The One for You Read online

  However, the voice that drifted down the hallway wasn’t male and wasn’t demonic in the supernatural way, just in the completely and utterly annoying way. “Gorgeous period detailing. Truly historic. I mean, this gem isn’t going to stay on the market long. I barely was able to sneak in a preview today. But I have my secret ways. It’s just so quaint, don’t you think?”

  Kincaid’s stomach turned, wondering what she’d done to piss off the universe today. “Oh, Lord, give me strength and a shot of tequila.”

  “What’s wrong?” Liv whispered. “Who’s that?”

  Kincaid hoped she was wrong, but she’d know that nasal, syrupy voice anywhere. “Valerie Van Arden, top seller over at Wilder Realty. I have no idea how she’s here. It’s Ferris’s listing, and it’s not even online yet.”

  “I take it we don’t like Valerie Van Arden?”

  Kincaid eyed the kitchen doorway, Valerie’s too-high voice echoing off the walls of the house like an off-key song. “We do not. She thinks the sun comes up just to hear her crow. Also, she hates me because I once dated a guy she had her eye on, claims I stole him. As if that’s a thing. Like a person can be stolen.”

  “Fun,” Liv said with a grim look as she and Kincaid headed out of the kitchen and returned to the living room.

  Valerie stepped into the room from the foyer, clad in all violet—her self-designated signature color—and a well-dressed couple followed behind her. Val’s blue eyes went wide, and she put a hand to her chest as she spotted Kincaid and Liv standing there. “Well, I’ll be,” she said dramatically. “Kincaid Breslin. I didn’t know the house was being shown already. You gave me quite the scare.”

  Kincaid put on a beaming smile and whipped out her own version of southern-style hostility. “Well, honey, our car is parked right outside. I’m sure you saw it.”

  “Oh, is that yours?” she mused. “It looked so dusty, I thought it was abandoned.”

  Kincaid’s teeth clenched as she held her smile. “You know how it is. I stay so busy, I just haven’t had time to bring it in for a wash. Clients come first.”

  “Of course.” Valerie’s red lips twitched. “Well, we won’t get in your way. I’m just going to show the Nicholsons around.” She glanced at the couple. “Isn’t this place so special?”

  “I don’t know. It’s pretty run-down,” Kincaid said with a dismissive shrug.

  Valerie’s lips pursed. “Oh, it’s just the surface that needs a little polishing. Jason here is an architect. He could make this place into a showpiece, couldn’t you, Jason?”

  The man was scanning the space with analytical eyes. He nodded. “I could. The size is perfect.” He glanced at his wife, who was snapping a photo with her phone. “Sweetheart, we could strip out everything and start fresh, maintain the look outside. Go modern minimalist on the inside. White walls. Black and gray furniture. It would be so open and airy.”

  Modern minimalist? Something died inside Kincaid. “You can’t be serious,” she blurted out.

  The man’s attention swung Kincaid’s way, and he sent her an affronted look. “Excuse me?”

  Liv made a choked sound next to her, but Kincaid couldn’t hold her tongue. “I’m just saying, if you want modern, get a loft in Austin or go grab one of the lots in Wilder and build from scratch. Why would you want to turn this into something it’s not?”

  “Because we could turn it into something better.” His chin lifted a fraction, like a little kid putting his little foot down.

  “But this has character.” Kincaid crossed her arms, ready to argue.

  “Oh, Kincaid, you’re too much,” Valerie said with faux lightness, the tension showing in the lines around her eyes. “She’s just messing with you, Jason. Better watch her, y’all. She’s a wily one. She’ll steal something from right under your nose. Just like that.” Valerie snapped her fingers, the sharp sound echoing in the cavernous room.

  “She probably has a client who wants it, and she’s just trying to scare you off. But we don’t scare easily.” She gave Jason a wink. “Let’s continue the tour, shall we?” Valerie pretended like Kincaid and Liv weren’t there as she passed them on her way to the kitchen. The Nicholsons and a cloud of Valerie’s lavender perfume followed. “Eight bedrooms. A mudroom. Beautiful yard out back with a pond.”

