by Mara McQueen
Olivia frowned. She sometimes had trouble following client demands, but this one lacked all logic.
“Of course, only one of us can sell it.” Milo leaned forward. “And I have more experience than Abbate. But give me a couple of hours of your time, and I’ll be able to give you an estimate before the sun sets...”
“No, no. My birthday is seven days away,” Mrs. Bolton said stubbornly, shaking her head so fast, her neck creaked.
“Ma’am…” Milo licked his lips, looking at Olivia for help.
“We couldn't possibly inopportune you for an entire week,” Olivia said, cringing a bit inside. But that kind of sounded like a good, polite save.
Milo puffed up his chest like he’d been the one to come up with it. “I’m sure we can tour your magnificent home in a few hours and then take our leave—”
Mrs. Bolton didn’t appear to be listening to him anymore. The woman’s eyes darted from Milo to Olivia at a maddening pace, looking more horrified by the minute. When her lower lip started quivering, Olivia was ready to call an ambulance, afraid the woman might be having a seizure.
“No, y—you can’t,” Mrs. Bolton shouted, the sound filling the stuffy space.
Milo shot up, taking a few steps back. Olivia stood rooted to the spot.
“Mrs. Bolton, I—”
“No, no, no!” The woman slammed her feeble fists against the armrest of her wheelchair. “Seven days! Not one, not six. Seven!”
A cold chill crept up Olivia’s spine.
“Please calm down.” Olivia raised her hands, not knowing what to do with them. In all her twenty-five years, she’d never been in a similar situation. Milo wasn’t any help either. He practically molded himself to the farthest wall, breathing heavily.
“You’re ruining everything!” Mrs. Bolton said viciously, a ball of spit dripping down her slim neck, onto her dress.
Olivia helplessly scanned the area for Bertha; or maybe a doctor, trained physician, nurse—anyone who could calm the woman.
To her immense relief, a man rushed through the doorway, his mane of raven-black hair and expensive dress jacket billowing behind him.
Olivia sucked in a breath. Oh, dear.
From his intense eyes to his strong arms, he seemed like the type of danger that would make her lose precious nights of sleep, checking her phone every five minutes, wondering if she should text him first.
He swooped down like a hawk to Mrs. Bolton’s side, grasping her hand gently and squeezing her bony shoulder with his long fingers.
“Nan, what’s wrong?” he asked in a deep, concerned voice.
Ah. So he was the grandson mentioned in the file. The grandson who didn’t spare a glance Olivia or Milo’s way.
The old woman gasped a few times before her wet eyes landed on his alarmed face. “They’re ruining my birthday, Kieran.”
Olivia’s shoulders dropped. She’d stumbled into a real estate nightmare.
Kieran remained silent for a few tense moments, while he stroked Mrs. Bolton’s grey hair. She calmed down somewhat but still whimpered.
He got up, resting his hand on her shoulder, and grimaced at the two estate agents.
“Emma,” he roared, startling Olivia. It seemed yelling was a family trait.
A young mousy woman with greasy roots rushed through the doorway, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. A strong hospital smell clung to her beige cardigan, and it made Milo's nose scrunch up. When she saw Mrs. Bolton crying silently, her eyes narrowed to slits, her angelic face taking on a pinched look.
“Take Nan to her study and make her some tea, please,” Kieran said in the kind of tone nobody would ever dare to contradict. “She needs to relax.”
He watched closely as Emma carted Mrs. Bolton off gently, but not before those bright eyes of his narrowed into a mighty glare aimed at Milo and Olivia’s way.
His stare ghosted across Olivia's skin, pricking in places it didn’t have business pricking in.
Kieran clasped his hands behind his back. Watching. Waiting.
His silence, his presence, the way he filled up a room by simply being—everything about him was unnerving. He was all crisp angles, perfectly pressed suit, and confidence. Olivia had the sudden urge to say something, anything, to break this lull. Before she could open her mouth, Milo finally found his bravado and stepped in front of Kieran, extending his hand.
“Milo Underwood, sir. I take it you’re the man of the house.”
