I hired an architect I’d worked with before, we worked up the plans, we brought in a contractor, and walls started coming down. We were reconfiguring the entire layout downstairs, letting in more light, opening up hallways, and creating a more open concept without sacrificing the original integrity of the house. There was nothing worse in my book than Victorian on the outside and ultramodern inside.

It was a pile of crazy at the moment, but I could see that it was going to be beautiful. And we were moving at a breakneck pace, using more workers than normal to get everything done more quickly.

It’s amazing what you can get done when you have deep pockets and a sense of urgency. Which Simon really seemed to have lately when it came to the house. Getting back to his photography? Not so much. But we’ll pause on that particular pickle, and focus on this gorgeous old house.

Although “we” bought it, use of the word we here is stretching it considerably. There was no way I could have afforded a house like this, run down or not. It was in a prime area with killer views and a huge footprint in an established neighborhood. I wasn’t comfortable with Simon paying for everything, no matter how much money he had stashed away. So I’d insisted that the house would be in his name only, and I’d contribute to monthly household expenses. He gave me an enormous budget to work with for the design, and while I still felt a bit guilty when I saw the invoices, I had to admit I liked having a rich boyfriend.

There. I said it. Revoke my feminist card. Take away my—well, whatever you take away when a woman admits she likes nice things. I was getting the house of my dreams, with the man of my dreams. And I reminded myself of this each time I tripped over a bucket or brushed sawdust off my sammich or tensed up whenever I heard Simon turn a job down. . . . There’s that pickle again.

In addition to my own house renovations I was in the home stretch on the Claremont, which filled my days. Jillian had toured each job site I’d been working on in her absence, pored over the books with a fine-tooth comb, grilled Monica so thoroughly that I was scared for her, and then said I’d done an amazing job. I told her she could show me that in my end-of-the-quarter bonus, which she pretended not to hear. But she totally would.

Now she was spending some time meeting with her lawyers and her accountants, which freed me up for putting the finishing touches on the hotel. The launch party was getting closer and closer, and we’d be ready to show it off to all of Sausalito.

I focused on all the things that were on my plate at the moment, and not on the pickle on the side that was staring at me. Because that was a pickle I was silly to even entertain. Who cared that he wasn’t working? He had plenty of money, he didn’t need to work. So why did this pickle prick at me so?

Pffft. Forget it—I had a fifty-cent tour to give right now.

I led my two best chickens through the house, explaining in great detail each finish and fixture that had been selected, painting a picture how it would all come together when it was complete. They made no comment on the fact that there was a toilet sitting in my dining room, which I greatly appreciated. I saved the best for last, and when I opened the French doors to the master suite, I saw gleaming furniture and polished oak floors. Mounds of pillows and the blue bay peeking through puddled curtains. What they actually saw were pine studs and yellow electrical wiring hanging from the ceiling, and that damn blow-up bed. But when they saw the claw-foot tub, even Sophia looked a bit wistful.

“This is kickass, Caroline,” she said, perching on the side. That’s her version of wistful.

“You gotta get in this tub, see how deep it really is,” I encouraged, sitting down in one end, and her eyes opened wider when she realized how luxurious it was. Wider still when I dangled my legs over one side, flashing my panties in the process.

“This is going to be so fantastic when it’s finished. How much longer until it’s all done?” Mimi asked.

“We’re on track to finish ahead of schedule, but I hate to even say that out loud. Who knows what else we might find?” Like the original knob-and-tube wiring that had to be ripped out, and the rotten subfloor downstairs, and the ghost that was living in the basement. Technically the ghost was a family of raccoons that had been relocated to a nearby nature preserve, but that was neither here nor there.

“I admit it, I never thought you two would be the first to get the house out in the burbs. How’s Simon doing with all this change?” asked Sophia, now in the tub with me.

“Oh, he’s having a grand old time. Yesterday he spent an hour examining the difference using a sandpaper with a forty grit versus eighty grit would make on the kitchen banquette. And don’t even get me started on how much fun he had with the chalk lines the crew used to ensure the sightlines were even on the new kitchen pass-through. There was blue chalk everywhere; I finally found him by following his blue footsteps,” I said flatly.

I couldn’t complain though, could I? Who wouldn’t want a boyfriend who was determined to create the most perfect home imaginable? And besides, once I found him, he quickly made me forget about the footprints. He showed me his tool belt, you see.

However, even the tool belt wasn’t enough to bring my O out of temporary hiding. It was temporary, right? Admittedly, it was hard to get down to the sexy times when there was a thin veil of drywall dust coating everything that would stand still, but still. Even the tool belt wasn’t making a dent.

If I ever saw Cory Weinstein again, I’d castrate him.

But seriously, it was just temporary. Right? I’d avoided sex with Simon for days now, something I’d never done. He was getting suspicious. I was getting frustrated. Even right now, I could feel the tension building up in my body.

Why wasn’t he booking jobs?

Wow, wrong tension.

This was why I needed to stop picking at this particular pickle.

“I’m glad we decided to wait until after we get married to look for a house. Too stressful while planning the wedding. Plus, I don’t want to live in sin. You know you’re hellbound, Caroline,” Mimi said with a wicked glint in her eye.

“Where do you think you’ll look for a house?” I asked, settling deeper into the tub while Mimi sat cross-legged on the window seat (a window seat in a bathroom? I can’t even) and looked out at the view.

“I think we’ll stay in the city for now, although I can really see the appeal of moving out here,” she said. The lot was wooded on either side of the house, and some of the trees in back had been cleared to see the water down below. It felt secluded, even though we weren’t far from our neighbors. Golden light streamed in, and it was so quiet. “I bet Sophia would never want to leave the city though, right?” she asked, turning back toward us.