  Kincaid stayed frozen to the spot. Something was beating at the walls of her brain, her heart pounding against her temples. She listened as the couple exclaimed over how great the kitchen would be if converted to an industrial look.

  Industrial. Deep breaths.

  “Kincaid.” Liv put a hand on her arm. “Are you all right? Your cheeks are all flushed.”

  Kincaid pressed her lips together, her eyes still focused in the direction of the kitchen. She had trouble pinpointing the emotions coursing through her. Anger was one. But the other one felt like…loss. Like this was her house those people were tromping through. Her dreams they were traipsing upon.

  “Are you worried you’re going to lose the sale?” Liv asked. “Should you call your client? Maybe she can move fast if she loves it. I can send the pics to her as soon as I get to a laptop if she can’t make it out here quickly enough.”

  “This house is not for them,” Kincaid declared.

  “I agree,” Liv said with a nod. “I love modern, but this is not the house for that. Even if they had a good vision for it, I wouldn’t want that horrible woman to make the commission. Call your client.”

  Kincaid shook her head. “It’s not for my client either. She won’t understand it.”

  Liv’s brow wrinkled. “Understand what?”

  Kincaid spread her arms out. “That it’s already beautiful and just needs some help getting back to its glory, not to become something else entirely. Why is the world so obsessed with making things into what they’re not?”

  Liv frowned. “Well, does it really matter what someone does to it as long as you’re the one getting the sale? That’s the main point, right? Sell the house. Make the money.”

  That should be the main point. Kincaid needed this sale if she wanted to keep her gig at the agency.

  “Oh, sweetheart. I think this is the one,” the woman client said somewhere in the distance. “We should snatch this one up before anyone else can.”

  Valerie made a gleeful sound. “I think that is an excellent idea. You have brilliant taste. Let’s talk offer.”

  Liv gave her a panicked look. “Oh shit. They’re going to buy. Call your client, Kincaid.”

  Kincaid pulled her phone from her purse and dialed Ferris.

  He answered on the first ring, the sounds of a keyboard clacking in the background. “Talk to me, gorgeous. Tell me you’re going to make us both money.”

  Kincaid wet her lips. “I have an offer on the farmhouse.”

  “That’s fantastic. You’re an angel.” The typing stopped. “Bethany’s putting in an offer?”

  “No,” Kincaid said, her throat tightening. “I am. Full price if they take the offer without waiting for others.”

  “You?” he asked, concern filling his voice. “Oh, sweetie, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You know how dangerous it can be to get heart eyes for a new property. Believe me, I’ve been there. That’s a lot of money you’d need to come up with. Maybe you should take some time—”

  The suggestion that she didn’t have enough, that she couldn’t afford it pushed an old, sore button and launched her right over the railing of the already sinking ship.

  “Put in the offer,” she said, her voice brooking no argument. “This isn’t about heart eyes.”

  Ferris paused for a long moment but then sighed. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do that right now.”

  “Thank you, Ferris.”

  She ended the call and turned to Liv, who had a horror-movie expression on her face. “Girl, what are you doing?” she whisper-shouted.

 
Kincaid swallowed, the phone call catching up with her and a hot panic rolling through her. “I think I just bought myself a bed-and-breakfast.”

  One she hadn’t planned on.

  One she couldn’t afford.

  One she simply could not walk away from.

  Two

  Ashton Isaacs had never been evicted before, which was surprising considering how little money he’d left his hometown with all those years ago, but today he might break that streak. If he didn’t get his shit out the door and his ass out of his Brooklyn apartment, he was going to get booted to the curb in front of all his neighbors.

  Former neighbors.

