An insanely competitive housing market. A desperate buyer on the edge. In Marisa Kashino’s darkly humorous debut novel, Best Offer Wins, the white picket fence becomes the ultimate symbol of success—and obsession. How far would you go for the house of your dreams?
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Marisa Kashino’s Best Offer Wins, which is out now.
Eighteen months and 11 lost bidding wars into house-hunting in the overheated Washington, DC suburbs, 37-year-old publicist Margo Miyake gets a tip about the perfect house, in the perfect neighborhood, slated to come up for sale in one month. Desperate to escape the cramped apartment she shares with her husband Ian — and in turn, get their marriage, plan to have a baby, and whole life back on track — Margo becomes obsessed with buying the house before it’s publicly listed and the masses descend (with unbeatable, all-cash offers in hand).
A little stalking? Harmless. A bit of trespassing? Necessary. As Margo infiltrates the homeowners’ lives, her tactics grow increasingly unhinged—but just when she thinks she’s won them over, she hits a snag in her plan. Undeterred, Margo will prove again and again that there’s no boundary she won’t cross to seize the dream life she’s been chasing. The most unsettling part? You’ll root for her, even as you gasp in disbelief.
Dark, biting, and laugh-out-loud funny, Best Offer Wins is a propulsive debut and a razor-sharp exploration of class, ambition, and the modern housing crisis.
EXCERPT
We’re only thirty minutes from the apartment, but we might as well have teleported to another planet.
The sidewalks in Grovemont are pristine. No discarded pizza crusts or other detritus from wasted twentysomethings stumbling around after closing time. No homeless people hassling you when all you want to do is get inside your own building. (Or is it unhoused now? Or people experiencing homelessness? Whatever, my point is everyone here in Grovemont is experiencing fucking paradise.)
It must be ten degrees cooler here in the summer, with all these giant trees. This is the kind of place where people get into birdwatching and growing their own tomatoes. Where the only time you hear sirens is when the fire department wants to spice things up at the Christmas parade.
Last month, someone was shot and killed outside the high school down the block from our apartment in Shaw. But just seven miles away—here in the most desirable neighborhood in the most desirable DC suburb of Bethesda—our kid will attend the very best public schools in the whole state of Maryland, possibly the entire country.
Of course, I knew the neighborhood would be perfect. I’ve been obsessed with it for a year and a half. But when we pull up to the actual house, I almost can’t believe it’s real. Like if I looked from the side, I would see that it was a flattened set from a movie titled Margo’s Dream Home or Margo Dies and Goes to Heaven. It’s a white-painted brick Colonial, with a glossy black front door flanked by brass lanterns. It has a lush front lawn and window boxes I’d fill with whatever type of flowers you’re supposed to put in those things.
Ian’s mom can show me. She loves her window boxes. In fact, this house looks an awful lot like Ian’s parents’ house. Which feels like it might be a sign.
Ian notices, too. “Well, I at least love it from the outside,” he says. “Kind of like my folks’ house, don’t you think?”
“I have to see the backyard,” I say.
“Wait a minute, what? You can’t just let yourself into the backyard.”
“I think I can. See that gate?” I point it out for him, through the Prius’s rolled-down window.
“No, I mean you shouldn’t let yourself into the backyard, Margo.” He only says my name when he really wants to make a point. But I’m already out of the car.
“Come on, we’re the only ones parked out here. No one’s home. I’ll be very fast.”
“Margo, do not do this.”
“Just a quick peek. I’ll be right back.”
I know, I know. This is privilege. No one’s calling the cops on an Asian girl in head-to-toe Lululemon, at least not in a neighborhood with this much performative wokeness. Practically every other house has a “Black Lives Matter” sign in the yard, though I am willing to bet no actual Black people live on this street. If a neighbor sees me, I’ll just say my dog got loose and ran back here or something. It grosses me out, too, but I don’t make the rules.
I unlatch the gate and follow the flagstone pathway around back to a patio. When I spot it—hanging from the sturdy limb of an oak tree, in the far right corner of the yard—my breath halts. A tire swing. How many houses have we looked at? Forty-five? Fifty? And it’s the first one I’ve encountered. This doesn’t just feel like a sign. This is one.
