Page 90 of Second Chance for the Single Mom

With a bright smile and an enthusiastic attitude, I greeted everyone who came inside and urged them to sign-in with their email and phone number. I floated around the house, pointing out its features to whoever would listen while downplaying its flaws. And I handed out business cards when people left, hoping that my face—and the house—would stick in their memory. I could handle a thousand rejections if it meant someone bought the house—all it took wasone, after all.

That’s a good metaphor for love.

The pain was bright and sharp, but I quickly pushed it back down. I didn’t have time to feel sorry for myself. I was a single mom, and I needed to focus on giving Bran the best life possible. And in order to do that, I had to sell this house.

There was one couple who wereimmediatelyinterested in the house more than anyone else. They nodded politely when I told them to let me know if they needed anything, but I saw them whispering to themselves excitedly. Time to play it cool. Some realtors liked to hover, but I knew it was better to give a potential buyer some space before reeling them in.

Just like Lucas.

Damnit.No. I wasn’t going to think about him today.

“Is it three bedrooms?” one of them asked me after they had wandered around for a few minutes. “I counted four.”

Jackpot.

“Technically, it’s three,” I said, leading them upstairs. “It’s different in Oregon, but in the state of Washington, we can only classify a room as abedroomif it has an egress windowanda closet.” We stepped into the room in question. “This one has a variety of built-in storage, but not a full closet, so it’s technically an office.”

“That’s crazy. It has a balcony!” the husband said.

“A great balcony, too,” I said, opening the doors wide. “It’s east-facing, which means you’ll get nice sunlight in the morning while drinking your coffee. There’s plenty of room for a table and two chairs, too.”

The wife patted her husband’s arm. “We could eat breakfast out here when the weather is nice!”

“The classification is also good for tax purposes,” I explained. “It basically has four bedrooms, but it will beappraisedlike a three-bedroom home. And since home values are soaring in this neighborhood, that will help keep your property taxes lower.”

“I didn’t consider that,” the husband told his wife.

I felt a surge of hope as we walked back into the room. The previous agent had spent months trying to move this house. If I could find a buyer on the very first day…

Suddenly, there was a crackle of static noise outside. It sounded like a voice fed through areallycheap speaker, drifting up through the balcony door.

“What is that?” the husband asked.

“Someone on a phone call? Listening on speakerphone?” his wife suggested.

The noise continued, totally unintelligible.

“You get all sorts of people at these open houses,” I joked while beginning to close the balcony doors. “Did you see the kitchen? It’ssogood for hosting…”

But then I heard one word cut through the static outside.

“…Hales…”

Ice ran through my veins. I threw open the door and strode back out onto the balcony, leaning over the edge, searching for the source.

It was immediately clear who was causing all the commotion.

The man with the inky-black hair, standing in the middle of the lawn.

45

Haley

Lucas Hollister, my ex-boyfriend, the father of my son, stood tall in the middle of the front lawn. He was holding Bran’s toy speaker at his side, with the corded microphone held to his mouth with the other hand. The tinny sound, amplified and distorted by the toy, drifted in our direction as he spoke.

“Haley Mercer, I need to talk to you. Please come out, Hales.”

“Lucas!” I shouted.

---