  He checked his watch and then set a box of carefully packed books in the hallway outside his apartment door. A box of random items his now ex-fiancée had left behind was sitting out there, too, hastily labeled Melanie’s Crap. He wasn’t proud of scrawling that on the box, but last night when he was packing up an entire apartment alone, it’d made him feel better. Plus, it’d been safer than his first instinct—to burn it. Not that it really mattered anyway. Ash doubted Melanie would even come back for it. Harlan from the Hamptons would probably replace anything she was missing. Hell, she didn’t need Harlan from the Hamptons. She could replace it herself.

  Mel’s attorney income was the reason Ash had ended up with such a high-priced apartment in the first place. They’d been sharing his dingy flat outside London, where they’d met, while she was doing an internship in international law, but once they’d moved to New York, Melanie’s standards had changed. She’d covered two-thirds of the rent, which he’d protested up front, but she’d insisted. “I’m not living in New Jersey just so you can feel like we’re even. You’re a writer. It’s just the way of the world that you make less. Not a sign of you being less.”

  He didn’t want to act like some chauvinist who was threatened by his girlfriend making more money. He hadn’t been threatened by that. He’d just spent most of his time since graduating from high school living as frugally as possible because he hadn’t walked out of Long Acre with anything to spare. Being careful had kept him afloat and traveling to all the places he’d wanted to see and write about. But he’d loved Melanie and had wanted to make her happy and comfortable. Now he realized why he should’ve fought harder against the uneven split. When you’re the one making less, when things end, it’s your butt on the curb without a place to live.

  It didn’t help that he’d spent such a big chunk of the money he’d made when he turned in his last book on her engagement ring—a ring she had conveniently forgotten to give back when she’d called off the engagement. And no way was he calling her to ask for it back. He couldn’t stomach the thought of her looking at him with pity, like he needed the money. Fuck that. She could keep the damn thing.

  But not having the ring to cash in left him here, stacking boxes in the hallway. Without that money, until he got a payment on another book contract—if he could get another book contract—he didn’t even have enough to get a place in Jersey and last more than a few months without going under. He’d worked too hard to slide that far back into the hole now.

  So after drinking too much the night Melanie left, he’d made a decision. He was going to have to do what he swore he would never do. The only way he could figure out how to save up money fast.

  His phone buzzed in his back pocket. He set down another box, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, and stepped back into the apartment. When he saw the number on the screen, he took a breath, not wanting his irritation with his situation to come through in his voice. He forced a smile, hoping she’d be able to hear it in his tone. “Hey there, Grace. How’s my favorite lady?”

  “Oh, just fine, sweetie,” Grace said, her voice a soothing balm to his frazzled state. “Just wanted to check on you. How’s the packing going?”

  “Almost done, ma’am,” he said, his Texas accent bubbling up despite him having spent the last decade trying to shake it. Grace did that to him. “With all the traveling, I don’t keep much. I just have to get the last few boxes into the moving van, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “That’s great to hear. Do you know how long the drive’s going to take?” she asked, the sound of water running in the background.

  He could picture her outside by her and Charlie’s pool, the little waterfall feature running while she sipped her coffee on the back porch, the air probably already heavy with humidity. His mood lightened a little at the comforting image. “I plan on doing the drive over two days, so I should be there Sunday afternoon if that works for y’all.”

  “Of course. We’ll be looking forward to seeing you, though I’m sorry about the circumstances,” she said. “You doing okay, hon?”

  The genuine concern in her voice made his chest tighten, made him wish he’d had Grace in his corner from the very start, but he forced a bright tone. “Totally fine. They say everything happens for a reason, right?”

  Lies. Total fucking lies. If he’d ever had any hope that the sentiment was true, he’d lost it after the Long Acre shooting. There was no reason good enough for all those people dying. But he wanted to reassure Grace.

  Grace paused as though she knew exactly the amount of bullshit he was feeding her, but she didn’t call him on it. “Good. And I’m not going to get involved, but I’ll just say that if Melanie is going to be the type of woman to see another man behind your back, better she showed herself now and not after the wedding. I say, good riddance. She had terrible taste in books anyway.”

