nearly two months.
“This is ridiculous. It… I can’t. No. You and I aren’t—”
“Those are your choices,” I remind her. “I don’t know what you’re worried about. Since you threw away your stack of bridal magazines earlier, I’m assuming that means the wedding is already planned. If you love each other and you hate my guts, what could you possibly have to worry about?”
“You dug through my trash?”
How interesting that’s the first topic she addresses, rather than her feelings for me. Not confirming that she hates me is almost an admission that she doesn’t.
“It made a lot of noise. I couldn’t help but notice. It’s great that you’ve got the ceremony and the reception all nailed down. You always were organized, but wow. I have to congratulate you for—”
“Stop it. I threw them away because Makaio wants a traditional Hawaiian wedding, and he’s asked me if his mother can plan it on our behalf. She really wants to.”
Is she fucking kidding? Her fiancé cares more about his mommy’s feelings than his bride’s? It’s cute, I guess. Well, it would be if he were Jamie’s age. But any idiot knows that most women have been dreaming of their wedding since childhood. And Makaio doesn’t seem to be thinking twice about taking that from Britta. All her planning, all her careful consideration, everything she’s yearned for…all flushed down the toilet because he’s a mama’s boy.
I stalk my way to the counter and flip open the first magazine, riffling through until I come to a flagged page. She’s circled a bouquet of tropical flowers. Another page has a margin note about bridesmaids’ dresses in a color called cornflower. No idea what that looks like… Toward the back, I see she’s starred an ad for a company that prints custom invitations quickly, themed for the perfect wedding. She’s jotted down notes about timeframes and prices. I’ll bet the rest of the magazines have more of her choices lovingly selected.
In fact, I’ll bet Britta has already planned the perfect wedding in her head. Makaio stole her joy.
Asshat.
I hurt for her. I’m angry for her, too. But I don’t let on. “Well, that saves you a lot of trouble, right? Much easier for you, less stressful.”
“That seems to be the prevailing sentiment.” She sounds pissed.
I can only imagine that’s how Makaio pitched the idea of his mother planning their wedding. If he thought for one second that would make Britta’s life better, he doesn’t know my color-coding, calendar-keeping, deeply organized angel like he should if he intends to marry her.
I grin.
“Since you don’t have to worry about that now, let’s talk about our next eight weeks. I’ve already found a place for us. We’ll take care of the childproofing tomorrow evening. Do you need help packing? I can come to the house right now and—”
“I’ve got it,” she snaps out. “Griff, this arrangement is ridiculous and will never accomplish anything.”
As far as I’m concerned, she’s totally wrong. “Well, then you shouldn’t have a care in the world. Be ready after work. We’ll pick up Jamie and move into our temporary home together.”
The following day turns into hell. On the one hand, it works well that Britta and I are too busy to say much. Her response to my morning greeting was grudging and chilly. I feel hostility simmering under her skin. It’s fine. I’m prepared for the fact that she’ll send more my way before I break through the fortress around her heart.
I’m trying to shove all that out of my head when Maxon and I meet the representative for our potential mystery buyer at the Stowe estate promptly at ten a.m. She’s a petite Asian woman who’s got the stature of a domestic kitten but the bite of a shark. She gives nothing away regarding the identity of her client or even her feelings about the property. She simply takes snapshots and asks questions.
“The price tag seems a little steep,” Lian comments. “When the estate last sold three years ago, it fetched just over ten million. I’m hard-pressed to imagine the value has tripled since then.”
Our pricing was aggressive. Maxon and I both agreed to a listing amount on the high side that allowed for more negotiating room for one simple reason.
“There’s nothing else on the island like it,” Maxon supplies. “The acreage and expansiveness of the water views alone command a hefty price. But add in the fact that the previous owner significantly remodeled and updated the estate, that every room overlooks the ocean…”
I add to his argument. “The square footage of the outdoor spaces equal those of the interior. There are four infinity-edge pools, all on different levels of the property, connected via waterfalls. So no matter which you decide to swim in, you’ll have the illusion of your water stretching out to the ocean. The estate has a chef’s kitchen, detached ohana for guests or rental property, and flexible space for an exercise or media room, whatever your client wants to use it for. The grounds are impeccable. This is really the premiere property in Maui.”
