Chapter 12
BECCA
The next morning, on my walk with Bernie, my thoughts keep circling back to Holly. She sent me some photos from the salon, and Sam’s work showed in every detail. There was even a selfie of her holding a hammer, grinning like a kid who’d just learned to ride a bike.
Against all odds, we’re building something. Not a friendship, not the sister-like relationship I once hoped for, but something else, something earned.
As Bernie and I make our usual loop through the neighborhood, we pass my favorite house—the one with the wraparound porch and cobalt shutters I’ve always admired.
But today, it’s buzzing with activity: a window cleaner on a ladder, a landscaper hauling mulch, a guy fixing the leaning fence out front. My amateur realtor radar kicks in.
Then I spot the kind older man who’d seen me unravel on the sidewalk a few weeks ago while I walked Bernie. He notices me looking and waves me over. Bernie loses his mind, tail wagging like a flag, practically dragging me across the lawn.
“Well, hello there, Bernard,” he says, kneeling to scratch under Bernie’s ears. “I didn’t catch your name last time, young lady.”
My cheeks flush with the memory of my sidewalk meltdown, but I keep my chin up.
“Becca. And your place is looking fantastic. The mulch contrast will really make the hydrangeas pop once they bloom.”
He gives me an inquisitive look. “Are you a realtor?”
“Sort of.” I hesitate. “Mostly property management like condos and entails, but I do hold my license. I’ve only sold a handful of places. Small ones.”
“Ah.” He nods thoughtfully. “A woman who wears many hats. My Dahlia was the same way.”
His eyes flick toward the porch. There’s a silence that feels like reverence.
“I’m sorry,” I say gently. “How long?”
“Eighteen months,” he answers, eyes wistful. “Everyone tells you not to make big decisions in the first year. So I didn’t. But … this house—it’s too much. Too many memories.”
“You’re not just selling a house,” I say. “You’re passing on a story.”
He studies me then, like I’ve revealed a secret about myself without meaning to, and nods, resolute. “I was going to go with one of those big brokerages you see plastered on benches everywhere. But I think I’d rather list with you.”
I blink. Once, twice. “I'm sorry, what?”
“I want you to sell the house,” he says, like it's obvious. “List it. Represent me.”
My throat tightens. “Ummm …"
"Charles," he supplies, realizing we were never introduced.
"Charles, this house is easily worth one-point-five—maybe one-point-six million,” I stammer.
“Appraised at one point six just last month.” He winks.
I do the math 2.5% commission—that’s $40,000. I feel like I’ve been handed a winning lottery ticket. One I’m not sure I deserve.
“I … I can’t accept that. I haven’t sold anything close to this. And you barely know me.”
“Nobody’s sold their first million-dollar property until they do,” he chuckles. “And I trust the Rothschilds. If their roses bloom under your care and their dog prefers your company, that’s more than enough résumé for me.”
Tears sting my eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper.
We exchange numbers, and I promise to call this afternoon. As I walk away, my feet feel light. I haven’t skipped since I was a kid, but I’m damn near close. Until my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Nessa
You're never gonna believe this. The wedding is OFF. Bride caught her fiancé in a supply closet with … her brother. Yeah. Her brOTHER. Sorry about the gig cancellation, but you can’t make this shit up. Zentrology night soon?
I burst out laughing. God, I needed that. A canceled gig used to send me spiraling. Now it has freed up my afternoon.
I shoot her back a quick thumbs-up and a Yup, tell me when. Then I fire off a text to my favorite real estate photographer. Thankfully, Charles’s house is listing-ready. No updates needed, just clean, stage, and shoot.
I place an order for new signage at the print shop, barely squeaking in without a rush fee. For once, my timing doesn’t suck. Feeling productive, I head to the river lot with my paint samples in tow.
And that’s when I see it. His truck. I slam on the brakes. Sam isn’t supposed to be here.
I spot him near the tiny home, shirtless, headphones in, back turned as he hauls pavers from the truck bed. He’s sweating, glistening, tan from the sun. Each muscle shifts under his skin as he places stone after stone in a perfect circle—he’s building a fire pit.
A goddamn fire pit. I hate him. I want to throw a rock at him. I also want to climb him like a tree.
Down, girl. Hormones aren’t a reason to forget he blew up your life.
I sit frozen behind the wheel, watching him work.
Watching as his forearms flex, his ball cap pulled backwards, his jeans hanging low on his hips.
This man, who drove me out of our home, is now sweating through redemption one heavy stone at a time.
And my treacherous, sex-deprived body wants to forgive him for it.
The worst part? This would’ve turned me on anyway. Even if we weren’t … estranged. Even if I wasn’t pissed, my libido clearly didn't get that memo.