Kieran pierced him with his bright eyes and clenched his jaw, making his face look even more predatory than before.
“You take it wrong. My grandfather died almost a decade ago,” he replied coldly, not bothering to shake Milo’s hand. He cast a sidelong glance at Olivia. “And you are?”
“The estate agents you asked for.” Olivia stepped next to Milo, who flexed his fingers and retracted his arm awkwardly.
“So it’s customary to send two of you?”
“Granted, it’s an unusual situation, but we can fix it.” Milo widened his grin. “I’m sure I am all the help you’ll need.”
“Sir, Mrs. Bolton seemed rather upset. Maybe we should come back in a few days,” Olivia suggested instead. Her life might’ve depended on this listing, but she had principles. The owner was in no condition to think about contracts, commissions, and market value at the moment. “After her birthday, at least.”
“My grandmother’s real birthday is four months away. But she wants a fake birthday every other week and we indulge her. I can assure you the house will be sold by then, with your firm or another.”
He liked to play hard, did he? Olivia clenched her jaw. She should’ve done more research before rushing into this blasted situation.
“Then, as a living relative, maybe you could decide for her,” Milo piped in again.
Olivia resisted the urge to smack the nonsense out of him. The man in front of them had just admitted, however vaguely, that his grandmother had serious issues. It wasn’t the time to secure a sale. The best they could hope for was to be thrown out of the house. The worst? Heatherton & Associates to be sued for their agents’ lack of finesse.
“Do not underestimate my grandmother,” Kieran said fiercely. “Her moments of lucidity far outweigh her episodes. And she wants to get rid of this monstrosity that’s draining our resources. You’ll have to respect her wish. Sooner rather than later.”
“Okay, but she wants us to stay here? For seven days?” Olivia said clumsily, hoping the old woman hadn’t seen seven of her and Milo; one bootlicking Underwood was enough.
Kieran finally tore his unrelenting gaze away from Olivia's and stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. “Sounds like it.”
“Then it’s clear what we need to do.” Milo turned to Olivia, giving her a look filled with mock-remorse. He even had the audacity to sigh, like the bogus martyr he wanted to come off as. “I can take it from here, love.”
Olivia’s lip curled, baring her clenched teeth. She wrenched her arm free. “You don’t know the first thing about eighteenth-century architecture.”
Milo wiggled his plucked eyebrows. “It's only fair. I was better prepared since I arrived at the property first—"
“More horsepower doesn’t mean you’re better prepared.” Olivia narrowed her eyes. “It means you’re compensating for something.”
Just as Milo opened his mouth to spew more gibberish, Kieran’s deep voice slashed the room. “As charming and professional as this display is, most likely my grandmother will forget about inviting you in a day or two.”
“You sure?” Milo asked.
“Last week, she adopted seventeen cats, insisted they help her invoke Isis in the dining room, then reconsidered and found them all great homes, through the phone no less. I can assure you, my grandmother can get over anything.” Kieran looked at Milo as if he was a fly.
Milo nodded a few times. “I see, I see. You think she’d be open to a five o’clock tea partner?”
Kieran raised his eyebrows as he eyed Milo
from head to toe. “If you can get past Emma.”
After a dazzling smile thrown Olivia’s way, Milo bolted through the crooked doorframe, as if he ran for his life, not for a commission, leaving her alone with Kieran.
Olivia was torn. On the one hand, getting into the owner’s good graces was her top priority. On the other, anything that could come off as taking advantage left a bitter taste in her mouth. Her perpetually busy and snobby parents had taught her one thing—no amount of money was worth crushing your principles. So she stood still, tapping her foot and waiting for a bright idea to pop into her head.
“Not as eager for blood as your coworker?” Kieran asked.
Olivia straightened her back, trying to keep her curiosity in check. If the Bolton Manor sale had any hope of being salvaged, dealing with this Kieran fellow would probably be inevitable.
She wanted to know who she was up against. That meant she had to look past his handsome face, a mix between the blue eyes and full lips he'd clearly inherited from Mrs. Bolton and striking East-Asian features; his jawline and high cheekbones needed to be painted for countless generations to enjoy the perfection.
