Ear Candy

by Carter, M. E.

  Twenty minutes and only a few mishaps later, I am nestled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket with the fire roaring before me, and one of Todd’s recorded episodes of The Voice on the television. Completely engrossed in the performance on the screen, I don’t hear anyone come in, but when he whispers in my ear, I do what I attempted last night. Smack him right in the head.

  “Holy shit!”

  “Ohmygod I’m so sorry,” I shout, jumping up and turning to face him. Todd is standing behind the couch, jacket off, tie loosened at the neck, and sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Ladies, I can confirm that my panties are official gone. Poof. Gone. Nothing left to see here. Holy hotness.

  “I thought you heard me come in.”

  Shaking my head, I walk around the couch to where he’s standing, his hand covering his eye. Slowly, I reach up and remove his hand and cringe when I see the red mark on his face.

  “I am so sorry, Todd. I think it’s going to leave a bruise.”

  “It’s okay, I hear chick’s dig a guy who looks like he’s been in a fight.”

  Laughing I ask, “Is that so? Well, I must say, it does scream bad boy.”

  Todd looks to the television and raises a single brow at me before shaking his head and smiling. Busted. “You started a fire.”

  For some reason, his realization that I did something completely out of my wheelhouse makes me a little embarrassed. Suddenly very interested in my fingernails, I mutter, “I did. I hope that was okay.”

  Taking my hand in his, he says, “It’s absolutely okay. I want you to be comfortable here. I’m going to change. Have you eaten?”

  “Just a little snack.”

  “How about I change and then we make dinner? If you’re okay with it, we can finish this episode together.”

  Smiling, I nod in agreement. Squeezing my hand, he walks away and down the hall. Me? I fan myself because it isn’t just the fire making me a little hot tonight.

  Chapter 16

  Todd

  It feels so good to be out of that monkey suit. I know it’s part of the gig and all, but it’s so stifling to have to tone down my personality. Especially since very few people attending the conference will reach the level of success I have. That’s not being cocky, that’s fact. While we all have access to the same information—the current market, projected changes in the market, a house’s marketability—I seem to have a little secret weapon. Me. There is more to this industry than being knowledgeable. When it comes to working with clients, the number one thing you have to have is the ability to make them relax. To enjoy the process.

  Let’s face it . . . buying a house is stressful. Selling a house is stressful. My job isn’t only to reach whatever goal they have, it’s also to keep them sane during the process. Being down-to-earth and go with the flow is exactly what most of my clients need.

  It’s also what most agents don’t have. But what they always have is a well-pressed suit, which is my least favorite part of the job. Thank goodness I have a fully stocked closet here with everything I need to dress up and play the part.

  That reminds me—at some point I need to ask Marge why the hell I have a fully stocked closet here with a bunch of my clothes and one very expensive suit. I assume she had some hand in it. I doubt I would have forgotten something like half my wardrobe. Or, maybe in my hastiness to move to my next flip project, I left them behind. Stranger things have happened.

  Either way, it’s serving me well tonight.

  Meandering into the kitchen, Donna is pulling ingredients out of the pantry. I admit, I wasn’t positive how she’d react to my return after the conference. I took a guess that she’d be fine with me infiltrating her vacation again, especially after that super-hot kiss. Still not sure what that was all about.

  Must have been the suit.

  Huh. Maybe I should wear them more often. Between that and the voice, I’m a bigger babe magnet than I realized.

  “Finding everything you’re looking for?”

  Donna glances over her shoulder, a sultry look on her face. She opens her mouth to respond when she stops and her expression completely changes. “Really,” she deadpans, “you’re wearing unicorns tonight?”

  Aaaand sarcastic Donna is back.

  “What’s wrong with unicorns?” I smooth down the cotton blend, painfully aware that she’s no longer looking at me like I’m her next meal. Damn. “Unicorns are magical creatures who live on rainbows and shit ice cream.”

  “Shit ice cream?”

  My eyes widen. “Please tell me you’ve seen that internet commercial for the Squatty Potty.”

  A small laugh comes out of her as she drops a bag of pasta, a jar of Alfredo sauce and an onion on the counter. “The what?”

  “Where do I find these poor, unworldly people,” I mutter, my hand running down my face. “The Squatty Potty. It’s the world’s best spoof commercial ever, for a product that actually exists.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” she says as she rifles through the drawers, not finding what she’s looking for.

  “One of these days, woman, I’m going to sit you down and give you the complete education of Todd’s world. You will never be the same.”

  “Somehow, I don’t doubt you.”

  She’s still rifling so I walk around the giant island, opening the drawer next to her and pulling out the best vegetable cutting knife known to man. Presenting it to her I ask, “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  Smiling brightly, she takes it from me. “Yes. Thank you. Do you mind heating up a pan to sauté the onion? I know you got us ready-made sauce, but I’d like to add some onion for flavor.”

  “Sure. I’ll do ya one better and fill a pot with water to start the pasta as well.”

  “You’re a good man.”

  She begins the task of chopping the onion and I make a personal wager on how long until she starts crying from the fumes. My best guess is ninety seconds. Starting now.

