I climb the stairs and am relieved to feel them solid beneath my feet. My heart nearly thuds to a stop at the landing, though. From the top, the roofline crosses perpendicular in either direction. A bedroom in each wing.

But that’s not what I care about. It’s the long, planked landing with a built-in bookshelf running from end to end and lined with gorgeous, broad-paned windows. And it’s right there in all its potential for glory.

I whimper for the second time in one day, but this time it’s woodwork that has me yearning. I’m a simple woman. Give me a bearded man and a sun-soaked early-century Craftsman reading nook and I will love you forever.

Cameron prods me forward, but yells down, “We’ll take the house, fellas.”

“It needs work,” I whisper.

“It does.”

“That kitchen,” I say.

I catch his grimace out of the corner of my eye. “It’s bad. The second house is easier by far. Probably a safer choice for our first go of things.”

I lick my lips and turn to him. He’s so close, I can see the golden petals in his grass-green eyes. “But you just told them we’ll take this one.”

“Your dad would choose the second one. Solid investment.”

“But you said this one,” I press.

“I did.”

“I want this one,” I admit.

“I know.” His lips curve into a full smile and my heart clenches. Other parts of me might, too. Parts that should not be in charge of decision-making.

“I can make something spectacular out of this,” I tell him. “The potential is out of this world. This floor.” I tap it with my toe. “The staircase. This built-in, Cam, I could seriously cry. This is special.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, why not? What’s the worst that could happen? I humiliate myself on television while Lyle rakes in his fortune at my expense?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I joke.

He barks out a laugh.

“You won’t humiliate yourself,” I promise.

His eyes leap to mine, pinning me in place.

“You swear?”

“I won’t let you. I can do this, Cam. I know I’m not my dad, but I can do this. And I won’t let Lyle humiliate you because I don’t want him to humiliate me either. But this place. I can feel it. This is right. Trust me?”

His eyes never leave mine and he groans, softly, under his breath. “I’m not sure of myself around you,” he admits, and I ignore the thrill that flares through me, white-hot, at his confession. “But I trust you. I always have. So, if you say this is it, this is it.”

“This is it,” I say. Praying all the while I don’t mess this up.

He holds out his hand and it’s warm and big and sure as I take it in mine, shaking once.