He moves in rhythm, setting another stone into place, and all I can think about is the way his hands used to settle on my waist, how he'd kiss behind my ear when I couldn’t sleep. How he always knew when to take control in a way that didn’t feel like losing it.
Like I could just … let go. Trust him to carry the weight for both of us.
And that’s the problem. He was supposed to be safe. And then I remember: he gave away our savings. To his sister. And the fire inside me blazes hotter than whatever pit he's trying to build.
“What are you doing here?” I call, slamming the car door harder than I meant to.
Sam turns, startled. “Becca—you weren’t supposed to be here yet.”
“This is my property. My cabin. Built with my money. You got a problem with that?” I fire off.
He winces but stays calm. “No. I thought you were at the catering gig. It’s on our calendar.”
“Oh, now you’re using the calendar?”
He lifts his phone like it’s proof of innocence.
“You still haven’t answered my question. Why. Are. You. Here?”
Sam sets a paver down carefully. “I was finishing the fire pit. You always said you wanted one at each cabin so guests could sit by the river, watch the sunset. I figured I could—”
“You figured you’d just insert yourself into my project?” My voice cuts. “You didn’t even want to build this with me, remember? You were too busy building someone else’s dream.”
He doesn’t take the bait. Just looks at me like he’s memorizing my face.
I scan the site. Then it clicks. “It’s you. You’ve been doing the extra work, not Bennet.”
He hesitates.
“There was no kickback, was there? Why haven’t I seen Bennet? Did you threaten him?”
Sam runs a hand over his neck. “Not exactly. And I didn’t know the quality of his work, so I didn’t want to risk it with you.”
“Oh, that’s rich. Now you’re worried about pulling me into something sub-par? What about Rick? Mandy? Hell, the salon business as a whole.” I sputter, my blood boiling.
Sam’s jaw tightens. “I'm looking into it.”
“You should have looked into it. Before giving away everything we saved.”
I grab my paint samples and stalk toward the cabin. He follows but doesn’t speak. I start testing colors, brushing them in side-by-side swatches. Trying to ignore the feeling of him standing behind me.
But I do. God, I do. He leans in, warm breath against my ear. “Good choices. Which one’s your favorite?”
I keep my voice even. “Option three. Clean. Soft contrast with the scenery.”
“Perfect,” he murmurs. I hear his phone click; he’s snapping a pic of the paint name.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Picking it up for you. I’ll start painting this week.”
I whirl around. “No. You don’t get to fix this by swinging a hammer and playing helper. This is mine. I’m doing this without you.”
“I know. I just … want to contribute. However you’ll let me.” His voice is too soft, too damn sincere.
“You had the chance to contribute, Sam. And instead, you gave it away. You chose Holly.”
“I know.” He’s pacing now, agitated. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About why I did it. About how I’ve always tried to be the fixer. The one who saves the day. And with Holly … I’ve always been her hero.” He stops and looks at me. “But you never needed saving, Becca. You’re the strongest woman I know.”
“You think because I keep it together that I don’t need to be taken care of?” My voice cracks. “You know what it does to me—feeling insecure about money. How hard I’ve worked to feel safe. Just because I don’t fall apart on the outside doesn’t mean I’m not screaming inside.”
Something moves across his face, not guilt exactly, recognition.
“I know. I see that now.”
“No. You don’t. Because if you did, you would’ve never drained our accounts behind my back.”
He doesn’t respond, his mouth opens slightly then closes. But he looks as devastated as I feel. I storm away toward my car, needing the space between us. Before I open the door, I turn and look at him.
“You didn’t just break my trust. You made my worst fear real.”
He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “I want to fix it,” he says quietly. “I know words aren’t enough, but I swear—you’re the only woman I ever want to take care of. The only one who ever mattered.”
I say nothing.
“I’ll go,” he says at last. But he walks to his truck and returns with a small box. “Here. For you.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Sam, I told you, no more gifts.”
“I know. But you’re not sleeping. I can see it in your eyes. You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, but the stress is getting to you. I don’t get to be that for you right now. So … this is the closest I can come.”
He presses the box into my hand. Doesn’t wait for me to open it.
“Take care of yourself,” he insists, reaching over and buckling my seatbelt. “Still the most precious cargo I’ve ever had.”
He kisses the top of my head, like muscle memory, and shuts the door.
I drive off, heart pounding, brain sparking with heat and rage and confusion. How am I supposed to deal with all this?
I crawl into bed that night, still buzzing. Still sleepless. I open the box. Inside: a sleek, silent vibrator. And a note.
If I could take care of you the way I used to, I would. Every damn night. But I haven’t earned that.
Damn him.