Page 19 of Knotted By my Pack

“Uh, that’d be the Tanners. Retired couple. Why?”

“I want it.”

There’s a pause. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious. Tell them Julian Vance is ready to pay above market if it means I can set up my offices there. Make it happen.”

He clears his throat. “Well... alright. I’ll reach out.”

“Good. Keep me updated.”

I hang up before he starts kissing my ass again. My phone buzzes with another notification—the local realtor finally texting back.

I text him an address to meet me at. I’ve had enough of that musty motel with its stiff sheets and terrible coffee.

If I’m staying, I’m going to do it right.

We meetoutside a white craftsman home with peeling paint and a lawn overtaken by weeds. The realtor is a guy named Trent.

Younger than I expected, dressed like he thinks vests and boat shoes still belong in style.

“This one’s got charm,” he says. “A little rough on the outside, but wait until you see the kitchen.”

The kitchen is fine—decent marble counters, an old stove, and cabinets that stick. The living room is cramped, the master bedroom smells like dust and lavender sachets, and the backyard is a patch of dry earth.

“No,” I say, walking right back out.

Trent seems unfazed. “Okay. Got a couple more for you.”

House number two is a two-story colonial with blue shutters and a picket fence. It’s picturesque in a Stepford-wife kind of way.

Inside, it’s staged within an inch of its life—fake cookies on the counter, soft jazz playing from hidden speakers.

I walk through the living room, glance at the fireplace, open the door to a guest room, and turn to Trent. “No.”

“Right. One more. Bit out of the way, but I think you’ll like it.”

We drive north along the coast. The houses thin out. Pines rise along the curved road and the ocean opens beside us, vast and silver beneath a pale sky.

Finally, we pull into a long gravel driveway lined with trees. The house is perched on a small cliff, modern in shape but rustic in material. Black wood siding, large windows, an open porch with thick columns.

Inside, the space is all clean lines and raw wood, glass walls facing the ocean, stone fireplace in the living room. The air smells like cedar and salt. It’s quiet. Secluded.

“This one,” I say.

“You haven’t even seen the upstairs.”

“I don’t need to. Make the offer.”

Trent blinks, then grins. “You got it.”

He leaves me alone to explore. I walk through the house slowly, hand sliding along the railing as I take the stairs. There’s a balcony off the main bedroom with a view of the sea.

Wind brushes past, cool and sharp, and the waves below crash against dark rocks like thunder rolling through water.

Driftwood Cove still sucks. Too quiet. Too quaint. The coffee is weak, the sidewalks are uneven, and the locals love their nostalgia too much.

But this?