Final Offer (Dreamland Billionaires, #3)(3)

“What realtor?”

“The one I hired to help me sell the house.”

“Exactly what part of ‘I’m not selling my house’ are you not understanding?”

“The fact that you’re referring to the house as yours to begin with.”

My fingers curl into themselves, forming two tight fists to prevent myself from wrapping them around his thick neck.

His eyes drop to my clenched hands before returning to my face. “I think until we get a valid explanation from the lawyer, we should table this. It’s late and we’re getting nowhere.” The front door creaks as he opens it.

“Wait.” I hold out my hand. “Give me your key.”

He ignores me as he drags his luggage inside. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well, you’re sure as hell not staying here,” I sputter.

“Where do you expect me to go?”

“The motel off Main Street probably has a vacant room, plus they have Wi-Fi and colored TV now.”

His lips part. “You can’t be serious. They caught a serial killer there once.”

My eyes roll. “He didn’t actually commit any murders on the property.”

“Oh, that makes it all better then.”

“Mommy, who’s that?” Camila calls from the top of the stairs. Her wide blue eyes check Cal out before her gaze swings back to mine.

I wave her off without thinking anything of it. “Nobody important. Go back to bed, please.”

Cal’s wide eyes shift from Cami to me. “Who the fuck is that, and why is she calling you Mommy?”

“Don’t curse in front of my kid.” My whisper comes out more like a hiss.

“Kid? How old is she?” Cal trips over his feet in an attempt to get away from me, although he is quick to regain his balance.

“Five!” Cami holds up her hand like she is waiting for someone to high-five her.

All the color drains from his face as he reaches for the wall. “Five. That’s— She’s— We—”

“It’s not—” My response is cut off as his eyes roll to the back of his head.

His legs give out from underneath him, and his body falls forward.

“Shit!” I reach for him.

Our limbs tangle as we both go down. My breath is knocked out of me as I slam into the worn hardwood floor. Cal’s head smashes against my stomach, which hurts more than expected but softens his fall. I’m not able to catch his head in time before it rolls off my lap and smacks against the floor. Cal doesn’t wince as he lies on the floor, completely unconscious.

“Fuck. That’s going to hurt.” I roll his limp body back toward me before lifting his head onto my lap.

“Oooh. Mommy’s got to put money in the swear jar.”

I have a feeling a swear jar is the least of my worries now that Callahan Kane stormed back into my life with a deadly smile and a big problem.





2





CAL





I blink up at the ceiling and wait for the blurry chandelier to come into focus. It takes a minute for my vision to clear, although my brain remains a fuzzy mess.

Why am I on the floor?

“Oh, thank God you’re awake. Are you okay?” Lana leans forward. Her dark waves brush against my face, tickling my skin. She smells like snickerdoodle cookies, reminding me of late nights staying up past curfew together, eating raw cookie dough while hanging out on the dock. My attempt to hold back from taking another deep breath fails, and I’m hit with a second inhale of her cinnamon scent.

I can’t remember the last time I dreamed of Lana. Months? Years? This one is more vivid than my others, nailing the smallest details like the tiny birthmark on her neck in the shape of a heart and the scar above her cupid’s bow.

I reach out to brush the faint white mark above her lips, making the tips of my fingers tingle. The world ceases to exist around me as her gaze crashes into mine.

God. Those eyes.

Her brown eyes remind me of the soil right after it rains—with them being so dark, they look black in certain kinds of light. It’s an underrated color that rivals all others, although Lana always used to disagree.

My thumb accidentally grazes her bottom lip, drawing a sharp breath from her.

“What are you doing?” She pulls away.

I wince at the sharp pain drilling a hole through the back of my skull.

You’re not dreaming, dumbass.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to make it hurt worse.” She lifts my head off her lap. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three,” I grunt.

“What day is it?”

“May third.”

“Where are we right now?” Her nails graze my scalp, sending sparks shooting down my spine.

“Hell,” I hiss.

“Did that hurt?” She repeats the same move. My skin burns from her touch, and heat spreads throughout my veins like wildfire.

“Stop. I’m fine.” I pull away and slide across the floor until my back hits the wall opposite her. Despite the distance I gain, the spicy cinnamon smell of her bodywash sticks to my clothes. It’s the same addictive one she has been using for years.

I take another deep inhale because clearly I must enjoy torturing myself.