Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
I cross my arms and square my shoulders. “I’m sorry, but why are you here? What do you want?”
“This house,” he says.
Squinting, I attempt to process his words. “What about the house?”
“You asked what I wanted. I told you,” he says without a hitch. “This house.”
I’m going to be sick.
“Unless you can produce a valid will naming you as Donovan’s beneficiary, I’m legally entitled to his estate,” he says. “Lucky for you, I’m not after any money. I just want the house.”
There is no money.
There is only the house.
The house is the money.
Before we moved here, Donovan suggested we combine our savings into a renovation fund. Excited and woefully in love, I cashed out my savings and wrote a cashier’s check to our new bank, which Donovan claimed he deposited into a joint account he’d set up online. Over the months that followed, we wasted no time ordering cabinets, hiring electricians, and sourcing tools, materials, and subcontractors.
We were burning through it quickly, given the size and scope of this renovation, but now the bank won’t let me touch the funds. They won’t even give me a balance on the account.
I met with an attorney several months back—a free-consultation type of thing. She said legally, I had no claim to the house since we weren’t married, but I could file a claim against the house to try to recoup some of the money I’d invested into it. All I needed to do was find a close relative to legally inherit Donovan’s estate so they could serve as the administrator. I reached out to one of his distant cousins on social media a couple of times but never heard anything.
The trickiest part, I was told, would be to prove that I’m the one who funded the majority of the account while also proving that Donovan intentionally lied to me about placing my name on the account. On top of that, I’d have to prove that my funds were directly used to purchase materials for the house. She didn’t sound overly optimistic, nor did she sound thrilled about taking on the case. On five separate instances, she reiterated how expensive this could get.
But I just may be looking at a silver lining—one I never knew existed.
“Can I buy it off of you?” I ask. I don’t know any sane banker who would let someone mortgage this house in this condition—nor do I know any sane banker who would approve me given the fluctuating nature of my income—but I put it out there anyway. If I could buy this thing from him somehow, then I could continue the renos, flip it, and walk away with a little extra padding in my pockets.
Lachlan laughs. “Sorry, but no.”
I bite my lower lip to keep it from trembling. This is the universe kicking me when I’m down, but I’ll be damned if I fall apart in front of this asshole. If I’m forced to walk away now, I’ll never recoup any of this. Everything I’ve poured into this house will have been for nothing.
“Do you have papers?” I ask. “Something official?”
“I’m working on it.”
“By working on it, you mean you’ve hired a lawyer and started the probate process?”
He studies me, sizing me up perhaps. Donovan may have played me for a fool, but I’m sure as hell not letting his brother do the same.
“I just got to town yesterday, but it’s on my list,” he says.
“And you realize probate court can take up to a year . . .”
“Less if it’s uncontested. You planning on contesting it?”
“I plan on filing a claim against it,” I say. “I’ve funded the renovations on this house, and I’ve done most of the work. Why wouldn’t I want to cash out my investment?”
He rakes his hand along his carved jaw. “How long did you two date before you went all in?”
He’s not so much changing the subject as he is fishing for information . . . information that could help his case.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.” I meet his curious gaze straight on.
Lachlan inches back, slipping his hands casually into the front pockets of his jeans as if to make himself less intimidating. “Look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, and I don’t want to be in this godforsaken town a day longer than I have to. I’m sure we can come to some kind of reasonable solution—”
“Reasonable solution?” I move into his personal space, which causes him to step back farther onto the porch and nearly lose his balance. “You come pounding on my door unannounced on a Sunday morning telling me you’re taking my house, and now you want to come to a reasonable solution?”
His own brother went to great lengths to erase him from his life . . . now I’m beginning to see why.