Reputation (Mason Family 2)

Or did I look back and not have my eyes open?

She positions herself over me. Her nightgown is gathered in one hand off to the side.

“What?” she asks.

I wish I could tell her how I feel. I wish I could promise her all of the things I want to promise her right now.

That I’ll always be there for her.

That she’ll never be alone.

That I’d kill someone if they hurt her and that I love her.

And maybe I always have.

A shiver runs down my spine.

Take care of my little girl …

I will look after her, Joe. I’m just not sure exactly how yet.

But I don’t say those things because it’s not the right time. Honestly, it might never be.

“Nothing,” I say instead.

“Good. You talk too much.”

I laugh as she sinks herself onto me, and I lose myself to this beautiful woman yet again. And maybe in a way I can never take back.

Fourteen

Bellamy

The ice in my cup clinks together.

I stand beside Larissa, turning my head side to side as I try to see what she sees.

The hedges in front of us are overgrown, and the lawn needs reseeding. Patches of grass are missing, and the deep, dark soil is exposed.

Larissa moseys her way around the property. She has a notebook in her hand and a pencil in the other as she sketches ideas on how to transform and restore this once-magnificent property.

I follow my friend around like a puppy and drink my iced coffee. I have nothing to contribute to her vision, no creative ideas to plant a colorful row of flowers or a windbreak on the north—something she said to me when we got here that still doesn’t make sense.

But I tag along and tell her she’s a genius because that’s what best friends do. That and it’s better than sitting at home, wondering what Coy is doing like some lovestruck teenager.

I turn away from the row of bushes Larissa is inspecting—like I look at cake—and take in the back of the early 1900s home. It oozes charm with its tall windows and faded bricks. The inconsistent colors make it imperfectly perfect.

I sip my drink and imagine the house lit up for Christmas. I envision white lights glowing from inside and scents of roast beef warming the air. I’m certain music was played inside the walls, and I hope against all hope that they had cats. It’s definitely a house for kittens.

The French doors leading from the living room swing open, and a woman in a tailored pastel pink skirt suit steps outside. Connie, as she introduced herself when we arrived, ushers an older couple onto the patio.

Connie gives us a little wave before turning back to the prospective buyers of the home.

“Just imagine this backyard all neat and tidy. Maybe with a large swimming pool and a barbecue to the right.” Connie sweeps her hands through the air like Vanna White. “It would be fabulous.”

No, it would not.

The man and woman standing next to Connie seem to agree with me. And whether Connie knows it or not, she’s not convincing them to take a chance on this beautiful place that’s falling into disrepair.

I should stay quiet and let Connie handle her business. None of this is my concern. Luckily for me and sadly for Connie, keeping my mouth shut is not how I operate.

“Don’t put a pool there,” I say, walking toward the patio. “You’ll have leaves in it all the time. Besides, imagine having kids out here. You’d never get any rest.”

Connie narrows her eyes. Be patient, Connie girl.

I have no idea what I’m doing, but this house needs a family. And, dammit, I’m going to get her one.

I turn around and take in the vastness of the space in the backyard. Ideas of what I would do with this property spring to life. Even though I’ll never have either one, I let myself play.

“I’d do a pool over there,” I say, pointing to an area to the left. “Can you imagine the water reflecting inside on summer days? And you could do a fence around it—in glass. How fun would that be?”

Larissa side-eyes me from the rose bushes, and I give her a bright smile. I can only imagine what’s going through her head right now, knowing I don’t have the slightest clue about landscape or design or selling houses.

Yet none of that deters me. I’m on a mission.

“What else would you do?” the woman asks, stepping to my side. “What would you do over there?”

“My friend Larissa—that’s her over there,” I say, pointing at Riss, “she’s a landscape designer. I would have her create a version of a flower garden with minimal upkeep. No one wants to be out here pulling weeds.”

“Dear heavens, no, they do not.”

“And over here,” I say, sweeping my hands to the right in my own version of a Vanna White, “this is where I’d put the barbecue and a firepit.”