Page 37 of Saving the Last Heir
“Dad,” I said through gritted teeth. “Not stepdad.”
Dusty went on as if talking to himself, ticking off assets. “Two-story building, twelve-spot paved lot, a hydraulic lift?—”
“Two hydraulic lifts,” I corrected.
His face brightened. “Oh, good. Fine then. Two lifts, a fully outfitted body shop and paint room, and what? A half million dollars in supplies, tools, and equipment?”
I sighed, irritated that his figures were so spot-on.
“Roughly,” I said.
“I’ll give you a check for seven-fifty. How’s that sound?”
“You have to be fucking with me,” I said.
He shrugged and gave me a wink. “Remove the ‘with’part, and maybe we’ll be on the same page.”
“Eww,” I said, grimacing in distaste. “Your offer is dogshit, Dusty, and you know it. You said yourself, we have half a million in supplies and tools. You’re telling me everything else is only worth another two-fifty?”
He didn’t look offended. If anything, he appeared apologetic. “You and I know how the economy is. Real estate is expensive. I have to protect myself. Can’t overextend.”
My eyes flicked to the neon sign above his shop. “Yeah,” I said dryly, “really looks like you’re struggling here.”
“Hey, if you want some business pointers for your next venture, I’d be happy to give some classes.”
“No, I’m not letting it go for fucking peanuts, Dusty. Do better. What else do you have?”
He sighed, resting his hands on his hips. “You really don’t see this as a gift? I’m trying to help you here. Take the money, pay your bills, and try something new.” He rolled his eyes and gave me a pleading look. “You and I both know you’re too hot to waste your life in that shithole. Get out and find a job a woman like you would like. Secretary? Nurse? Teacher?”
“Misogynist fucking pig,” I muttered under my breath, unable to help myself, then, louder, said, “What else? Barefoot and pregnant?”
He put a finger to his chin as if thinking. “I mean…maybe. If you’re into that.”
“Even if I did want to do that, the garage means too much to me. It’s been in the community for over thirty years. It’s one of the only family-owned shops around there anymore. It’s…” I paused, suddenly afraid I might cry in front of this man, but I managed to hold it together. “It’s my home. It’s my father’s home. If you want to buy it, you’ll need to do better than that.”
We went back and forth for almost fifteen minutes, me giving him every fake scenario, story, and reason I could think of, and Dusty throwing out different options and offers to counter each one. Finally, I’d worn him down.
“Look.” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “If youreallydon’t want to sell, why did you come here?”
“I never said I didn’t want to sell,” I said. “I only said I wanted fair compensation. That’s all.” A lie, but oh well.
His look of frustration faded, and he pointed at me. “No, no, I think I know what’s going on here.” A predatory smile sprang to his face. “You’re nervous. That’s what it is.”
“Nervous?” I frowned. “Aboutwhat?”
“You want me, and you don’t know how to say it.”
“Holy shit, Dusty. It was annoying to begin with, but this ham-fisted attempt at flirting sucks ass. You don’t really think any woman would fall for this aggressive and crude shit, do you?”
“It works sometimes.”
Glancing back at the shop, I prayed Jackson had found what we needed and gotten out. Ihadto end this. I couldn’t handle this guy any longer. If I stuck around too long, I knew I’d end up slugging him.
Get your ass out of there, Jackson.
8
JACKSON