  Ash laughed, the sound surprising him. “Egregious taste.”

  “See? You’ve saved yourself a lot of future heartache. Now, Charlie is planning on fried chicken, coleslaw, and macaroni for when you get here,” she said, making it clear he didn’t need to discuss the demise of his relationship with her beyond that. “You have any special requests for dessert?”

  His stomach rumbled at the thought of Charlie’s food. “Tell him not to go to any trouble. I already appreciate y’all letting me stay in the apartment above the store while I finish this book. You both have already done enough.”

  More than he’d ever in his life have time to thank them for.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “You’re family. And with all your world traveling, we haven’t seen you since last Christmas. That calls for a homecoming meal.”

  Homecoming. Home.

  His gut twisted, the hunger turning into something more acidic. He looked forward to seeing Grace and Charlie. They were the kind of family he’d always wished he’d had, and they treated him like he was one of their own. But the thought of rolling back into his hometown with an unwritten book, no contract, and no good idea of when he could leave again made every inch of his skin itch. He’d sworn he’d never return for more than a holiday visit with the Lowells. That he’d never let the grass grow under his feet in that smothering small town again.

  Since he’d left for college, he’d traveled and lived in so many interesting places. He’d become a writer. He’d formed a new identity, a new story. Back home, no matter what he’d accomplished, he’d just be Ashton Isaacs again. The disappointing, estranged son of Pete Isaacs, revered high-school football coach. Survivor of the Long Acre High tragedy. The guy who bailed on a town in mourning and didn’t look back. Couldn’t look back.

  Ash tucked his phone into his back pocket after wrapping up the call and ran a hand over his face. Anxiety was welling up in him like an old friend. Part of him wanted to ditch the whole plan. Just suck it up, give up the writing gig, and go find a random job in some low-cost-of-living town. But even as he thought it, his shoulders sagged. He wasn’t ready to give up yet. He’d lost his fiancée. He didn’t want to lose his dream career, too.

  Long Acre came with baggage. So much baggage. But right now, it also came with a rent-free apartment and the kind of quiet atmosphere that could lend itself to getting through this writer’s block. As long as he stay
ed out of the way, he could avoid his parents and the trappings that came with going back to that town where people knew who you were before you were a grown-up.

  This was not giving up. This was not running home with his tail between his legs. This was an economical writing retreat…said Jack Torrance as he pulled up to the Overlook Hotel.

  Ugh. Images of typing All work and no play makes Ash a dull boy flitted through his head, but he pushed the thoughts away. At least in Long Acre there was no chance of getting snowed in.

  But there were definitely ghosts.

  With one last look at his now-former apartment building, Ash packed his things into the rental van, got behind the wheel, and cued up the longest and scariest audiobook he owned. Horror seemed appropriate right now. The road home was a long one.

  * * *

  Kincaid was aggressively frying eggs on Sunday morning. The sizzle, like white noise in her ears, was usually soothing, but her head was pulsing with steady panic. She flipped the eggs and accidentally broke the yolk on one.

  “Dammit.” She grabbed a whisk to turn this batch into scrambled instead of over-easy.

  She never messed up eggs. This dish was one of the things she’d been perfecting since childhood—the perfect fried egg. But the signed contract sitting in her purse seemed to be emanating some kind of “Tell-Tale Heart” signal, asking silently—What have you done, what have you done? It was totally throwing off her cooking mojo.

  At least she hadn’t burned the biscuits.

  “No, genius, just your life savings,” she muttered to herself, “and your goddamned good sense. Ashes for both of them.”

  For so long, she’d prided herself on not being like her mother, on being responsible and saving each penny, on taking care of herself and never having to count on anyone to bail her out. She’d already learned what putting all of her hope on someone else could do to you. And in one fell swoop, she’d pulled a classic Judith Breslin. She’d taken money she’d spent so much time saving, dropped it on a random number, and spun the goddamned roulette wheel of her life.