3. That’s A Thank-you Gift

Monroe

She stares slack-jawed at the document on my phone. "Is this for real?"

Like I'd show up here without doing the research. "Fun fact—you can gift a house to someone," I say.

"Without them knowing?" Her eyes are wide.

"Yes. I googled it this afternoon. It's what's known as a gift deed."

The crease in her forehead deepens. "Eleanor gift-deeded us her house? In Darling Springs? Your hometown?"

Juliet's shock is understandable. I've had a few hours to process the magnitude of the gift. Sadie and I had grabbed a cup of coffee in the dingy café next to the bare-bones studio, where we reviewed the recent Heartbreakers and Matchmakers emails. Today's included this one from an attorney letting us know that Eleanor had sent us—in her words—a little something.

"Apparently, it's a thank-you gift," I explain, trying to keep my cool about this unexpected generosity. "She'll also pay the gift tax on it. I gave her attorney a quick call to confirm all the details. And I spoke to Sawyer since he's done some business in Darling Springs recently and knows the property value there."

Her brother isn't an attorney, but he is my college friend and was scoping out real estate there for his growing business.

"What did he say?"

"What I suspected—it's the hot small town."

After he confirmed the red-hot potential, he remarked curiously, "You and Juliet scoring a house from a listener? That's something I never thought would happen."

"You and me both, buddy," I said.

"Will you live in it? With her?"

I nearly choked.

"I live in San Francisco," I said, stating the obvious. I didn't want to tread anywhere near the thought of living with Juliet in any capacity. Sawyer doesn't know about our week-long fling all those summers ago. Nothing came of it, so there was no need to mention it, then or now.

Juliet still looks gobsmacked, running her fingers through her thick chestnut waves while she sorts through the words on the screen. When she raises her face, she studies me skeptically with those bright green eyes. "So you're really not here to mock me. To laugh, not with me, but at me?"

She's so doubtful it's kind of adorable. "That's your concern? I show you this, and you still think I came to tease?"

She gives me a Why would I think otherwise look. "That's kind of your thing."

"On air," I point out. I mean, it's a persona, all that poking. Mostly. But I don't want to talk about us. I want to focus on the holy shit gift that's landed in our lap. "It's not every day someone gives you a house. I wanted to tell you as soon as I had the details. So I was waiting outside?—"

"Waiting for my date to flop," she says.

Now's not the time to hurt her when she's down. No need to tell her I was pacing as the clock struck nine, confident there would not be an ExtraDate, a combo date, or an extend-a-date.

"I came here only to discuss this house," I say and that's mostly true. Fine, the jerk in me likes the fact that her date went as I'd suspected. The jerk in me is also the reason I'm divorced, but I can't resist adding, "It just so happened your date was a douche."

She has the worst taste in men. She's also too nice to people. I'm not sure which is the bigger issue in her dating life. All I know is I wanted to stab that guy with an olive toothpick.

Fortunately, Mister Cheese Douche is gone, and I won't be arrested for attempted murder.

"And now we've got…a vacation home?" she asks, reading the screen to verify for a second or third time. As she does, I steal a glance at her date attire, taking in the details of Evening Juliet.

That red top sloping slightly off one shoulder, offering just a hint of her pale skin, so tempting to touch.

Her eye makeup, a little smoky and seductive.

And that tempting lipstick she applied for someone who doesn't fucking deserve her. As her friend—okay, frenemy—and her co-worker, I definitely care who deserves her. So far, the answer is no one.

I reorient my thoughts to her question. "A vacation home but really an investment."

Over the last few hours, I've plotted a path, and I lead her down it now. If we sell this bad boy, I can finally pay off the never-ending medical school loans that I put on hold during my divorce a few years ago. Loans that are extra painful reminders that I only practiced psychiatric medicine for a few years before I admitted I hated it and switched to clinical therapy. It's an expensive way to learn your dad's goals for you are not your own goals.

