Worth More Than Money (Worth It 3)

“Mr. MacDonald. It’s Mr. Angier.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and took a look at the number.

“To what do I owe this call?” I asked.

“Well, it’s about an offer,” Mr. Angier said. “The non-profit just sent in their offer, and it’s an above-market-value bid on the property.”

“What?” I asked.

“Yep. You’re asking for three hundred thousand, and they’ve offered three fifty.”

“Why offer more? That doesn’t make sense for a non-profit,” I said.

“They really want the property, and they wanted to make sure they beat out any other bids you might have had. If I may be so bold, you’d be an idiot to not take this offer.”

“Well, you can’t be so bold in the future, so keep that in mind,” I said.

“My apologies, Mr. MacDonald. But all you need to do is accept the offer and I can do everything else. You can be on the next flight home, and notaries as well as scanners can do the rest.”

“I’ll think about it and get back with you,” I said.

“But Mr. Mac—”

I hung up the phone before that weasel of a man could get another word in edgewise. I looked around Anton’s house and took it all in as a sigh fell from my lips. It should have been easy to accept an offer like that. To accept and leave Stillsville behind for good, like I had back in high school. So why the hell did it annoy me that Mr. Angier was pushing that offer? It was a great offer! It gave Anton’s estate more money to donate to charities. Or to donate to the community. Or to purchase more properties to give away.

I could buy Michelle a place with it.

I shook the thought away as quickly as it hit my mind. What the hell was wrong with me? That woman didn’t mean shit to me any longer. I had no idea what she was trying to pull by telling me she was pregnant, skirting around behind my back, then leaving Stillsville. She was all over the map, and the last thing I needed to do was sink myself further into the image she portrayed of herself.

Because that image wasn’t accurate.

But even though I didn’t want to admit it to myself, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. About where she had gone or what she was going to do now. Even after what she did to me, my mind still rac

ed to her. My heart still sped up at the thought of her. My cock still throbbed at the phantom scent of her.

The car.

I had to finish fixing the Chevy.

But really, the only thing left to do on it was the tires. A tow truck had already come and towed it away, and the delivery of the tires in the morning to the shop would culminate the small journey I had traveled in order to restore it. Glass would be replaced, the paint and the dents I smoothed over would be buffed and shining. Then, the tires would get put on and everything would be good as new again.

Unfortunately, I didn’t feel good as new again.

As I stood there, staring into the empty garage, I had no idea why the hell I’d made it such a big deal. Why I felt the precipice and the culmination of who I was and the man I had grown into hinged on fixing up a damn car. Anton was dead. He had no idea what I was doing to his Chevy. And even if he did, it wasn’t like his ghost could joyride around in it. The car was nothing but a damn distraction to keep me from thinking about the bullshit this town had brought back down on my shoulders.

In the form of Michelle.

But now that it was done, I either had to find another distraction. Or I had to go home. So why the hell was I still floundering with that decision?

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket as I gazed into the empty garage. No more floundering. No more idiotic tactics. No more dreaming. I had a billion-dollar wine business I was neglecting for a woman that didn’t even exist. A woman who wasn’t even in town anymore. A woman who probably wasn’t carrying anyone’s child.

It was time for me to go home.

“Mr. Angier speaking.”

“It’s Grayson,” I said.

“What can I do for you?”