“But I can find most of these features elsewhere in Hawaii for less money.”
“Not with this kind of privacy,” I argue. “It’s gated and it has a guard post in case your client would like the estate’s security manned. There are no visible neighbors. Even the beach is private. Those factors, in some ways, make this place both unique and priceless.”
She cocks her head like she’s considering. “I’m going to walk the property again. You don’t need to escort me, thank you.”
Nearly two hours later, I’m guessing Lian has inspected every inch of the place once more when she finally saunters onto the lanai off the family room.
“Any questions for us?” Maxon asks, rising from a comfy chair.
I let him be the polite one. I’m not feeling terribly sociable. I’m itching to get back to Britta now, and have to bite my tongue from pointing out the mystery buyer is either interested in seeing the property for himself or he’s not.
“No, but I need a moment to confer with my client.” Lian excuses herself to make a call in the dedicated office space with stunning views of both the Pacific lining the front and the tropical gardens behind. Maxon paces between the kitchen and the family room, looking anxious.
I probably should be, too. Instead, I use the opportunity to walk the interior of the house again. I’ve seen it a couple of times, but I’ve looked at it from a Realtor’s perspective, not a tenant’s. Not as someone who will spend nights and weekends with his family here.
The bedroom on the top floor is an elaborate master suite with full ocean views from the bedroom, bathroom, and attached sitting area, the latter of which can be closed off from the rest of the room with an ornate pocket door. The remainder of the bedrooms are scattered around the property, mostly upstairs, on the far side of the floor from this amazing retreat.
For my purposes, the layout is perfect.
When I hear the opening of a door and the clacking of heels, I dash back down. Lian is clasping her phone and looking resolute. “My client would like to offer you twenty-four million. All cash. He insists on closing in exactly seventy-five days. Yes, that’s a Sunday, but I trust you can make that happen. For this price, he also expects the estate to come furnished.”
I somehow keep my jaw from dropping. Doesn’t the client want to see it for himself? Sometimes investors don’t, which I always think is a mistake. But I’m not about to blurt my opinion and throw a wrench into this offer.
Maxon and I exchange a glance, then fall back into old patterns. He talks. I evaluate our position. We’ll compare notes before anything is signed.
“It absolutely comes furnished,” my brother assures. “The current owners have already taken everything from the premises they want, so what you see comes included.”
“Excellent. Have the papers drawn up. My client will sign. Once you present the offer to your sellers, they have twenty-four hours to respond.”
At that point, Lian is clearly done. After a crisp thanks, she turns and leaves the premises. Because she insisted on coming i
n her own vehicle, she jumps into a sleek white Jaguar and departs. Maxon and I watch. As soon as the automatic gate closes behind her and she rounds the bend, he and I turn to each other and shout like rowdy teenagers.
Chest bumping and high-fiving aside, we scram back to the office to ready all the forms. Britta faxes them to Lian, seeming as shocked by the swiftness of this deal as we are. Maxon calls the Stowes. To say they’re thrilled is an understatement.
This deal, if it goes through, is a sudden blessing. It’s also a bit of a curse.
I thought I’d have more time to spend with Maxon before we had to decide whether to keep our respective businesses separate or merge again. But in less than two weeks, it looks as if we may have sold the biggest estate of our careers.
Decision time is upon us.
Maxon strolls in, wearing a smile. “I think twenty-five and a half is their bottom line, so if Lian’s guy will come up another one-point-five, this is done.”
The Stowes will make a huge chunk of cash off this transaction. The buyer will have an amazing home for himself and whomever he wants to share it with, along with all the privacy he can imagine. Maxon and I will both have money to spare and a basis to discuss our professional future. Best of all, Britta and I will have someplace to be with Jamie as a family virtually without interruption for the duration of our agreement.