Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Grady
“The kitchen’s quartz countertops really are the selling point,” the realtor says, tapping a manicured nail against the smooth, gray surface. “And the under-mount sink doesn‘t disrupt the clean line.”
I force myself to show interest. “It’s very sleek.”
“Exactly!” She beams at me, glossy lips stretching to reveal bright white teeth. “Sleek is what sells these days. Just because the area leans toward rustic coastal doesn’t mean we can’t have our luxuries.”
I shift to take my weight off my bad knee, my cane tapping on the hardwood floor. “The Harbor view complex has a good reputation.”
“The best in Pinecrest.” She smooths a hand over her navy pencil skirt.
“Your neighbors are fellow professionals, so no worries about noise. And this view?” She sweeps an arm toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the harbor and, in the distance, Misty Pines Island.
“That’s worth at least fifteen percent of the asking price. ”
I summon a polite murmur, playing my part.
The condo is perfect, hitting every checkmark with twelve hundred square feet of open-concept living space, clean lines, and neutral finishes.
Two bedrooms, two baths, and a balcony overlooking the water.
It’s within walking distance of the docks and the downtown market.
It’s a world away from the sounds of construction or Kyle walking in at any moment, disrupting my workflow, which I can’t begrudge, since he’s been kind enough to allow me to invade his small cabin for so long now.
“It’s got ample storage,” the realtor continues, her delivery softening into what I’m sure she considers her most sincere pitch. “This pantry here? Full extension pull-outs with soft-close hinges. And the master closet has a built-in system that can be customized to your needs.”
I follow her through the space, asking the right questions at all the right times.
The walk-in shower with the rain showerhead.
The nest of smart home technology. The stackable laundry that fits in its own closet.
Each feature is presented as an investment in independence, professionalism, and the life I should be building for myself.
“Your family must be thrilled you’re putting down roots in Pinecrest,” she says, leading me back to the living room. “Dare we hope that the Finch family will be opening a second location on this side of the country?”
My throat tightens. Of course, she ran a financial background check as soon as I contacted her office.
These units aren’t cheap, but they’re still within my financial reach without having to dip into my trust fund, which would leave me beholden to the Finch family and all the expectations that come with it.
I make a noncommittal sound.
My parents have been supportive, within their limits. They let me choose a university on the West Coast and celebrated my dip into being a literary agent as a way to cut my teeth on negotiating with powerful companies.
But would they be as supportive if I put down roots in Pinecrest?
No.
She falters for a moment as the silence grows before she clears her throat. “The best thing about this unit is that it’s a blank slate, ready for you to put your own stamp on it, or you can purchase all of the furniture staged here, so it’s move-in ready.”
I look around the space once more, and an ache opens in my chest. The condo is perfect, but its clean lines and careful neutrality leave me feeling claustrophobic, as if I’m wearing clothes one size too small.
“I’m going to check the view from the balcony,” I say, needing air.
Not waiting for her to comment, I stride to the slider and open one side.
A brisk February wind sweeps in as I step out onto the concrete platform.
From this height, the entire harbor lies spread beneath me, the dock and, beyond it, Misty Pines.
A tree-covered island on the horizon shouldn’t call to me like home, but somehow, it does.
“The complex has excellent security,” the realtor says, joining me at the railing. “Key fob entry, cameras throughout the common areas, and a concierge available twenty-four seven. You can travel for work and not worry about a thing.”
I grip the railing, the metal cold through my gloves. “That’s... important.”
“Especially for someone in your position.” I catch her glance at my cane. “Independence is worth paying for.”
The ache intensifies, and I grip the railing, gazing out at the shape of Misty Pines.
The water taxi runs multiple times a day.
In forty minutes, I could have coffee with my best friend, Chloe, then head to the mainland and have dinner with Emily and Jared on a Thursday, not because I planned it in advance around everyone else’s schedules.
Just because I live here now, and they’re right there, and I can.
But in all of those plans, I can’t imagine any of them in this modern space, kicking back for drinks or a movie or to brainstorm new book ideas. I imagine myself leaving here to go to Emily’s cozy cottage or sitting by the fire in the Homestead.