I consider crossing the lawn to touch the rough, dark rubber. But then I’d be out in the open, even more exposed to any nosy neighbor peering down from their upstairs window. A soft breeze cools my neck; the tire sways just slightly. I long to get closer, but this’ll have to do for now.
It’s gorgeous today, but it rained last night, so the outdoor sectional and coffee table on the patio are covered. A few steps lead up to the deck, complete with an eight-person teak dining table and a custom, built-in bar with a gas grill and a mini fridge. It looks like they bumped out the back of the house, probably to enlarge the kitchen. After touring about a zillion of them, I’ve seen this is the typical reno for a 1940s Colonial.
A speck of an airplane cuts a trail through wide-open sky—and it’s so pin-drop quiet that I can hear the faint rumble of its engine. The grass is wet and flawlessly green, because it’s only April. There’s enough of it to feel like a real backyard, but not so much that it’ll be all-consuming. We will own a lawn mower here for the first time in our lives—an essential bauble on the charm bracelet of Successful Adulthood.
During the anxious little blip when my parents were homeowners, my dad turned into a total psychopath over the lawn. Now that lawn was too big, too much maintenance. He splurged on a fancy built-in irrigation system, yet somehow, somewhere, there was always still a brown spot that enraged him. The lawn wasn’t the real issue, I realize now.
My phone vibrates in my hand. A text from Ian: Done yet?
I know I’m pushing it, but I need to see the kitchen. It has to be in that bumped-out addition.
I jog up the steps to the deck, then cup my hands around my face so I can see through the French doors. Carrara marble blankets all the countertops, including a massive island—the kind that becomes a natural hub for the happy chaos of a family. The floors are wide-plank oak. The cabinets are Shaker, painted a warm gray, with brass knobs. I’d given up on ever topping that first Grovemont Colonial, the one we lost in that very first bidding war, but this one is so much better. It’s like they peered inside my mind and extracted the perfect backdrop for the perfect future.
There goes my phone again. But Ian will have to hang on a sec because I’m imagining myself drinking coffee on one of those cane-back barstools. Wonder if it would help to offer to buy some of their furniture, too. Might be easier for them than moving it out of town. The gas range is against the wall to the left. Looks like a Thermador, probably worth more than the Prius.
There’s a breakfast nook just on the other side of the glass. We’ll eat most of our meals there. But I spot a more formal dining room off to the right, through an arched opening. That was one of my main complaints about the row house—in under a thousand square feet, there was no space for a real table where we could celebrate, for instance, our baby’s first birthday. But here, we’ll host all kinds of holidays and legit grown-up dinner parties. We’ll get one of those wine-bottle chillers that sits in a stand.
Ugh. More buzzing. It almost hurts to pull my eyes away, but I finally let them flit down to the screen.
CAR PULLING UP
Followed only by: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Fuck.
I look back up. A man, slender and well dressed, is coming down the hallway from the front entrance, face tilted toward his phone. I plummet to all fours and crawl toward the steps, the dampness from the deck soaking through my leggings.
The last time something like this happened, it was January and freezing out. Ian thought I was running errands, but really, I was here in Grovemont—on the prowl for any hint of an impending sale—when a Cape Cod with a wide-open garage made me slam on the brakes. Inside were boxes, stacks of them. Possibly packed for an upcoming move.
From the Prius, it was impossible to tell for sure, so I parked around the corner then strolled right in, unnoticed. Just as I was figuring out that the boxes were merely storage, mostly full of junk, I heard the knob turning on the door from the inside of the house. I ducked behind one of the stacks, peeking out just far enough to spy a hand tap the button to close the garage. The concrete floor shuddered beneath me until everything was pitch black. I stayed hidden there till I couldn’t feel my toes. At last, I ran over and hit the button again, raising the obnoxious door just enough to squirm out from underneath it. No one must have heard because I made it back to the Prius without incident.
Compared to that, the predicament I’m in now isn’t so bad. Once I crawl down the deck stairs, I stand up and slink along the white brick till I reach the gate. Quickly scanning my surroundings, I book it toward the sidewalk.
An olive-green Audi SUV is parked out front.
But there’s no trace of our beat-up, silver Prius. Where the hell is Ian?
“Hey!”
I whirl around. The man, now on the front porch, narrows his beautiful eyes and strides toward me.
