Page 86 of Love is a Game

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—myname—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 dothis?” 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 inurgentneed 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.

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