Page 17 of When Love Comes Home

I mentally do the math. Clare and Rob. Laila and Bryan. My stomach sinks. “And that leaves… me and Adam,” I finish for her.

“Exactly,” Loren confirms. “You and Adam will be paired together.”

“Loren, youcannotdo this to me,” I say, the plea practically tumbling out of my mouth as I scramble for a way to guilt her into changing the lineup.

“Katherine,” she begins, her tone edging into desperation, “please, please do this for me. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“That’s what they say at the dentist’s office,” I shoot back. “This isn’t a cleaning, Loren. This is more like a root canal.”

“Please,” she begs again. “Do it for me—and for Justin.”

“Why can’t Laila do it?” I counter, grasping at straws.

“Because Laila likes Bryan, and she’s been looking forward to it,” Loren says, as if that settles the matter.

“So, Laila gets what she wants,” I say, crossing my arms even though she can’t see me. “What about me?”

“Katherine, please,” Loren says, her tone firm enough to tell me there’s no point in arguing.

“Fine,” I relent, exhaling sharply. “I’ll do it. But you owe me!”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she squeals, her excitement practically vibrating through the phone. “You’re the best sister, the best maid of honoron the planet!”

I roll my eyes, even though a small smirk tugs at my lips. “Yeah, you're right, and don't you forget it.”

***

I’m pulling into the driveway when my phone rings again. It’s Meredith Sanders, a fellow agent I often work with. I answer the call, and after exchanging pleasantries, she gets down to the reason for her call.

"I see you're the listing agent for the Peterson condo," she says.

"Yes," I confirm. "I'm working on the listing this weekend and should have it done by Monday."

"You might not have to list it," she says. "Adam is interested and would like to submit an all-cash offer with a two-week closing."

Adam? The sweat from my hike still glistening on my skin suddenly turns cold, like a heavy wet blanket draped around my soul. She said Adam, not Adam Morgan, or Mr. Morgan. Just Adam, like they’re the best of friends.

I clear my throat and ask, “Adam Morgan?”

“Yes, Adam. You know Adam.” She replies. Her tone indicates that I should be fully aware of who Adam is for Pete’s sake. Without missing a beat, she continues, “He mentioned he had hoped to work with your father’s firm to find a place, but for whatever reason that didn’t work out, so he called me.” She lets out a nervous little chuckle that tells me Adam must be standing right next to her.

“Is Adam with you right now?” I ask.

“Yes, he’s right here,” she answers, her words sounding more like a confession than a simple confirmation.

"E-mail me the offer," I say. "I'll present it to the Petersons today."

We say our goodbyes, and I immediately dial Adam. It rings several times, and I realize he’s not going to answer.

I’m fuming.

I take a deep breath, pick up my water bottle and towel, and walk up my driveway. I'm certain his offer for the condo will be waiting in my inbox, but I choose to ignore it for a while. I wonder if I should change my password to something more appropriate, likeAdamRuinsMyMoodAgain.

In the shower, I stand under the hot water, wishing it could penetrate more than just my cold skin. I want it to seep into my brain and wash away the cobwebs because I’m clearly not thinking logically. If Adam buys the condo, I get a commission, and he stops being my problem. It’s a win-win. So why am I hesitating? Is it guilt because this is his house, or is it something deeper? Do I dislike him so much that I’d rather see him homeless than close a sale that would put a roof over his head? I refuse to believe my sister was right when she said I’ve been mean to him. Keeping him homeless would be cruel—even for me.

He can’t keep living in a hotel when this is his house. But I signed a one-year lease. I still have six months left, so technically, it’s my house now. And I love living here. But he’s the rightful owner, and I’m sure he loves it too. Why is he willing to walk away and let me stay without a fight?

The question gnaws at me, refusing to let go. I need to talk to Adam before I submit this offer. I slip on some comfy trousers and a soft sweater, then pick up the phone and call him again.

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