witness my failure in real time.