We could also use some of the proceeds to grow the podcast. Maybe market it in new ways. I started Heartbreakers and Matchmakers a couple of years ago with a married couple. They provided the real person viewpoint, I brought the clinical therapy POV, and when Juliet joined she shared her fresh approach to ending relationships with grace and class. But when our married co-hosts moved on, Juliet and I took over the show ourselves, along with the expenses. It makes a little money, but mostly it runs close to the bottom line. If we marketed it properly, I'm confident it could become a cash cow.

Juliet arches a skeptical brow. "I don't get it though. It's so generous. She always seemed like a gifty person, but this? This is big. Why did she give us a house?"

"I asked myself the same thing. Besides the obvious—she has excellent taste in recipients of expensive gifts," I say, which earns me a small smile, "Eleanor said we were the people she wanted to thank for helping her find love after she lost her first husband."

I pick up the phone and read out loud the letter that came with the deed. "Dear Monroe and Juliet, As I plan for my cruise, it occurs to me that I wouldn't be stepping onto this ship with Sandeep if not for the two of you. You encouraged me to pursue my heart's desire with, in your words, honesty, authenticity, and humor, and I can't thank you enough. So please accept this house as a token of my appreciation for the fine work you do. Perhaps you can even use it for recording the podcast. The show must go on, and I know it can't be easy putting out a labor of love every week."

Juliet furrows her brow. It's too cute the way it crinkles. "She's trying to pay it forward?"

"It's her thing. You're right—she is a gifty person. My quick research showed that she donated a new wing to a dog rescue in the city, and decades ago, a portion of the proceeds from her Christmas album went to a music school."

"She's a singer?" Juliet seems both flummoxed and delighted. "I mean, she did have a kind of sexy, smoky voice."

"I had no idea, either, because…why research a listener? But yeah, she is. I dug enough to get the basics. She's a very pay-it-forward person. I guess the goal is for us to keep the podcast going for as long as we want. The house money would help." I've got a feeling Juliet might not be as keen about this situation as I am. For all her optimism about romance and love, she's plenty skeptical about people and their intentions. She's like an onion. So many layers.

"But it's too much. It's so much," she says, full of the doubt I expected.

"You can turn it down," I begin, knowing she'll want all the details. "But you said the podcast has been helping your party business."

She blows out a thoughtful breath. "True. It does."

"And it definitely helps my business and the seminars I'm developing." Thanks to a partnership with a university, I've started teaching an online class on improving your relationship skills. I'd really like the class to not fail. I'd really like that a lot.

She's quiet for a moment, lost in thought. "It's a big thank-you, Monroe. Can we really accept it?"

I recognize the want in her voice. Time for a closing pitch. "We could go check out the house. See what it needs."

"Right. True. Maybe we were gifted a hideous pile of wood and tile that's only good for demolishing," she says.

"Or maybe it's a gleaming mansion," I say. "But we won't know till we kick the tires. I did look it up, and from the pics I saw on Zillow, I don't think the place needs much work. When that's done, we can sell it. Use the money for the next phase of marketing for the show. Zillow and I think the house could net us a decent amount," I tell her, then give her a number.

She mouths a whoa, like she's afraid to say out loud how juicy that number tastes on her tongue.

"And you could use some of it to expand your breakup party business," I say, sweetening the deal.

"True, true. Business has been good, but I want to go bigger. Reach new clients, work in new cities, plus expand into some new areas. Sawyer's been looking at my business plan, and he thinks the expansion is a good idea too. If I can pull it off."

"What sort of expansion?" I ask.

"Maybe it's silly, but my friend Aubrey had this idea to make a line of fun breakup champagne with names like You're Better Off Without Him and I Never Liked Him That Much Anyway. She's a hairstylist, so it's not something she wants to take on, but I really love the idea of a branded champagne. My brother does too."

I hum, mulling it over. "Breakup gifts. I like it."

"Yeah?" She sounds skeptical but hopeful.

"I do," I confirm.

She nibbles on the corner of her lips, clearly thinking. "And you could finish paying off your loans."

She gets it. Nice.

"And look…" I've been dreading this part of the pitch, but I have to power through it. "I need to go to Darling Springs, anyway. My dad's retiring, and his colleagues are throwing him a retirement party next week."

