45

Motivation

As soon as Kelly’s car was up and running again, Drew doubled back to the lakehouse as quietly as he could. He’d left the toolbox beside the car, a few tools scattered around in case anyone tried to see through the trees on the upper level of the lakehouse and could make out the side of Kelly’s car.

When he reached the bottom step, he paused a few seconds, and then carefully took the front door keys from his pocket.

To his knowledge, they were the only copy on the property.

Which suited him just fine.

He quietly locked the front door, making sure that the keys didn’t jangle against each other. He’d have been fine on any of them walking in on him fixing Kelly’s car, but not now.

Definitely not now.

Despite how carefully he moved, his feet still crunched on leaves and dirt as he made his way to the side of the house.

There were more steps here, heading down to the lake. Beside him, log turned to brick. And in that brick wall, a door. He glanced up, squinting up at the kitchen window more than six feet above him. It was closed. He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

His cabin cruiser was as still as the surface of the lake. Even when a breeze ruffled the surface of the water a few seconds later, it barely lifted the hull. He let himself into the boathouse and went around to the lockers at the back. He opened the doors and inhaled a long, slow breath.

Good… his house sitter had followed his instructions as meticulously as he’d hoped.

Drew flipped on the light switch. It shone a sickly white glow over everything, turning the oxygen tanks into hulking shapes that gleamed as ominously as the medical equipment in a hospital.

When his cellphone rang, he almost dropped the cylinder he’d been carrying toward the boat on his foot.

“Jesus,” he muttered, fumbling in his pocket for his phone. He glared at the screen and answered with a gruff, “Yes?”

“Drew? Drew, it’s me, Claire. Listen, I can’t begin to apologize enough for—”

“No, you can’t.” He put the phone down and carried the cylinder aboard.

Claire phoned back as he set foot back on the jetty.

“What?” he barked.

“Drew, I sent them an email to cancel. All of them. I have no idea why they still came through. I mean, I told everyone the house was off the market. I did. I wouldn’t intentionally ruin your—”

“Forget it, Claire. What’s done is done. It fucked up a perfectly good morning, but I guess I’ll just have to hire a different realtor the next time I need to sell a house.”

The woman was still whining about something when he put the phone down on her. He waited for a few seconds, heart hammering in his throat and a frown etched deep between his brows, staring at the phone’s dead screen.

But she didn’t phone back.

He turned, put his back to the wall beside the boat house’s door, and slid into a crouch. Yanking his cigarettes from his pocket, he stared out at the lake as he lit his cigarette.

She’d emailed all of them? Told everyone it wasn’t for sale anymore?

What if more people came? People like Greta and her husband, who’d somehow not gotten Claire’s email. Who’d driven five, six, seven hours to get here and would be willing to poke their heads inside even if they didn’t see a for sale sign on the drive next to Kelly’s car?

Plus, with so many cars in the drive, wouldn’t that be a signal to anyone looking that other people were already here? That more prospective buyers were already congregating on this lakehouse like vultures, and they’d be missing out if they turned tail and went back home?

He phoned Claire back with no more than half an inch of his cigarette left.

“Drew?”

“Listen to me carefully, Claire.” He tugged at his cigarette, speaking through the smoke. “You’re going to phone every single one of those idiots you told about the open house today, and you’re going to make damn sure they’re not on their way here. Got it?”

“Y-yes. Of course. I was just doing—”

“And then you’re going to find out if they told anyone else about the house. If they invited friends, or colleagues, or the homeless woman down the street to join them. Because if one more person arrives here today looking to buy this place—”

“I’m on it, Mr. Sugar. Please, just… just let me make the calls. I’ll call you back as soon—”

His laugh cut her off. “I’m trying to have a romantic fucking weekend with my fiancé, Claire. Having complete strangers rocking up here, having to speak to my realtor… it’s not exactly giving me a rise.”

There was a shocked, indrawn breath, and then Claire blurted out, “I’m so sorry, Drew. Really, I didn’t—”

He ended the call with a vicious stab and again had to restrain himself from throwing the device as far into the lake as he could manage without putting out his shoulder.

Facing the lockers, he squared his shoulders and let out a long, calming breath.

Then he slipped his phone back into his pocket, grabbed another cylinder, and hoisted it onto the back of the boat. They weren’t all that heavy, but there were plenty of them. Every time his back twinged as he tossed them over the side of the boat, he pictured Bryce’s face. That smug, crooked grin on his face.

Amazing, how effective that kind of motivation could be.