I start feeling nervous the moment I exit the car, and it gets worse the farther I drag my suitcase up the path—a heavy ball of anxiety slowly nestling behind my sternum. I stop about halfway to take a deep breath. I blame Hannah and Sadie, who worry way too much and are apparently contagious. I’ll be fine. This will be fine. Liam Harding and I will have a nice, calm chat and figure out the best possible solution that is satisfactory to . . .
I take in the early-fall yard around me, and my trail of thought fades away.
It’s a simple house. Large, but no topiary shit or rococo gazebos or those creepy gnomes. Just a well-kept lawn with the occasional landscaped corner, a handful of trees I don’t recognize, and a large wooden patio furnished with comfortable-looking pieces. In the late-afternoon sunlight, the red bricks give the house a cozy, homey appearance. And every square inch of the place seems dusted in the warm yellow of ginkgo leaves.
I inhale the smell of grass, and bark, and sun, and when my lungs are full I let out a soft laugh. I could so easily fall in love with this place. Is it possible that I already am? My very first love at first sight?
Maybe this is why Helena left the house to me, because she knew I’d form an immediate connection. Or maybe knowing that she wanted me here has me ready to open my heart to it. Either way, it doesn’t matter: this place feels like it could be home, and Helena is once again being her meddling self, this time from the afterlife. After all, she always went on and on about how she wanted me to really belong. “You know, Mara, I can tell you’re lonely,” she’d say whenever I stopped by her office to chat. “How do you even know?” “Because people who aren’t lonely don’t write fanfiction for The Bachelor franchise in their spare time.” “It’s not fanfiction. More of a metacommentary on the epistemological themes that arise in each episode and—my blog has plenty of readers!” “Listen, you’re a brilliant young woman. And everyone loves redheads. Why don’t you just date one of the nerds in your cohort? Ideally the one who doesn’t smell like compost.” “Because they’re all dicks who keep asking when I’ll drop out to go get a degree in home economics?” “Mmm. That is a good reason.”
Maybe Helena finally realized that any hope of me settling down with someone was a lost cause, and decided to channel her efforts into me settling down somewhere. I can almost picture her, cackling like a satisfied hag, and it makes me miss her a million times harder.
Feeling much better, I leave my suitcase just off the porch （no one is going to steal it, not covered as it is in geeky keep calm and recycle on, and good planets are hard to find, and trust me, i’m an environmental engineer stickers）。 I run a hand through my long curls, hoping it’s not too messy （it probably is）。 I remind myself that Liam Harding is unlikely to be a threat—just a rich, spoiled man-boy with the depth of a surfboard who cannot intimidate me—and lift my arm to ring the bell. Except that the door swings open before I can get to it, and I find myself standing in front of . . .
A chest.
A broad, well-defined chest under a button-down. And a tie. And a dark suit jacket.
The chest is attached to other body parts, but it’s so wide that for a moment it’s all I can see. Then I manage to shift my gaze and finally notice the rest: Long, well-muscled legs filling what’s left of the suit. Shoulders and arms stretching for miles. A square jaw and full lips. Short dark hair, and a pair of eyes barely a shade darker.
They are, I realize, fixed on me. Studying me with the same avid, confused interest I’m experiencing. The man appears to be unable to look away, as if spellbound at some base, deeply physical level. Which is a relief, because I can’t look away, either. I don’t want to.
It’s like a punch to my solar plexus, how attractive I find him. It addles my brain and makes me forget that I’m standing right in front of a stranger. That I should probably say something. That the heat I’m feeling is probably inappropriate.
He clears his throat, looking as flustered as I feel.
I smile. “Hi,” I say, a little breathless.
“Hi.” He sounds the exact same. He wets his lips, as though his mouth is suddenly dry, and wow. That’s a good look for him. “Can I . . . Can I help you?” His voice is beautiful. Deep. Rich. A little hoarse. I could marry this voice. I could roll around in this voice. I could listen to this voice forever and give up every other sound. But maybe I should first answer the question.
“Do you, um, live here?”
“I think so,” he says, as though too wonderstruck to remember. Which makes me laugh.
“Great. I am here for . . .” What am I here for? Ah. Yes. “I was looking for, um, Liam. Liam Harding. Do you know where I can find him?”
“It’s me. I’m he.” He clears his throat again. Is he flushing? “That is, I am Liam.”
“Oh.” Oh no. Oh no. No, no. No. “I’m Mara. Mara Floyd. The . . . Helena’s friend. I’m here about the house.”
Liam’s demeanor changes instantly.
He briefly closes his eyes, like one would when given a tragic, insurmountable piece of news. For a moment he looks betrayed, as though someone gave him a precious gift only to steal it from his hands the second it was unwrapped. When he says, “It’s you,” there is a bitter tinge to his beautiful voice.
He turns around and begins to stalk down the hallway. I hesitate for a moment, wondering what to do. He didn’t close the door, so he wants me to follow him. Right? No clue. Either way, I half own the house, so I’m probably not trespassing? I shrug and hurry after him, trying to keep up with his much longer legs, taking in next to nothing of my surroundings until we reach a living area.
Which is stunning. This house is all large windows and hardwood floors—oh my God, is that a fireplace? I want to make s’mores in it. I want to roast an entire piglet. With an apple in its mouth.
“I’m so glad we can finally talk face-to-face,” I tell Liam, a little out of breath. I’m finally recovering from . . . whatever happened at the door. I fidget with the bracelet on my wrist, watching him write something on a piece of paper. “I am so sorry for your loss. Your aunt was my favorite person in the whole world. I’m not sure why she decided to leave me the house, and I do understand that this co-owning business comes a bit out of left field, but . . .”
I trail off when he folds the paper and hands it to me. He’s so tall, I have to consciously lift up my chin to meet his eyes. “What is this?” I don’t wait for his answer and unfold it.
There’s a number written on it. A number with zeros. Lots of them. I look up, confused. “What does this mean?”
He holds my gaze. There is no trace of the flustered, hesitant man who greeted me a few moments earlier. This version of Liam is coldly handsome and self-assured. “Money.”
“Money?”
He nods.
“I don’t understand.”
“For your half of the house,” he says impatiently, and it suddenly dawns on me: he is trying to buy me out.
I look down at the paper. This is more money than I’ve ever had in my life—or ever will. Environmental engineering? Not a lucrative career choice, apparently. And I don’t know much about real estate, but my guess is that this sum is way above the actual value of the house. “I’m sorry. I think there’s a misunderstanding. I’m not going to—I don’t—” I take a deep breath. “I don’t think I want to sell.”