My Beautiful Neighbor (The Greene Family Book 1) by Piper Rayne (phonics reading books TXT) 📕

that someone asked someone else out. It’s that her dad embezzled from the company, or her dad is sleeping with his mom, or the business isn’t going well and they’re going to lose everything. And most of those are shitty lies made up to hurt someone.

“Isn’t that the whole reason you’ve been showing up around town? To ignite rumors?”

I stand, unable to sit next to her anymore. “Ignite rumors? If you’re going to be mad at someone, be mad at your mother. She didn’t have to drag me back here, then write some letter about how she wants me to have a relationship with you. I think you have enough people in this town who have your back.”

Clara flies up from her chair. “And they should. I’m from here. I was raised here.”

“Well, I don’t want to be here anyway.” I grab the envelope on the desk with the keys to the store. I rip it open and take out one. “But this is mine. And you don’t have a say on whether or not I accept an offer for the building.”

“Oh please. What are you going to do? Open up a high heels shoe store? Because this is Alaska and I hate to break it to you, but you’re going to fail.”

I groan, open the door, and walk right by that Xavier guy waiting in the reception area for his darling Clara.

“Presley,” Beth says.

But I fly out the door, heading right to the store as if I’m going to squat there and prevent anyone from buying it. I’m fully aware that I’m allowing my damn stubborn side to take over, but right now, I can’t find it in myself to care.

The bell attached to the door rings as I step into the space. It’s dirty, dusty, and cluttered. Three rows of sewing machines sit on tables, and the walls are filled with spools of thread, bins of rolled-up fabric under them. Books of patterns are stacked on a table in the corner.

Sitting in one of the chairs, I dial up my mom, happy that with the time difference, it’s later in the morning there.

“Presley,” she says. “What did the lawyer say?”

I called Mom last night after Cade canceled and I bought a new outfit. Not that Mom wouldn’t have called me—the woman probably has a tracker embedded in me somewhere. My mom takes the word overprotective as a compliment.

“There’s a third party who wants to purchase the building.”

She lets out a long, relieved breath. Just like she did when I told her I’d broken up with Lincoln after college. He wasn’t the kind of man she envisions me marrying. FYI, that imaginary person lives in Connecticut and had the same upbringing I did—country club, private schools, and familial wealth. “Oh, thank heavens. Have you booked your flight home then?”

“No, I don’t know what I’m going to do. It seems weird to me that I’m left this building and now someone wants to buy it from me. Plus, I’m expected to just take some offer instead of seeing what it can get on the open market?”

“How much did they offer?” she asks.

“One hundred twenty-five thousand.”

“For a building in Smalltown, Alaska? Take it, Presley.”

I look around the small building and can admit to myself that I’m amazed someone would even offer that. I spot the same handwriting that was in my letter scribbled on patterns splayed out on the tables. The woman who grew me in her belly, the one I share DNA with, spent the majority of her time here.

“My God, you’re thinking about staying, aren’t you?” From her tone, you’d think I told her I preferred cotton over cashmere.

“No. I don’t know.”

“Presley, think about this. That town doesn’t want you. You’re a reminder of the secrets people hide in their closets.”

In Connecticut, no one would ever have told a soul about the child they gave up for adoption. Image is everything. So why is something drawing me to this place?

I say, “I haven’t decided. I just think that if I sell, I should get fair value.”

“Just take it and come home. You’re not going to find what you’re looking for there.”

“And what do you think I’m looking for?”

She blows out a breath. “I’m sure you’re curious as to who she was. When I adopted you, I wasn’t naïve enough to think you’d never want to meet her. But she’s passed on now. I’m afraid maybe her wanting you to take over this building is more for her other daughter than you.”

I lean my head into my palm, stretching out on the table. There’s no denying my mom has a point. But I feel freedom here. I’m not being pushed into the box my mom wants me in. This is somewhere I could spread my wings, for lack of a better term. Find out what I want in life, what I’m made of. And I’m not sure I can do that in Connecticut.

“Presley,” my mom says, “I’ll catch the first flight I can get. Help you navigate this and bring you home.”

It’s tempting, knowing that the people in this town might not want me here. Everything my mom is saying could very well be true.

I stand and go to the back of the building. There’s a desk there, set away from the rest of the store. From the calculator and bills on top, I’d say this is where she did the business side of things. I sit down and open the drawers, finding journals of sketches she designed in most of them. I open the last drawer and pick up a journal.

I allow Mom to carry on while I continue to be nosy. “I can fix this for you. Or you can come home and your father…”

A picture slides out of the journal and I catch it before it falls to the floor. It’s the same picture my mom showed me when she told me they adopted me—a typical newborn picture taken in the hospital and it’s of