  “What did you have to do for work today anyway?” I’m not sure if she’s really interested in my job or if she’s just making conversation. It’s not really that exciting. Especially this part.

  “It was the Idaho State Realtors Association. They have a convention every year and this time it’s being held at the local college.”

  “Did you learn a lot?”

  “Oh, I wasn’t attending. I was the keynote speaker.”

  The room goes quiet except for me putting the pan on the stove and turning on the burner. When a few seconds pass and she doesn’t say anything, I turn around.

  Donna’s frozen in place, knife resting on top of the onion, and nowhere near getting teary eyed. I may have misjudged her.

  “What?” I finally ask before we once again fall into a staring contest. It would be very embarrassing for her to lose twice.

  She looks back and forth like she’s trying to get two separate ideas to make sense. “You were the keynote speaker?”

  “Uh, yeah?”

  Placing the knife on the chopping block, she turns and leans against the counter, arms crossed. I have no idea what is happening here, but it could go any number of ways.

  “Todd. What exactly do you do for a living?”

  “I work in real estate.”

  “Nuh-uh. There’s more to it than that.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.” I totally know what she means.

  “You take time off whenever you want, you own this”—she gestures around the room—“amazing piece of property. You have an assistant and you were the keynote speaker at the Idaho State Realtors Convention.”

  “Right. I work in real estate.”

  She stomps her foot in frustration, and I know the jig is up. “Come on, Todd. You’re holding out on me. Give me a job title.”

  I sigh and lean against the counter. “Fine. I own my own firm.”

  “I knew it!”

  I can’t help the massive eye roll that crosses my face. “You did not.”

  “Well no.
Not until just now. But you’re a business genius, aren’t you?”

  “Define genius.”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say you have a team of at least a dozen under you, you were probably listed as a top seller in your region, if not your state, and you probably bought this cabin originally to flip it, and then realized you could make a better profit by holding onto it and using it as a rental property instead.”

  Now it’s my turn to stare wide-eyed. “How did you know all that?”

  She shrugs and turns back to her onion. “I’ve spent the last several years researching different kinds of businesses and the people who run them. Once the pieces of the puzzle come together, it’s not that hard to figure out.”

  “Dammit, I blew my cover,” I mutter. “I should have dressed down more often.”

  Donna barks out a laugh and scrapes a few of the onion slices into her palms and dumps them in the pan. “Don’t underestimate yourself. Your crazy shirts are what threw me off in the first place.”

  “Success!”

  She shakes her head. “You’re crazy, ya know that?”

  “That’s why you like me.”

  She pauses for a second before picking up her knife and working on the onion again. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it is.”

  I hate to admit defeat, but Donna was right. Adding some chopped onion made my favorite go-to Alfredo sauce that much better. Not that we were trying to do anything fancy. Just two people enjoying each other’s company over the comfort of cheesy pasta.

  We were both so full we didn’t bother with the dishes. Just tossed them in some hot water in the sink knowing we’ll regret the decision later, but whatever. The alternative was, well . . . doing dishes.

  Instead, we made our way to the couch to catch up on more episodes of The Voice. Those plans were thwarted, however, when Donna got some random idea she called a plot bunny, whatever that means, and grabbed her laptop right in the middle of the judges arguing over a contestant. Considering that’s her favorite part, I knew this new rabbit had to be important. I can only assume it’s a story about a pet owner.

  I’ve spent the last few hours trying to watch the remaining episodes of The Voice while she works, but it isn’t the same without her. The way she’s abusing the keys of her laptop, I assume she’s onto a really great idea. Or ideas. I mean, it is bunnies and you know what they say about them multiplying. Giving up my quest to absorb all the southern greatness Blake has to offer, I mute the television and grab my laptop. I should check in with the office and ensure everything is on track for our next closing. A quick scroll through my emails and a series of texts to my junior brokers, I connect my earbuds and settle into the couch.

  Eyeing the almost empty glass of wine on the table, I wonder if Donna will continue to nurse the single glass or just finish it. She’s been alternating between typing at lightning speed and staring off into space with her wine glass perched to her lips, only an occasional sip here and there. It’s like the aroma of liquid is fueling her creative juices. I have no room to talk; I’m easily distracted by a squirrel on a branch outside the window, so whatever works for her.

  Placing my tongue up against the back of my teeth, I press my lips together and then force them into a tight “o” position. Carefully blowing through my teeth, I let out a shrill whistle. I think it sounds almost identical to the one I’ve been listening to for the last ten minutes.

  I don’t know for sure though because Donna just threw a pillow at my head, knocking my ear bud out.

  “Why are you throwing shit at me, woman?”

  “Why are you making shrill whistling sounds? You scared the shit out of me.”

  I roll my eyes and scoff. “I’m not making whistling sounds, Donna. I’m learning the language of my native people.”

  She does this weird rapid eye-blinking thing that probably means she’s trying to decide if I’m lying or just making shit up as I go.

  “Seriously. It’s a real thing.”

  “Whistling is the language of your native people.” It’s a statement not a question. She’s processing my words and still looking at me like I’m the one who’s confused.

