Page 63 of Billionaire Bad Boy Auction

PORTIA

A week later, I was driving to the next town over. My phone was on speaker, Alexis’s voice filling the car as she tried to pump me up for the interview I was about to walk into. I needed this job. It was even better that it was out of town. Even if one small town bled right into the other, it was still out of Larkspur Lake.

“You’re going to kill it, Portia,” Alexis said, her voice filling the confines of my car. “This is your clean slate. Your second chance. You’ve got this.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t really feeling it. “I know. I just… I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

“Because you care,” Alexis said simply. “And that’s a good thing. It means you’re not giving up. You want to do good. That’s also a good thing. If you didn’t care, you would be totally chill.”

I sighed, my fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “I just feel like I’ve been spinning my wheels since I got back. I am going to lose my mind if I don’t do something.”

I pulled to a stop at a red light and glanced out the window at the familiar stretch of road. Familiar yet unfamiliar. I hadn’t been out this way since I got back in town. Wildflowers dotted the edges of the asphalt, their bright yellows and purples a stark contrast to the dull pavement.

“You’re not spinning your wheels,” Alexis said firmly. “You’re regrouping. There’s a difference. We’ve talked about this. You’re being way too hard on yourself. And this interview? It’s your first step forward. You’re not just sitting around waiting for something to happen—you’re making it happen. Step one, get the job. Step two—kick ass.”

“I wish I could see it that way.” I sighed. The light turned green, and I pressed on the gas, my stomach tightening with every mile that brought me closer to the office.

“Well, you should,” Alexis said. “And hey, if it doesn’t work out, there are plenty of other jobs.”

“You and I both know that isn’t true,” I said. “When I have to be your waitress, please promise you’ll tip well.”

She laughed. “I’m a great tipper, but you’re not going to be waiting tables. You’re going to be selling mansions and making six percent commission. You’re going to have your own reality show, Selling Larkspur.”

I smiled despite myself. “Thanks, Alexis. You’re a good hype woman.”

“Damn right I am,” she said, and I could practically hear her grinning through the phone. “Now get in there and show them what Portia Watson is made of.”

I smiled, feeling a little more confident. “Thanks, I’ll call you after.”

“You better,” she said. “And good luck!”

I ended the call and tried to calm my nerves. My life felt so complicated. Dean had been distant. Weird even. He was obviously avoiding me. We live next door and he had either fallen off the face of the earth or he was pretending he had. There were never lights on at his place. I occasionally heard his motorcycle coming to and from his house which was the only sign of life from him. I wasn’t going to hunt him down. We had sex one time. I wasn’t going to turn into a clingy woman. He was not that kind of guy. I got it. He had made it clear. It wasn’t like I actually wanted anything serious with him either.

Dean was just Dean. I wasn’t going to wallow. I’d done that for a month. It was time to pick up the pieces of my life and move on from New York and Dean. I didn’t know if real estate in my hometown was the right move. I was not looking for jobs in town. If I could get this job, it would at least feel like I wasn’t a total failure. I’d make some money and move here rather than Larkspur Lake. Then it was like I still left home. Never mind the fact I was only fifteen minutes away.

I pulled into the brokerage’s parking lot, my stomach twisting with nerves. This should feel like a step forward—proof that I could still have the career I’d worked so hard for, even if it wasn’t in New York. But instead of excitement, there was a gnawing sense of unease sitting in my chest.

I shook it off, grabbing my bag and heading inside. I caught a glimpse of myself in one of my power suits. The tight black pencil skirt and white blouse were simple. Clean. It said powerful without being obnoxious. It was sexy without showing a lot of skin. It was the kind of outfit I wore when I was selling an apartment on the Upper West Side.

Even if I didn’t sell enough of those apartments to really make it in the cutthroat world of real estate in New York.

The office was sleek and modern, the kind of place that screamed success. I walked in, all polished confidence and practiced charm, like I did this every day.

The receptionist looked up as I approached. “Good morning! How can I help you?”

“Hi,” I said, returning the smile, though my stomach was still doing somersaults. “I’m here for an interview with Mr. Henderson. Portia Watson.”

Her fingers flew over the keyboard, and she nodded, still smiling. “Right, yes. He’s just finishing up a call. Have a seat, and I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, turning toward the waiting area. It was all clean lines and neutral tones, with sleek leather chairs and a glass coffee table stacked with glossy brochures. My heels clicked against the polished floor as I crossed the room, the sound somehow louder in my head than it actually was.

I sank into one of the chairs, smoothing my skirt as I glanced around. The walls were lined with framed photos of sprawling estates and waterfront properties, their prices printed in bold numbers. My eyes lingered on a particularly stunning lakefront house—vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, a dock stretching out into the water. It was the kind of property that made your heart ache a little just looking at it.

I picked up one of the brochures, flipping through it absently. It was filled with listings that screamed luxury—custom builds, historic homes with impeccable charm, modern condos with skyline views. Each one felt like a reminder of what I wanted in New York but never quite achieved.

“Miss Watson?”

I looked up and saw another young woman. I followed her to an office. I went in and sat down. The second I sat across from the brokerage owner, I realized something was off. The man was nice enough as he introduced himself, but this wasn’t what I expected.