Her voice pitches up in surprise as she asks, "He's retiring?"

"I know, right? Figured he'd work forever."

"Same here. And you're going to his party?" She sounds wary. Maybe even a little protective of me. That's sweet but unnecessary. I can handle Dad on my own. I've been doing it since I was thirteen.

"I have to," I grit out. But there's a silver lining to returning home. "Maybe we can do any necessary work on the house ourselves before we sell it. I truly don't think it needs much, but I'm pretty handy."

"Which is weird. You know that, right? Shrinks shouldn't be handy."

I raise my arms, the evidence. "I'm a man of many talents. I know how to use my hands. I can fix things."

Her eyes pop, and for a second, I think she will make a naughty comment about being good with my hands, especially when her lips twitch in a smile. Instead, she says, "You just want the distraction from having to see your father." But her teasing is full of sympathy and understanding.

"Exactly. I usually take a few weeks off from my practice during the summer, anyway, so the timing should be good," I say.

What better place to spend one of those off weeks than the town where I acquired all my old wounds in the first place? Of course, mine are already healed, but it could be a good refresher, nonetheless. One I could use to help others.

"So, you and I would go? And what? Push each other's buttons the whole time?" Juliet asks, but she sounds like she's saying keep convincing me, I'm almost there.

"It's our favorite pastime," I say.

She snorts. "Speak for yourself."

"You know you like pushing buttons, Juliet," I say, goading her toward a yes, surprised at how much I want her to say that word, maybe because I want her to get out of the city with me for a week.

"Are you willing to bet on that?" she retorts.

"As if you didn't love the bet."

She rolls her eyes, then lets out a sigh. "Fine. I admit the idea of checking out this house is intriguing."

I pump a fist.

"Try not to be too excited," she says.

"What? I like money. So sue me."

"I like it too. Plus, my mom is nearby. I haven't seen her since the split," she says.

I give her a sympathetic smile. Having supported adults with older divorcing parents, I know that's not an easy situation to deal with.

She picks up a piece of cheese, pops it between those pretty lips, chews. Then she nods. "I have clients to meet with tomorrow, but nothing in town this upcoming week."

C'mon. We're almost there.

Aloud, I say nothing and patiently wait for her to get to "yes."

She gives a decisive nod. "I have a party to host on Saturday afternoon. Let's leave on Sunday."

Yes. Fucking yes!

"I'll be at your door with the top down." I taste a chunk of Comté and aim a derisive scoff after the long-gone Elijah. "He missed out," I say, and a beat later, I realize the double meaning in my words. "The cheese," I clarify.

She's silent for a few seconds. "Yes, of course. The cheese." She sounds defeated, maybe a little hurt. Well, that guy was a dick. It's a good thing I arrived in the nick of time. Because fuck men like him.

At least I know I'm bad news for a woman, and I've never pretended to be dating material. But guys who act like they'll be there for you and then aren't? Those guys need to learn their lesson.

And Juliet sure looks like she needs a break from all these city men. "A week out of town will do you some good," I say.

"Are you saying you know what's best for me?"

Ah, there she is. "That's my sparring partner."

"Yep. Ready to spar and push buttons. And now I should pay my bill."

She rises, grabbing her purse, but I wave her off. "Cheese Douche paid it."

"Oh." She stops in her tracks. "I'd have thought he'd protest."

"He did. He tried to convince me splitting the bill was feminist and that you'd appreciate his respect for women." She snort-laughs, and I add, "I told him insulting his date was anti-feminist, so he could damn well part ways with his cash. But if he hadn't forked it over, I'd have paid."

"You would have?"

I lock eyes with her. "I made it pretty clear that a man pays for a woman on the first date, no matter how it ends."

Her lips part, and a breath of surprise coasts past them. "That was…nice of you," she says with softness around her mouth.

"Don't mention it," I say.

And I won't mention that I like the way she said that—that was nice of you.

Instead, we make our way out of the bar and finalize our plans to get out of town.

There are worse ways to spend a week than fixing up a house with a beautiful woman, even if that beautiful woman is a friend you should never have dated, even when you were young and foolish.