Perfect for Me by Claudia Burgoa
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hazel
There are a million reasons I should give you up, but my heart doesn’t believe in reason; it believes in love. ― Hazel Beesley
“My brothers toldme he was at your place last night,” Scott says as we enter the house.
“This Italian Villa was built in 1905,” the real estate agent tells us, giving me a little time to think about what Scott just said. “It has seven bedrooms, ten baths, five marble terraces, six cast-bronze balconies, seven fireplaces, and innumerable French paned windows. Ten years ago, the owners updated some of the features, which include new wiring, plumbing, and heating system. They reinforced the structure with steel beams.”
“When you say he are you referring to Harrison?” I feign ignorance as I admired the tiled Tiffany glass fountain outside on the patio.
“Elliot,” Scott sneers, clenching his teeth.
“Jealous?” I smirk, turning my gaze away as I fight the laughter.
“Is that even a question?” he growls, heading to the elevator that connects the four stories. “Of course, I’m jealous.”
“Accepting you have a problem is the first step,” I observe, shoving him playfully.
“Why was he there?”
“Your mood changed too fast. What happened?”
“Harrison texted me.”
“Ah, the one who likes to provoke you texted,” I say, glancing casually at him.
Harrison gets a kick out of annoying everyone, and Scott is his favorite target.
I search for my phone and text him.
Hazel: Why did you tell Scott about Elliot?
Harrison: Why didn’t you tell Scott about Elliot?
Hazel: You’re annoying.
Harrison: I had to. Elliot has no business in your life. And I like it when my brother curses over text.
Hazel: That’s my decision, not yours.
Harrison: Yes, but I like to meddle in your love life—payback and all that shit. Plus, I’m #teamscott.
“You four have to grow up a little and stop behaving like children when you get together. Harry’s almost forty, for heaven’s sake.”
“You love us like that,” he points out the obvious.
“I do.” I fight the urge to kiss his jaw and tell him he’s my favorite.
My body stiffens as I fight the desire to hug him. I want to be in his arms so bad. As reason is about to lose the fight against my heart, the real estate agent walks toward us.
“We reduced the price, but the owners are willing to negotiate,” the agent offers, interrupting our discussion.
I look at the brochures she handed me earlier and whistle. “That’s still one too many millions,” I lean closer to Scott, mumbling the words.
“It’s in Pacific Heights,” he responds as if that makes complete sense.
He takes my hand, and we go to the room at the end of the hallway. The library. It’s filled with walls of books, hardwood floors, and the scent of paper.
“You love it, don’t you?”
I twirl around the room a couple of times. “Sure, but again, it’s too much.”
“We’ll make an offer, and if they agree, we have to make a few financial decisions. Move some assets and sell stocks.”
He says everything like he’s buying something of less significance and much cheaper. Don’t get me wrong, I want it, but not at that price.
“Ideally, you should give me a power of attorney, so I can handle your estate. This uncharacteristically expensive purchase is a cry for help. Clearly, you’re mentally unstable,” I say in disbelief.
“This isn’t the first time we’ve invested in real estate,” he reminds me, heading toward the window.
He calls me with his hand. Curious to see what he’s watching, I march to where he is and gasp when I look at the Golden Gate and the city of San Francisco. The ocean, the view. “I’m in love.”
“I know,” he says, with an air of arrogance and triumph.
“It needs some renovations.” I point at the old one-panel windows. “Paint, new floors. I am already flipping one house.”
“I will take care of this one,” he offers. “You can just create a Pinterest board and give me your input. Can we buy it?”
“Explain to me what you plan to do with the library?” I walk around the room. The scent of old paper and tobacco reminds me of Gramps.
“Fill it with signed first editions of your favorite books?”
I bounce from foot to foot and twirl around, thinking about the books I’ll get. But stop and frown.
“I have my apartment,” I remind him. “Fully furnished and decorated.”
“The apartment is temporary,” he fights back. “Whether you stay in San Francisco or go back to New York, there’s a place where you can stay when you visit.”
“You make a compelling case, Everhart.”
“Hazel.” He snaps his fingers, cutting into my lost mind. “Please, don’t disappear. Stay with me. We’ll go horseback riding after this. There’s a place in Napa. We’ll be busy. This is just a house.”
I swallow, feeling all kinds of confused. Scott believes I’m sad, but what I am is different. Happy, worried, elated, nervous, and jealous. I envy those couples who buy their first homes knowing they’ll be decorating their room neutral but with feminine touches. That there’ll be a man cave on the premises.
“But what if I want more than just a place with walls and a roof?”
“Time.” He sighs, looking down at the contract and away from me. “But buying this not only makes sense, but it makes me happy.”
He says my favorite words, the magical words. He’s happy. I love when he’s happy and even more when it’s because of me. Heat radiates through my chest when he smiles at me.
I sigh. “You’ll end up like Gramps—owning so many properties that you won’t know what to do with them.”
“I’ll save them for a savvy granddaughter or grandson.” He winks at me, extending his arm as he holds a pen.
My throat closes with his response. He flusters me just as much as he elates me. What’s in that mind of his? He piques my curiosity, and I want to dig deep into his psyche. This is so damn crazy, and he expects me not to micromanage my life.
