Final Offer (Dreamland Billionaires #3) by Lauren Asher

“All your questions to the appraiser, your insistence on giving the place a facelift, and the reason why you want to set such a high price.”

Well, damn. He figured me out sooner than I anticipated.





I leave Lana in the kitchen while I walk the appraiser out. When I come back, I find she hasn’t moved from her spot by the window that overlooks the lake. Her fingers tap against the counter to the beat of her hum.

I seize the opportunity to take her in without being judged for it. She looks heaven-sent, with the golden glow of the sun surrounding her like a halo, highlighting the warm tones of her hair and the edges of her curves.

Those fucking curves.

Lana is soft in all the right places. Her love of baking and all things culinary has turned her body into a work of art, with hips meant for gripping and an ass meant for worshipping.

Don’t think about her ass.

Too late. My eyes drop, burning a hole into her leggings.

“As much as my ass appreciates the attention, I’d like to get along with my day. I have a ton of work to grade before tomorrow.”

My mouth dries up along with any type of rebuttal as my gaze swings from Lana’s legs to her face. Her brow lifts. She was always a straight shooter—a fact I appreciated until now.

How long has she been watching me stare at her?

Given your luck lately, maybe a whole minute. There’s a reason my brothers used to tease me for being Space Cadet Cal. I have a propensity to drift off and forget where I am until someone tugs me back to reality, usually by calling me out.

I clear my throat, forcing some oxygen into my airway. “We’re selling this house in three months for a million dollars whether you like it or not.”

She steps closer, encroaching on my space. “Oh, why? Because you said so?”

“Because that’s the only option. The sooner you accept it, the easier this process will be.”

“Or I could hire a lawyer.” She bats her lashes.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Fuck. “Except you’re not going to do that.”

Her scoff comes off as condescending as the rise of her chin. “I don’t take orders from you.”

“Pity. I remember there was once a time you would beg for them.” My thumb traces the bottom of her lip, earning a sweet inhale from her.

She leans into my touch before shaking her head and giving my chest a shove. “You’re just trying to distract me.”

“From what? Stabbing me in the back?”

Her eyes sparkle. “Only cowards go for the back.”

If I didn’t already know I was a bit unhinged, my dick getting hard at the way she threatens me with a vicious smirk would motivate me to get my head checked.

I pin her in place with my stare. “You want to list the house for more money than it’s worth so no one buys it, don’t you?”

“What? Why would I want to do that?” The glint in her eyes and the small hitch of her lips kill her attempt at feigning innocence.

“Beats me. I’m not sure why you’re trying so damn hard to save this place. It’s a complete dump.”

She rears back. Whatever playfulness was in her eyes dies, replaced by a burning gaze and one end goal.

Shit.

Her nostrils flare. “You might see this place as a dump, but I see it as a home—my home—and there is no way I’m giving it up without a fight. So, you better lawyer up and take me to court, asshole.” She storms out of the kitchen, leaving me to stew in how our conversation went wrong.

Fuck.

I place one of my grandfather’s Victorian era revolvers in a box marked for the Smithsonian. It’s the third weapon I’ve found in the godforsaken attic. The longer I spend in here, the more I question who my grandfather really was.

Maybe Lana was right when she said I didn’t know my grandfather as well as I thought I did.

I keep to his side of the attic and avoid the corner that houses all my old belongings and hockey memorabilia since I told Lana I wouldn’t get drunk up here again. Besides taking a few breaks at the guesthouse so I can have a few sips of vodka without breaking my word, I keep true to my promise about not drinking in the house.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, so I pull it out and take a seat on one of my grandfather’s trunks. I texted Iris an hour ago, only for her not to answer until now. She is slowly getting busier, which only makes it harder for us to talk as often as we used to before she got married.

Iris

Hey. How’s it going?



I hit a minor snag.



Iris surpasses texting and calls me instead.

“What’s going on?” she asks. A car horn honks in the background, making her dog, Ollie, bark.

“Lana threatened to lawyer up, so either I agree to sell the house for three million or I’m screwed.”

Silence.

“Are you there?” I check my phone for a dropped call.

She coughs. “Yeah, just trying to wrap my head around that one based on the photos you sent me of the place. The view might be nice, but it’s not that nice.”

“The bones are decent.”

“That’s exactly what Declan said about our new house right before he took a wrecking ball to the place.”

“Only because he was impatient and didn’t feel like dealing with old construction issues.”