I Flipping Love You (Shacking Up 3)

I shake my head and focus on the information for the house we’re selling, reviewing all the important details. I’m halfway through the pot of coffee when Marley comes storming out of her bedroom, a rumpled, angry mess. “Motherhumper! That bastard!”

“What’s wrong?”

“That shady sonofabitch.” She viciously punches buttons on her phone. “He thinks he can get away with a stunt like this, he’s got another thing coming.” She paces the length of the kitchen. She has to push her wild, knotted hair out of the way to get the phone to her ear. “You can’t pull a house off the market less than six hours before I’m supposed to show it.” She stops pacing and props a fist on her hip. “Where’d you hear that and what does it have to do with anything?” She makes her angry, pursed-lips face. “That doesn’t absolve you—I can’t—do you know what a pain in the ass this is going to be? How many phone calls I’m going to get? Fine, yes. We’ll be there in an hour. You better make this worth my while.”

She ends the call, tosses her phone on the table, and throws her hands up in the air. “Stupid wishy-washy men.”

“Can you please explain what’s going on? What just happened?”

“The open house today is cancelled. The seller is taking the house off the market.”

“What? We need that sale.” Without it, it will delay our own flip.

“I know.” She runs her hand through her hair, but it gets caught in the knots. “Fuck a duck!” she yells and then struggles to free her fingers from the mess.

“He said he has a solution, but won’t say what it is over the phone. I don’t know if this guy is hosing us or not, but we need to get over there and deal with it.” She whirls around and stomps down the hall muttering, “Face-humping cocksmack. I hate every penis on this planet.”

I hope this guy really does have a workable solution, otherwise Marley may castrate him. She may be the more face friendly of the two of us, but if she feels like she’s being screwed over, she’s a heck of a lot pricklier than me.

I head to my own room to shower and get dressed. As the numbers-and-paperwork girl I lean toward a more businesslike appearance at these things, but since it’s a beach house, Marley thought it might be better to go the sundress route. So I picked out a cream sundress and a pair of strappy sandals in a floral print for a burst of color.

Marley appears twenty minutes later fresh-faced in a bold coral dress with white heels and a giant necklace that looks like it weights fifty pounds and draws a lot of attention to her chest area. I’m certain this is purposeful.

“I have the contracts. You have everything else?”

I pat the messenger bag hanging from my shoulder. “Sure do.”

“Let’s go. This jerkoff better not screw us out of our commission or he’s going to be short a set of balls when I’m done with him.”

I grab the keys from the counter before she can—there’s no way I’m letting her drive, not when she’s in this bad of a mood.

I put the address in my phone. We could walk there in ten minutes based on the GPS coordinates, but we’re both wearing heels, so no thanks to that. Also, my thighs are killing me. “Wait, I thought we were selling 105 today.”

“We were. The seller lives down the beach. We’re going there.” She mutters profanity under her breath. The drive to the house is short, and we pass the bungalow we’re supposed to put on the market tomorrow, but we won’t have as good a gauge on asking price now. I signal right and pull into the driveway of a gorgeous two-story beachfront house with a beautifully manicured lawn and stunning gardens.

I have a strange sense of déjà vu as Marley wobbles unsteadily down the beautiful cobbled walkway. Maybe the seller wants to move into 105 and unload this place instead. I can only imagine what we’d get for this one, even though both properties on either side are a little rundown and out of date. This place is closer to the Mission Mansion, so it’s incredibly desirable.

Marley hits the doorbell and a soft chime tinkles from inside the house. When it doesn’t open two seconds later, she jabs it again.

I bat her hand away. “Don’t be antagonistic. We might be able to persuade him to change his mind.”

Marley gives me the side-eye, takes a deep breath, and nods. “Put your game face on,” she says as a shadow appears in the doorway and the lock turns.

A wide smile spreads across Marley’s face as the door swings open. Standing in the foyer is a surfer hippie. Well, maybe a wanna-be surf hippie. His shoulder-length, dark blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and his semi-overgrown beard is supposed to scream I don’t care, but it’s too clean around the edges for that. He’s wearing a pair of what looks like pajama pants and a button-down white shirt. Except it’s completely unbuttoned. He has a nipple ring. I’m 100 percent certain the necklace he’s wearing is woven out of hemp, and if someone asked him, he wrestled the shark who belongs to the tooth dangling from it. If I had to guess, he’s likely a fan of freeballing.

Marley steps into the foyer and leans forward, kissing him on his scruffy cheek with a loud mwah. “Lawson! It’s so lovely to see you again.”

He returns the embrace and the kiss on the cheek. “You sure about that? You sounded less than impressed not long ago.”

“Well, what did you expect when you cancel a showing with only hours’ notice and tell me you’re taking the house off the market?” She’s still smiling, but there’s both warning and bite in her tone.

“Don’t you worry, sunshine. I’m going to make it up to you twice over. I promise.” His gaze shifts over to me and his eyes go wide. “Uh. Am I seeing this right?”

Marley laughs and motions me inside. “This is my sister, Rian.”

He extends a hand. I’m surprised to see the nails are trimmed and cleaned. Actually, they look manicured. And I think his eyebrows might be shaped. What’s up with this guy?

His smile is suddenly a smirk, as I slip my hand into his. Then he blatantly peruses me. Like it’s the most obvious once-over ever. “Rian? That’s a unique name. I didn’t realize you and Marley were twins.”

“Fraternal, but yes. And it’s nice to meet you too, Lawson.” It’s a very non-surfer hippie name.

“Come on in and sit down, we can talk about my plan, and hopefully I can thaw those frosty auras the two of you are throwing off.”

Auras?

As we pass through the foyer and down the hall, I notice a doll by a closet door. There’s a tiny little hook beside it, and it looks like it’s hanging up a jacket. Weird.

“Lawson is the owner of this house, and 105.”

“We own a couple more, but yeah, that’s right.” He nods and calls out, “Hey, bro, the Realtors are here!”

“Coming!”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and goose bumps rise along my arms. I know that voice.

I’ve heard the word coming in that exact deep baritone. It’s been growled in my ear along with other words to form phrases such as Are you coming? It’s been taunted against my lips: I can feel you coming again and Ah, fuck, I’m coming. Flashes of last night strobe behind my lids with every rapid blink. Now that I’m no longer coming like a porn star on ecstasy, I’m wholly embarrassed by my horribly wanton display. This cannot be happening right now.