He ignores my question. “I don’t see what this changes. We’ll still sell.”
Mr. Walsh glances between us. He leans back in his leather office chair, running a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. “I will assist in whatever you two decide, but I would have to advise against selling the house in its current state. The Copelands purchased it through a short sale. They waited over a year for all the permits to come through, set aside the money for the renovation, and hired a team with a well-known builder and a highly sought-after architect. If you sell now, you’re forfeiting on potentially millions in profit. At least talk to the realtor before you decide on anything. Either way, you must agree, as both of your names will be on the deed.”
The potential money on the table causes Dayton to pause. Nothing motivates him more than hard cash.
I can’t believe I’m being forced to make this kind of decision with someone as heartless as him.
“What realtor did they use?” he asks.
I cross my arms over my stomach.
Mr. Walsh scribbles a name and number on the back of his business card and hands it over. “Good luck to you both. Keep me updated as you make your decisions. I need your signatures here.”
Raindrops start falling from the gray clouds above as we walk out onto the street. Dayton presses his phone up to his ear, walking down the sidewalk without a word. Seething anger boils under my skin. I march after him.
“This is Dayton Copeland. You worked with my father, Russell Copeland.”
My much shorter legs struggle to keep up with his long strides.
“What’s the address?” His tone is eternally cold and unmoving, like every conversation he has is a budget meeting in a windowless conference room.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard him offer a simplehello, how are youor any type of pleasantry. It’s like he’s allergic to small talk. And being nice. And joy, happiness, the things that make life worth living.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He ends the call, pocketing his phone.
“Where are we going? Was that the realtor?”
“Yes.”
“So, where are we going?”
“I’mgoing to meet the realtor at the house. There is nowein this situation, Cupcake.”
I roll my eyes at the old nickname. Growing up, Dayton always called me Cupcake because he knew he couldn’t get away with the much meaner nicknames he wanted to use in front of our parents. I don’t know exactly where he got it, but I suspect it was because I was a little on the chubby side when I met him at fifteen. He always said it like it was an insult. And I know for a fact that he hates cupcakes—all sugar in general, actually.
Psychopath.
“Listen, dickwad, I’m in this just as much as you. You heard the man—we’re splitting it fifty-fifty. We have toagreeto sell it or keep it.”
That earns me a glare. He stops walking by an all-black 1961 Aston Martin convertible. He must store it somewhere on the island. I recognize it immediately as the car Russell gifted tohim at eighteen before he moved to New Haven to attend Yale University. My mom told me it’d belonged to Dayton’s grandfather and apologized that I wouldn’t be getting such a rare gift for my eighteenth birthday. I was still happy to receive the white Lexus.
“I thought you’d sold it.”
He spins the key ring on his forefinger. “I’m not going to get rid of you, am I?”
I shake my head, lifting my chin stubbornly. “Not that easy.”
He sighs, like I’m the one being impossibly difficult. He walks around to the passenger door, opening it up without a word.
Seventeen-year-old me has butterflies. Dayton’s car was legendary at Coconut Beach High School. He only drove it for the summer before leaving for Yale, but every girl in town wanted a chance to ride in that car—some of the guys too.
I try to tame my features to seem indifferent, refusing to let him see my eyes light up or a smile on my face. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing how hot this car is. I climb inside, and he shuts the door.
We ride in silence. The top is up because of the rain. I see now why he told the realtor it would only take us twenty minutes to get to Sunrise Beach. Dayton doesn’t think speed limit signs apply to him.
I refuse to look at him. The subtle scent of his cologne fills the small car—something manly and expensive, likesandalwood and the blood of a Swiss monk, that cost a ridiculous sum.
Once we pass the faded blue wooden sign for the Sunrise Beach area, the homes turn into something out of a movie set in a wealthy coastal town. After a few miles, he turns down an older street—Daybreak Place. Many of the homes are beautifully maintained, but there are a few that should be torndown. The street is walkable, with sidewalks and palm trees lining it like a postcard. I’ve always been in awe of the picturesque beauty of this island.