Page 24 of Lease to Love

Especially when your bullshit rent increase is the only reason why I'm behind.

That one had stuck with me longer than I wanted it to.

Her old landlord had clearly run that building comfortable in the red every month, which made no financial sense and made every bit of sense at the same time — the man had clearly wanted her to succeed more than he'd wanted his margins clean.

I didn't run anything that way. Never had.

But I had started wondering if the "different conversation" I'd threatened her with could've been something other than lawyers and eviction paperwork.

A restructured lease. A grace period. Something.

Maybe.

All of those were things I could work around. Things I could address with frameworks and patience and shit that had built everything I currently had.

None of those were the real problem.

The real problem was what happened the night I’d gone to speak with her about her lease and found her in her shop after closing, working late, because she always worked late… Which I knew against my will.

I’d said what I’d come to say.

She’d looked at me like she was genuinely considering whether she could pull off an orange jumpsuit and told me, loud and clear, exactly what she thought of my property-management strategies, my deadlines, and my general existence.

And it made my dick jump in my pants.

The problem was that the woman was fine.

I’d stood there, surrounded by her scent—apple, vanilla, and brown sugar—watching those freckles bunch across the bridge of her nose the way they did when she was furious, watching her chest strain against the fabric of the curve-hugging dress she’d made with her own hands, her arms crossed and her chin up like she’d already won the argument.

And I’d started having thoughts I had no business having.

I'd left before any of them could become a decision.

And I was going to keep leaving.

Summer Proctor, I told myself, with the same quiet, deliberate authority I used for every decision that mattered, is not the objective.

Langston Park was the objective.

Three weeks to the next block association event, and somewhere in this neighborhood was a room full of people who had every reason not to trust me and who I was going to win over anyway.

Not with presentations. With time. With showing up until my presence became its own argument.

Elise Langston wasn't wrong about the history…She was wrong about me.

Eventually she'd have enough evidence to know the difference.

I straightened my tie and kept walking.

Summer Proctor wasn't going to distract me.

She wasn't.

Chapter Four

Summer

Sunday mornings were supposed to be peaceful.