But if he thought he could intimidate Olivia with his height, well-toned arms, and sharp tongue, he was sorely mistaken.
She looked out the smudged windows. “Milo and I have different techniques.”
Kieran scoffed. “I don’t know which one is worse.”
Olivia pursed her lips. Every client got one snide remark with no comment from her. One.
“But where are my manners? You’re probably waiting for a tour.” Kieran leaned over an ill-placed coffee table, pushed the grimy drapes out of the way and opened the French doors with a loud creak; some flecks of decaying wood fell to the ground. He jumped over the table gracefully and landed on the raised patio, opening his jacket and tucking one hand in his pants pockets. “Shall we?”
Worth It
Was he kidding? Olivia couldn't tell, no matter how hard she stared at him. Kieran had schooled his features into an impenetrable mask Olivia wanted to rip off.
Joke or not, she wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip between her fingers.
She hiked up her pencil skirt as dignified as she could, and wobbled above the coffee table before finally planting her feet on the polished stone outside.
The view was breathtaking, even for an agent who’d seen countless mansions. Beyond the tarnished stone patio, a steep slope ended in a large plain—it had seen better days but was still better kept than the interior—which gave way to an impressive lake. Its tranquil banks were guarded by the forest. The water was still murky from the rain, the sunset giving it a warm glow.
A boathouse was nestled on the right shore, a rusty speck partially hidden amidst the crooked trees. The numbers in Olivia’s file had been wrong—the property was bigger than she had anticipated.
Kieran gazed at the lake, pursing his lips. “Daunting, isn’t it? Bolton Manor, in all its glory.”
“With hundreds of years of expansion, I’m not surprised. When did construction first start, the sixteenth century?”
“I thought you were under the impression the house was much newer.”
“I only said that for Milo.” Olivia had principles, but she wasn’t stupid. Milo had a record of “borrowing” other agents’ expertise instead of doing his own research. “The remnants of the Palladian motifs are very hard to miss. Underwood specializes in modern architecture.”
Kieran chuckled. “Then why’s he vying for our estate? Did the hefty commission help change his mind?”
Olivia bit the inside of her cheek. It was easy for him to talk and take the moral high ground—the Bolton family clearly had some financial problems, but they had more money than even Milo could ever hope to amass. As for her, well, she was drowning in a debt she should've never burdened herself with, wasn't she? “Not everyone can afford to be picky in this economy.”
“Ah, I see,” he said, without a hint of embarrassment.
They remained quiet for a while. Olivia busied herself with thinking of ways she could secure the estate and save the sale.
Did she even want to?
She definitely needed it, but a week spent at the manor, if she could even take Mrs. Bolton's invitation seriously, meant other properties might slip between her desperate fingers. But none of them would be as big as this one.
Olivia clenched her jaw. This wasn't a predicament she had anticipated. To make matters worse, Kieran wasn't even glancing her way, and for some weird reason, Olivia really wanted him to. Great.
Milo was probably working his charm on Mrs. Bolton right now, while she got the haughty grandson.
“I don’t know where to go from here,” she said finally; better to find a risky quick fix than to prolong the inevitable. “It doesn’t really seem like either you or Mrs. Bolton want us here. What do you suggest?”
“I contacted your agency because my research showed you were the best and I only needed one person. Honestly, I couldn’t care less which one of you—”
Before he could finish, a cheerful laugh resonated across the yard. From behind the manor’s corner, Mrs. Bolton appeared, pushed in her wheelchair by none other than Milo, who was in the middle of telling her a story about parasailing. The Emma girl stomped not far behind, scowling at his back, tugging on the thick necklace around her neck.
“Kieran, dear, we fixed a spot of tea for you too. Barley, just as you like it," Mrs. Bolton said loudly, clutching a shaking teacup in her hands, all signs of her previous outburst vanished. "Did you show Miss Abbate to her room yet?”
Kieran sighed. “Not yet, Nan.”
