“No.” She got up and walked to the window, arms crossed. “This was supposed to be my house. Big open floor plan, wide doors, porch access to the lake without needing to take a million stairs. It was the only house on the water that could’ve worked for my dad’s wheelchair, and it was in my price range.”
“What?” I asked quietly, not wanting to sound like a moron.
She turned, voice quieter as well. “I made an offer. It was accepted. But before we signed the paperwork, you came in with a bigger one. Took it right out from under me.”
“What?” I said again and blinked. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“I had no idea,” I said. “My realtor never told me there were other offers. I paid under asking.”
Her head snapped around. “You what?”
“I offered under asking. I told my agent if the place had been sitting for a year, get it. I figured it needed some TLC.”
Her expression shifted. “I offered full price. They told me someone came in higher and had plans to flip it. They even told me not to worry, and said the house would be back on the market soon, and ‘better than ever.’ But I couldn’t afford ‘better than ever.’ I needed it as is.”
I glanced around. Nothing in the house screamed luxury, but it was cleaner and updated. Modern. Livable.
“The plan was to sell it, but then I needed somewhere to stay when I’m in town. This house just spoke to me when I finally saw it, and I never resold it.”
“They probably took your lower offer because it was you. The agent practically glowed with excitement and let it slip that you were the buyer. She said we’d find a new house, maybe the one next door because it was about to go on the market. But it’s too big and too much, and I was done looking. I’ve pretty much hated you ever since.”
“I had no idea,” I repeated, though the weight behind her fury was starting to land. To me, it had been a business move. To her, it looked like I’d taken the one bar she loved, and the one house she’d needed.
“Whatever,” she sighed.
“I also bought Fiddlers,” I said out loud so she knew I understood. Blue just nodded and wiped her hands down her jeans as she paced in front of the window.
“That’s why you hate me, isn’t it?”
“I mean, I wanted to hate you. I tried. I did hate you… right up until I met you. But you’re not completely hateable.”
“Some people would strongly disagree,” I chuckled.
“Oh, definitely,” she said with a grin, her anger finally dissipating. “When Marshal turned into this driveway, I was giving myself a full-on mental pep talk about how much I hated you. But I can’t keep hating you for things you didn’t do on purpose.”
I watched her a second longer, then said quietly, “I really didn’t know about the other offer. If I had, I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”
She studied me, that same storm she was before now more of a drizzle. “Why do you care about fixing up houses here anyway? What do you mean that other house doesn’t need you?”
That stopped me cold.
Only my brothers and grandparents knew the real reason, and I’d always intended to keep it that way. But if Blue and I were going to pull this off and convince them that we were married for more than just convenience, she’d have to know me well enough to sell the lie.
Which meant knowing the truth.
Still, the words jammed up in my throat, my jaw tight, my gaze skimming the room like I might find an escape hatch in the drywall. It wasn’t some government-level secret. Anyone who really knew my parents probably could’ve put the pieces together.
But Blue was young, and the only version of my family she knew came from bar gossip and secondhand stories. Which mayhave included my brothers, but they were never really one to talk about me when I didn’t want them to.
So before I answered her, I hesitated. My jaw was tight and my eyes were drifting toward the dining room. Marcus had brought Marco’s for dinner, knowing we’d probably be starving, but it was getting cold now.
“Let’s eat,” I said, dodging the truth for now. “We’ll talk over dinner.”
Her gaze followed mine. “Marco’s?” She licked her lips. “I love Marco’s.”
She walked toward the bag like she did own the place, rummaging through the drawers for silverware as if she knew where everything was. She didn’t ask. Just set the table as though we did this every night.
