Winning His Heart: The Millionaire's Homecoming / The Maverick Millionaire. Melissa McCloneЧитать онлайн книгу.
That house had once been so full of love and laughter and hopes and dreams. The state it was in now made it seem like the final few words in the closing chapter of a book with a sad ending.
David wondered if maybe the reason he had stayed so angry at Kevin was because if he ever let go of that, the sadness would swallow him whole.
“The Jaffreys got a condo on the water,” Kayla continued. “The house would have gone to Kevin, eventually. They wanted me to have it.”
He let that sink in. Kayla was his mother’s next-door neighbor. She was living in the house he and Kevin had chased through in those glorious, carefree days of their youth.
He didn’t want to ask her anything. He didn’t want to know.
And yet he annoyed himself by asking anyway, “Doesn’t that house need quite a lot of work?”
He hoped she would hear his lack of enthusiasm. And he thought he caught a momentary glimpse of the fact she was overwhelmed by the house in something faintly worried in her eyes. But she covered it quickly.
“Yes!” she said, her enthusiasm striking him as faintly forced. “It needs everything.”
Naturally, she would never walk away from that particular gift horse. She was needed.
He couldn’t stop himself. “Do you ever give up on hopeless causes?”
KAYLA LOOKED BRIEFLY WOUNDED and then she just looked mad. David liked her angry look quite a bit better than the wounded one. The wounded expression made her look vulnerable and made him feel protective of her, even though he had caused it in the first place!
“Are you talking about the house?” she asked dangerously.
He answered safely, “Yes,” though he was aware, as was she, that he could have been talking about Kevin.
“Do you ever get tired of being a wet blanket?”
“I prefer to think of it as being the voice of reason.”
“I don’t care to hear it.”
David didn’t care what Kayla cared to hear. She obviously was in for some hard truths today, whether she liked it or not. Maybe somebody did have to protect her. From herself! And apparently, no one had stepped up to the plate to do that so far.
“That house,” he said, his tone cool and reasonable, “is doing a long, slow slide into complete ruin.”
“It isn’t,” she said, as though he hadn’t been reasonable at all. “And it isn’t a hopeless cause!”
There. He’d said his piece. Despite the fact that he dealt in investments, including real estate, all the time, his expertise had been rejected.
He could leave with a clear conscience. He had tried to warn her away from a house that was a little more—a lot more—of a project than any thinking person would take on, let alone a single woman.
“I’ve already ordered all new windows,” she said stubbornly. “And the floors are scheduled for refinishing.”
A money pit, he thought to himself. He ordered himself to shut up, so was astounded when, out loud, he said drily, “Kayla to the rescue.”
She frowned at him.
Stop! David yelled at himself. But he didn’t stop. “I bet the dog is a rescue, too, isn’t it?”
He had his answer when she flushed. He realized Kevin wasn’t the only one he was angry with.
“There was quite a large insurance settlement,” she said, her voice stiff with pride. “Can you think of a better use for it than restoring Kevin’s childhood home?”
“Actually, yes.”
She was in his field of expertise now. This is what he did, and he did it extremely well. He counseled people on how to invest their money. Blaze Enterprises was considered one of the most successful investment firms in Canada.
“A falling-down house in Blossom Valley would probably rate dead last on my list of potential places to put money.”
“Are you always so crushingly practical?”
“Yes.”
“Humph. Well, I’m going to buy a business here, too,” she said stubbornly, her swollen brows drawing together as she read his lack of elaboration for what it was: a complete lack of enthusiasm.
“Really?” he said, not even trying to hide the cynical note from his voice.
“Really,” she shot back. Predictably, his cynicism was only making her dig in even deeper. “I’m looking at an ice cream parlor.”
“An ice cream parlor? Hmm, that just edged the house out of the position of dead last on my list of potential investments,” he said drily.
“More-moo is for sale,” she said, as though she hadn’t heard him. “On Main Street.”
As if the location would change his mind.
He told himself he didn’t care how she spent her money. Didn’t care if she blew the whole wad.
But somehow he did. Given free rein, Kayla would rescue the world until there was not a single crumb left for herself.
There was no doubt in his mind that More-moo was one more rescue for her, one more thing destined for failure and therefore irresistible. It was time for him to walk away. And yet he thought if he did not try to dissuade her he might not be able to sleep at night.
Sleep was important.
“Nobody sells a business at the top of its game,” he cautioned her.
“The owners are retiring.”
“Uh-huh.”
She looked even more stubborn, her attempts to furrow her brow thwarted somewhat by how swollen it was.
It was none of his business. Let her throw her money around until she had none left.
But of course, that was the problem with having tasted her lips all those years ago. And it was the problem with having chased with her through endless summers on the lake. It was the problem with having studied with her for exams, and walked to school with her on crisp fall days, and sat beside her at the movies, their buttered fingers accidentally touching over popcorn.
It was the problem with having surrendered the first girl he had ever cared about to his best friend, only to watch catastrophe unfold.
There was a feeling that he had dropped the ball, maybe when it mattered most. He couldn’t set back the clock. But maybe he could manage not to drop the ball this time.
Whether he wanted to or not, David had a certain emotional attachment to her—whether he wanted to or not, he cared what happened to her.
At least he could set Kayla straight on the ice cream parlor.
“There is no way,” he said with elaborate patience, “to make money at a business where you only have good numbers for eight weeks of the year. You’ve seen this town in the winter. And spring, and fall, for that matter. You could shoot off a cannon on Main Street and not hit anyone.”
“The demographics are changing,” she said, as if she hoped he would be impressed by her use of the word demographics. “People are living here all year round. It’s become quite a retirement choice.”
“It’s still a business that will only ever have eight good weeks every year. And even those eight weeks are weather dependent. Nobody eats ice cream in the rain.”
“We did,” she said softly.
“Huh?”
“We