I don’t like the idea at all. If I buy a home, I want it to be somewhere the people most important to me will also want to visit.
“I’ll need to think about it,” I say, turning back toward the sliding door.
“Of course,” the realtor says, following me inside. “It’s a significant investment. But with your family’s background—”
“I’m freelancing at the moment,” I correct her. “This purchase has nothing to do with Finch & Wrenford.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “Still. A perfect stepping stone to the kind of future you deserve.”
We move through the rest of the tour on autopilot. I check the water pressure in the second bathroom. I open and close the kitchen cabinets, testing the soft-close hinges. I murmur appreciatively over the walk-in closet that has more space than I would ever fill alone.
All the while, the pressure builds in my chest, a physical manifestation of the disconnect between what I’m hearing and what I’m feeling.
“And the building’s just three years old,” the realtor continues as we move back toward the front door. “You won’t have to worry about major repairs for at least a decade. The developers used only premium materials, so no builder-grade shortcuts here.”
I murmur in agreement, but my attention has already drifted. The space is complete in a way that leaves no room for anything else. No mess. No chaos. No expansion. Just a finished life waiting for me to step into it, and I already have one of those, if I want it.
As we pause in the living room, I try to picture Emily here, in the kitchen cooking one of her simple meals, but the image won’t form.
She’d look out of place among all this stainless steel and quartz.
Or maybe curled up on the modern sofa with her basket of crochet, surrounded by balls, but the vision dissolves before it fully forms.
The condo doesn’t have room for her bread pans, her tools, or the hand-carved trinkets she crafts for donation. It leaves no room for her to spread out her latest project or space for the casual chaos that always seems to follow her, no matter how hard she tries to contain it.
“What do you think of the lighting?” the realtor asks. “All LEDs, dimmable, with three different settings.”
“It’s great,” I say on autopilot.
I try again, this time picturing kicking back here with Jared and a bottle of wine, watching one of those action movies he loves.
His long legs stretched out on the glass coffee table, his laugh filling the space.
But the image feels forced, as if I’m trying to fit a square peg into a round hole.
Jared belongs out on the water, or sitting by a bonfire, or barbecuing in a backyard, not in this sanitized, soulless box with its perfect sight lines and neutral palette.
I stare out at the water through the amazing windows. Would Chloe be inspired by this view when all she has to do is step out of her front door to be surrounded by it on the island?
“Of course, the monthly fee covers all exterior maintenance,” the realtor says with the rushed cadence of someone worried they’re losing their audience.
“And the HOA includes a maintenance team on call twenty-four-seven to take care of whatever comes up. It’s the ultimate in low-maintenance living. ”
I can afford bigger if I dip into my trust fund.
A small house with a yard, maybe, or at least enough space so I wouldn’t have to choose between a dining table and a desk.
The money comes with strings attached. More family dinners, suggestions about my career path, and pressure to be the perfect, self-sufficient Beta that my parents have always expected me to be.
And they’re already putting enough on me as it is. The monthly calls to check on my recovery. The subtle questions about when I’m coming back to visit. The unspoken expectation that I’ll eventually return to the fold and take my place in the family business.
“—and the complex has excellent resale value,” the realtor is saying. “Pinecrest is growing, and waterfront properties like this are always in demand. It’s not just a home, it’s an investment in your future.”
I force my focus back to her. “The unit is lovely, just as you promised it would be.”
“It’s perfect for a single professional,” the realtor says, warm with approval. “Or even a couple, down the line. Plenty of room to grow.”
Is it, though? I look around at the pristine space, trying to picture a life unfolding here that isn’t just a different version of what my family has planned for me all along. Graduate. Work. Find a kind, sensible partner. Buy a moderate, sensible home. Have a good, sensible life.
Step by step, decision by decision, until there’s nothing left to choose.
“You’d have a real community here,” she continues. “The building hosts monthly social events. Wine tastings, game nights, that sort of thing. It’s a great way to meet people.”