“I raised you better than that,” Mrs. Bolton said reproachfully. “She needs to get settled in and start preparing for this week’s parties, after all. Really, Kieran.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Bolton. Abbate doesn’t much care for having fun, you see. I’m all the entertainment you need for the next seven days,” Milo said, flashing a triumphant smile at Olivia.
Something deep and fast slashed through Olivia. She wasn’t about to let this prick take the sale from her, was she? He didn’t even need it. True, they were both vying for a promotion, but he had his cushiony apartment, while Olivia was on the brink of getting evicted.
She could walk back to Leeds and hope another listing would drop out of the sky, or she could stand her ground and fight.
And this sale and its commission could keep her from crumbling.
“How very selfless of you, Underwood.” Olivia leaned over the large banister. “But I couldn’t turn down such a gracious invitation.”
“Wonderful, wonderful.” Mrs. Bolton pulled on a dejected Milo’s collar, pointing toward the lake. “That way, dear. Faster.”
Olivia smirked, excitement bubbling through her. She was really doing this. Putting all her hopes into the decaying house behind her.
It was madness. It was reckless. It was a chance.
Kieran exhaled noisily. “Well, that settles it. I do hope your firm isn’t expecting you back so soon.”
“Are you really inviting us to stay here for a week?” Olivia asked, dumbstruck.
“Sure.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Let’s call it an invitation. I guess we'll postpone the tour for after you get settled in.”
He gave her a forced smile and inclined his head in the smallest bow she had ever seen. He headed back into the house without another word. The terrace suddenly felt empty without his powerful—but so very, very prickly—presence keeping her company.
Olivia’s mouth fell open, as she shook her head, utterly baffled. She didn't know what had crawled under this Kieran Bolton's skin, but that attitude of his had to be checked. Fast.
Standing in the shadow of Bolton Manor, she thought back to all the reasons she'd come here. Staying here might propel her career faster than her former roommates could come up with a joke about her failed adult choices. But could she pull it off? A week in the Bolton family’s misshapen lair would test
all of her hard-earned real estate skills.
Milo laughed in the distance, the sound of his voice grating. The man would probably trade his underwear for a sale. Olivia rubbed her brow, her dreams of getting back to Leeds by the end of the day forgotten.
Leaving now and giving up the fight was not a luxury she could afford. The damn sale had better be worth it.
Too Familiar
It wasn’t the most effort Olivia had ever put into acquiring a listing—she had once participated in the dreadful activity of shooting clay pigeons to prove to a potential client that the property he had his mind set on was indeed meant for a ‘fun-loving chap’ like himself—this one was certainly the strangest.
“Hello?” she called out into the deserted foyer, clutching her carry-on’s handle tightly, long nails digging into her sweaty palm. “Bertha?”
Preposterous. She'd been left alone in a weird house, amidst askew paintings and dead flowers in mismatched vases. All while Milo carted Mrs. Bolton on the lake’s edge, loudly entertaining her with some overplayed story about his pizza delivering days back in college. As if—his parents had both been lawyers, with their own firm. Milo’s only job had been to not get expelled before he got his diploma, and even that had required the Underwoods’ very generous involvement.
She had been tempted to plaster a smile on her face and go down there and show Milo what impressing a potential client was really about, but the idea left her feeling a bit hollow. She would wait a bit longer until Mrs. Bolton seemed more in control before attempting to navigate that social hurdle.
And it didn’t matter. Milo could lie and kiss ass all he wanted. Olivia was going to win the listing and rub it in his hypocritical face. Without having to dupe an old woman into liking her. Or making a fool of herself—she hoped.
There was no sign of Kieran, either. Olivia didn't know where he'd vanished to, and she wasn't really sure she wanted to find out, but, damn, it would've been great not to be all alone in this eccentric house.
Tilting her chin up, she left her carry-on next to the wall and tried not to fret too much when the wood panels groaned under the slight pressure. Well...vintage stuff made noise all the time. And crumpled when badly handled. But the house itself...it had a weird aura. Massive as it was, the house swallowed each sound. Light barely filtered through the grimy windows, casting long, sharp shadows everywhere she looked. And the air, it smelled musty and metallic. Smothering.