  Determined to show her how cool this actually is, I click out of the program I’m using and do a quick Google search.

  “Here,” I say, turning my laptop toward her.

  “Turkish Whistling, also known as Bird Language is a series of high-pitched whistles used by some remote villages to communicate over large distances,” she reads aloud. “An endangered language with only about ten thousand speakers worldwide, it’s now making a comeback and is being taught in some schools.” She looks at me like it’s the most fascinating things she’s ever read. “You’re learning an endangered bird language?”

  “It’s actually a people language but yes. I am.” Turning my laptop back, I click out of the article and back into the program.

  “But why?”

  “Why not?” I ask with a shrug. “I like knowing things. Especially obscure things most people don’t know. Not trivia, per se. Just stuff that might not seem important when you find out about it, but when you look closer, it’s unique.”

  Donna leans forward and picks up her wine glass, tipping to her mouth and before taking a sip she says, “I love that. Love that you see the value where others might miss it.”

  “Yeah well. It also makes it easier to communicate with Bill, my building manager, instead of having to go outside in the snow and up the stairs. I’m making him learn it too.”

  Thankfully she hadn’t actually gotten the wine glass to her lips because she started laughing. Plus, I’m not a cabernet man and being covered in it after she spits it all over me doesn’t sound like fun.

  “Anyway, are you finally at a stopping point on your book?”

  Smiling, she stretches her arms over her head. “I think I actually am.”

  “Good!” I pop up from the couch and head to the kitchen to gather supplies. When I come back, I hand her the already opened bottle of wine and keep the ice-cold pale ale for myself. “Let’s play a drinking game.”

  Placing both our laptops on the far end of the coffee table, she takes the bottle I’m handing her and twists the top off, filling the rest of her glass to the top. “What kind of drinking game are we talking about?”

  “Let’s keep with our musical marathon. Every time a judge turns around before the song is over, we drink.”

  Donna quirks one eyebrow up. “That could end up being a lot of drinks in a row.”

  I shrug. “Could be. Or we could remain woefully sober. We don’t know how good the contestants are yet, do we?”

  She pretends to be weighing her options, but I can tell what her answer is going to be. Finally, she’s caves.

  “You’re on.”

  We clink our drinks and I grab the remote, ready for a night of drunken competition.

  Chapter 17

  Donna

  Giant fireballs burn my eyes.

  Giant fireballs?

  That can’t be right. Carefully I pry my eyelids open. It’s a little bit of a struggle considering my lashes are stuck together. With one eye open, I look around the room. Ever so slowly because there is currently a marching band playing the worst rock song known to mankind in my head. If I were to guess, I’d say the entire percussion section has crawled into my head and declared it their new home.

  Holy mother of all hangovers. I should have known this would happen. Two bottles of red wine and hours of banter, laughter, and nothing but roasted marshmallows for sustenance can only lead to this level of ick. Sliding my tongue across my teeth I cringe at what I feel—furriness. Moaning quietly, I continue to scan my surroundings and stiffen when I feel a warm hand wrapped around my waist, a stiff body behind me. By body I mean part. Body part.

  Todd.

  Memories of last night flood my mind like a hurricane and a wave of nausea hits me. Uncertain if it’s from the leftover wine or realization I’m spooning with one of my best friend’s best friends an
d a man I hardly know, I slowly inhale and exhale, hoping to ward off the need to run for the toilet.

  Last night our drinking game quickly turned into more of a game of truth. No dares here, just simple truths. What our childhoods were like, who we wanted to be when we were growing up—a badass modern version of Wonder Woman for me and a train conductor for Todd—and most of all, where we want to be a few years from now. I learned that while on the surface he jokes and wears silly shirts, deep down Todd is kind, giving, and supportive of those in his life. It doesn’t matter to him if he’s known you twenty years or twenty minutes, he’d give you the shirt off his back if he thought it would help.

  His success in real estate sort of happened on a whim, and since major financial success was never something he dreamed of, he’s continued to live his life the same way he did growing up. Of course, when he does indulge, he takes it to the extreme. Yes, parked outside is a twenty-year-old car that probably costs more to maintain than it is worth, but he owns over six homes or buildings currently under construction. He invests in real estate and investments that will grow and allow him to provide jobs and futures for people, instead of on materialistic things like high-end name-brand clothing and cars.

  The body wrapped around mine begins to shift, and I freeze, not wanting to wake him if he’s still sleeping.

  Too late.

  Lips are pressed to my neck and goosebumps cover my skin. Memories of last night and him kissing me on the lips, the neck, the shoulder—below my shoulder, aka my boobs—multiply those goosebumps. The way he made me feel with each graze of his lips sends my heart racing.

  “Mornin’, beautiful.”

  Smiling, I rasp, “Good morning.”

  “The next time I build a house from the ground up, remind me to demand curtains.”

  Laughing, I roll onto my back, careful to keep my face out of his line of breathing. I’m sure my breath is beyond anything sexy. Stretching my hands over my head and pointing my toes, I note Todd hasn’t removed his arm from where it’s flung across my stomach.