“Because you want to subdivide Bee’s lot. Or sell. Or build a freaking McMansion on it!”

“I’m not subdividing Bee’s lot. Or selling. I already told you that.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Why shouldn’t you? And this morning your expression said everything, so I figured I’d save that guy from getting punched in the nuts—although I’m kind of regretting that I didn’t do it myself, since he seems to think you’re interested in getting on your back for him. Or your knees.”

“Excuse me?”

“Those were his words, not mine.”

Her lip curls. “Tucker is a delusional jackass. I would do neither of those things, even if he was the last man on earth.”

At least I was right about that.

The horn blares in Dillion’s truck, and she fires the bird at the window behind her. “Just a second, Billy!” She blows out a breath. “Think you’d mind giving me some room to get into my truck?”

I roll the window down the rest of the way and poke my head out. I’m so close to her I can smell her shampoo. Her breath breaks across my cheek. It smells like cherry candy.

I meet her somewhat annoyed gaze. “Guess I’m kinda close, huh?”

“Kinda? There’s no way you could get out of the passenger side without hitting my truck!”

“I could probably manage.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

I’m having way too much fun with her, so I make a move to open the door.

“What’re you doing? You’re going to crush me!”

“Well, move out of the way and I won’t.”

“You’re impossible!”

“And you’re like one of those little windup toys, bouncing around all pissed off.”

“I am not!” She tries to cross her arms, but there isn’t enough room between her and the truck.

I grin, and she frowns, brows furrowing. “Oh my God. Are you doing this on purpose? Was this intentional?” She motions to the lack of space between our vehicles, mouth agape.

My smile widens. “Why would I do that?”

She snaps her mouth shut and points a finger at me. “You’re infuriating.”

“I know. And you’re fun to rile up.” I waggle my brows at her.

“I can’t even.” She turns around between the trucks, though it isn’t easy.

“You’re welcome for saving you from Tucker the Fucker.”

“I didn’t need saving.” She opens her door and shimmies into the driver’s seat.

“Kinda seemed like you did.”

She slams the door closed and turns the engine over. The window whirs down as she puts the truck in gear. “I can hold my own with Tucker.”

“You’re still welcome. Maybe I’ll see you later tonight. I’m planning to take a shower around eight thirty, in case you wanted to schedule your home invasion accordingly!” I shout as she drives away.

Her hand appears, the middle finger aimed at me, as she pulls out of the parking lot and back onto the road.

I don’t bother rolling the window up or locking the truck. No one is going to try to steal this hunk of junk.

I’m in a much better mood as I head into the lawyer’s office. I’m a couple of minutes late, thanks to my conversation with Dillion, but no one seems to care if you’re on time around here. Appointment times appear to be a suggestion more than anything.

Bernie is an older man who looks to be in his late sixties, possibly early seventies. He’s missing most of his hair, wears bifocals, and has huge eyebrows that remind me of caterpillars. His desk is organized chaos, stacks of manila folders arranged around it. A twelve-inch space is carved out in the middle, almost like a door or a window, so I can see him. It would annoy the crap out of me to work like that.

He plunks himself down in his faded leather chair. The arms are so worn that the leather has split and the foam padding peeks through. “I think I remember you from when you used to come visit Bee in the summers. Or was that your brother?”

“My brother never really came—maybe only for a few weeks when we were younger.” He would have spent the entire summer lounging by the pool at our house in Chicago if that had been an option, but it wasn’t. Bradley has always been driven by the almighty dollar, and he couldn’t stand the clutter at Grammy Bee’s, or her eccentricities. He also isn’t a fan of bugs. Or manual labor. There was a lot of both when we visited. Grammy Bee never let me sit on my ass and do nothing all summer.

“Ah, yes. Now I remember. You stayed the whole summer up until college. Right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I hope you’ve changed your mind and decided not to sell the property. When you’re able, anyway. Besides, getting town approval on subdividing isn’t likely to happen.”

I frown. I have to wonder if Dillion said something to him. “I’m not planning to sell, or subdivide. Can I ask where you heard that?”

His bushy brows pull together. “Um, from you? We spoke on the phone once, right after Bee’s death.”

“No, we didn’t.” Is there something in the water in this town?

Bernie looks confused but pushes on. “Sometimes people get forgetful after someone passes away. It’s not uncommon. You asked me how much land there was and what the value was. You also wanted to know whether you could parcel off the land to sell, or if it would be worth more to put a single-family dwelling up.”

“I would definitely remember that conversation. Which we didn’t have. And I’m not planning to sell.” I could never do that to Grammy.

He folds his hands on his desk and smiles patiently. “Hmm. Well, is it possible someone else might have called on your behalf? Maybe your family lawyer?”

“Maybe?” It’s possible my dad’s lawyer called. Another thought I don’t like. Especially with everything else that’s going on right now.

“Ah, well, it’s good to hear you’re staying. Let’s review everything, shall we?”

We go through the details of the will, which are straightforward. My sister and brother both received checks for $50,000 each, the value of one-third of the standing cottage. At least at the time the will was written. Things have changed in the past couple of decades, with all the renovated mansion-style cottages on the other side of the lake. Regardless, I’ve inherited everything else, which consists of the property and all its contents. A small amount is left in the bank, but most of it was cleared out by the checks to my brother and sister. By the end of the meeting, I’ve signed everything I need to get it all transferred into my name.

On my way back through town, I decide to stop at the bar. I miss socializing and friends. So far the only people I’ve spoken much to are cashiers and Dillion. Although Frankie and Chip have both reached out, it’s not the same as hitting the bar or the golf course. I’m not even particularly good at golf. I just play because my friends do.

I scan the bar, take one of the empty seats near the end of the row, and order a glass of their best whiskey—which is pretty cheap shit. It tastes like lighter fluid and smells about the same.

Two women who are most definitely locals take the seats to the right of me. I know they’re local because they’re fresh faced and natural looking, not overpolished like most of the women in Chicago. Like they’ve already added the Snapchat filter so they’re always social media–post ready. These ladies look low maintenance.