Pierce looks like he craps gold bars in his tailored Tom Ford. I’m nervous when we pull up to the Mansion and pass over our keys to the valet. There’s a six-car garage, because one or two cars is clearly not enough when you have an eight-thousand-square-foot mansion.

I’ve gone over the figures, run the numbers a dozen times, lowballing the potential profit on the flip, trying to make it work. Making an offer is a bad financial move. Even if we could afford it, the renovations alone would sink us.

The seller’s agent offers to show us around the Mansion, obviously unaware of our history with the home, but with so many agents coming through, it’s easy to decline and tour on our own.

It’s almost exactly as I remember it, but everything is dated and worn. Even the furniture is mostly the same—a shrine to a lost life. In the interest of selling quickly, my father had opted not to hold a contents estate sale. He sold the Mansion and everything in it. Once the money was transferred into his offshore account, he and my mother disappeared.

No one has lived here in the past decade; the owners purchased with the intent to renovate, but they lost interest and moved on to other pursuits. Now that the market is hot again, they want it off their hands.

My heart feels like it’s in my throat as we pass through familiar rooms. I run my finger along the edge of the massive table in the formal dining room, set with my grandmother’s china—she would roll over in her grave if she knew they’d used it to stage the showing. I remember afternoon tea with her friends, crustless sandwiches and petit fours, pinkies in the air as we sipped tea, and my grandmother winking over her cup at the ridiculousness of it all.

In all of these years, I haven’t really allowed myself to miss her, this place, having lost too much all at once. I glance at Marley when she reaches out and skims the edge of one of the teacups and see the same sadness reflected back at me in her eyes.

There are so many memories caught up in this home, mostly good, and a few bad. Like when my grandmother passed, and the day the SOLD sign went up.

A bead of sweat trickles down my spine when we pass through to the west wing. We nod hello to the other agents, who murmur about the lack of upkeep, only able to see the dollar signs and prospective profits. The second door on the right lies open, and I step inside the bedroom, Marley on my heels, Pierce following a respectable distance behind.

Two huge double poster beds still occupy the space, and I have to take a deep breath, the heaviness in my chest hard to handle. We spent our summers sharing a bedroom in our teen years. Talked into the wee hours of the morning more nights than not. Sneaked out to the kitchen after midnight and raided the pantry while everyone was sleeping.

Marley threads her fingers through mine and squeezes as we step farther inside. “Nothing has changed,” I murmur.

But that’s not true. While the mansion has stayed the same, Marley and I haven’t. We’ve made a life beyond this place, forged our own path.

We unlink hands when we reach the beds and separate, mirrors of each other as our fingers drift over the intricate wooden bed frames, recently dusted and polished. Even after all this time, the ridges in the grain are familiar, small imperfections left in the wood from tossing things to each other and missing.

I move to the dresser, where an old jewelry box sits. I try to lift the lid, but it’s locked. Marley meets my shocked gaze in the mirror, and I know she’s thinking the exact same thing I am. I tug the second drawer down; it’s empty and my chest constricts as I reach inside and lift the edge of the decorative liner, sliding my fingers along the back of the drawer until I feel the cool metal against my fingertips. “It’s here,” I whisper.

Pulling the key free, I flip the tarnished silver between my fingers, then slip it into the lock. Inside are trinkets, worthless baubles as far as anyone else would be concerned, but among them are two heart-shaped lockets, one for Marley and one for me.

I lift them from their velvet home, feeling very much a thief, even though they belong to us—gifts passed down from our grandmother, left behind the last summer we were here. Possibly locked away purposefully. I’m sure my grandmother thought we’d have a chance to claim the things that were ours all those years ago. I hold it against my heart, feeling full in a way I haven’t in a long time. I finally understand why Marley never seemed to be as attached to this place as I was. It’s the people not the place that hold the memories.

I lock the jewelry box again, running my fingers over the surface before I slip the necklaces and key into my purse for safekeeping.

Pierce is standing in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face. It’s exposing to have him here with us, giving him more than a glimpse into a life that’s no longer ours.

As we move from room to room, and pass over to the east wing where the staff quarters are, the memories that fill my heart make me aware that I need to let this go. Marley wanders through the rooms, fingers trailing over smooth finishes and fine details.

Pierce’s hands rest gently on my shoulders, and he dips down to press a soft kiss against the side of my neck. “I could buy it.”

I drop my head and exhale a breath. It would be too easy to say yes. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking.” He looks so earnest in his offer.

“This place reminds me of the good parts of my family, but I don’t need the Mansion to keep the memories.” I tap my temple. “Everything is already up here.” Then I move my fingers down to my heart. “And in here.”

He caresses my cheek, eyes soft and questioning. “So you don’t want it anymore?”

“Buying it isn’t going to bring my grandmother back, and it’s not going to make my family whole again.” I lace my fingers with his. “I already have what I need.”

* * *

Pierce leans in to kiss me. It’s brief and chaste, possibly on account of my lipstick. “Good luck today.”

I pause with my fingers wrapped around the door handle. “You’re not coming in?”

“I have a couple of errands to run this morning.” He glances at his phone, which has been buzzing nonstop since we woke up.

“Oh.” I assumed he’d stay for the open house considering how much time he put in on this project. He’s freshly shaven, dressed in a suit, not a hair out of place, but he looks tired and restless. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine. Nothing you need to worry about.” He flashes a smile, but it seems off, and his gaze doesn’t quite meet mine. “I’ll be back before the open house is over.”

“Okay.” I don’t move, though. Something’s up. Something’s been up since we visited the Mission Mansion the other day.

His phone keeps buzzing, and he taps the steering wheel. He misreads my anxiety. “It’ll sell today. I have no doubt.”

I nod and expel a breath.

This time his phone lights up with a call. He checks the screen again. “I gotta go, hotness.” He gives me another peck on the cheek, and I have no choice but to get out of the car.

He gives me a tight smile and a quick wave as he puts the car in reverse and backs out of the driveway like his ass is on fire. What the heck was that all about?

I don’t have time to fixate—much—because the open house on the Paulson home begins in less than an hour, and I still need to put the cookies in the oven.

The showing ends up being the best we’ve had this summer. An endless stream of potential buyers tour the property, keeping us busy the entire time. Despite the influx of interested parties, I still notice that Pierce doesn’t return prior to the end of the open house like he said he would. Disappointment settles under my skin and irritates like an unscratchable itch. He’s been such a big part of helping make this happen. I would’ve thought he’d want to be here to see it sell. And it does sell. By the time it’s over, we have four offers, all well over asking.