Safer Alone (The Safer Duet #1)

by Amy Rose

  Returning to the matter at hand, I look around to make sure that Liam and Jess are still out of sight. Seeing that I am still alone, I set to the task of writing a quick, polite reply,

  Dear Mr. Sands,

  Thank you for your email. I will see you at 2:30 pm tomorrow at the Belle Meade Homestead.

  If you require directions to the property, or for some reason are unable to make the appointment, I request that you please let me know as soon as possible.

  I look forward to meeting with you.

  Warm Regards,

  Angela White

  Licensed Real Estate Agent, Nashville Realty

  Once I hit send, I quickly scroll to see if any other important emails have come in before closing out of the program. I decide that it would be beneficial to try to do some research on this Elliot Sands fellow tonight, in the hope that I would be better prepared for tomorrow’s meeting. Of course, this all depends on if I could find anything about him online, that is.

  Being a CEO of a company meant there should be some sort of footprint on the internet about him; an interview with Forbes, maybe a biography of him in the Wall Street Journal. I may even hit the jackpot and spot a photograph or two. The other choice I have is to look at his company’s own website. Surely, they will have a write-up about the company’s founder.

  Nowadays, if you are even remotely famous you will appear on Wikipedia. Luckily for me I’m not, so you won’t find anything at all if you type my name into a search engine. Nothing personal, anyway. I don’t have any social media accounts, so all you will find on me are any properties I have for sale at the time.

  As I am placing my phone back into my pocket, I hear Liam and Jessica enter the dining room together. Once they are right in front of me, they look at each other and then Liam breaks the silence.

  “Well, Ange, we have had a talk about it and we want to know if you can…help us with the paperwork?”

  I smile at my friends and reach out to place one of my hands on each of their shoulders, “Of course I can. I’m so glad it’s what you have been looking for!”

  I rifle through my folder and retrieve some paperwork and hand it to Liam. It’s an offer form specifically for the property, with the listed amount printed clearly under the address.

  “All you have to do is place both of your names here, your current address on this line, phone numbers just here, and both of you will need to sign here right at the bottom. I can then get the ball rolling on my end.”

  Liam accepts the form and gives it the once-over. “Do you have a pen, Ange?” he asks.

  I nod in response, “I certainly do. If it’s easier, though, you can take it with you and get it back to me?” I offer him my pen, he plucks it from between my fingers.

  “It’s okay, we’ll complete it now. We would hate to lose it.” He starts jotting down the information that I requested, then slides the paper across the table and gives Jess the pen. She provides her information just as quickly as Liam, placing the pen on the paper once she has finished.

  I collect the contract page along with the pen, running my eyes over the document and then proceed to place them both into my folder. “That’s all in order. I’ll let the owners know that I have received a full price offer, and once I have their instructions I will get back to you, hopefully later today. How does that sound?”

  “That sounds great Angie. Thank you.”

  We walk together back out to our cars waiting for us at the front of the home. Just before we part ways, I give them both hugs and then we wave goodbye.

  I wait for their car to be out of sight before giving myself a pat on the back. Returning to the house I ensure all the locks are engaged. Then, placing one of my business cards on the kitchen counter with a smiley face drawn on the back, I leave the property, finally driving toward my home.

  I try without success to contact the sellers, settling for a voicemail advising that I have received a full price offer and to return my call at their earliest convenience. I send a message to Liam, letting him know that I will send through a confirmation email on Monday once I have submitted the paperwork, so they would have a copy.

  Pulling into my parking space a short time later, I lock my car and walk up the two flights of stairs to the floor of my apartment. After fishing out the keys from the side pocket of my handbag, I unlock the door and enter. Once inside, I place my handbag and folder on the kitchen counter, kick off my shoes, and help myself to the fridge, pouring a large glass of orange juice. I take a few sips and welcome the coolness. Picking up the glass, I take it with me to sit down on the couch.

  I reflect on the appointments that had occurred today. Both have gone well. As long as the owners accepted Jessica and Liam’s offer, I have sold one home. The commission that will come from that sale will come in handy for next month’s bills.

  I have a second viewing tomorrow at the two-story cottage in Belle Meade that has been on my books for a little while now. Not that the owners minded. It was a property that was in need of someone to love it and see it for what it really is: “a diamond in the rough.”

  Also they are firmly set on receiving a full-price offer and won’t budge a dime. They don’t really need to sell the property as they are quite wealthy. If it doesn’t sell they will just keep it. Who knows, luck might strike twice and I could sell two properties this weekend. I don’t even notice that I had subconsciously crossed my fingers until my eyes fall when I feel the buzzing coming from my pocket, from my cell phone.

  I grab my phone and switch it off silent mode immediately. There was no reason for it to be on vibrate any longer. I see that the email icon is flashing again. Opening the email app, it is evident that I have received another email from Mr. Sands. I open the email and read:

  Miss White,

  Directions won’t be necessary.

  I look forward to meeting you, too.

  Regards,

  Elliot Sands,

  CEO Sands PTY Limited

  I can feel my cheeks blush. Here I am reading an email that mentions he is looking forward to meeting me. Me? Why on earth would he be looking forward to meeting me? Does he know who I am? It doesn’t take long to realize how silly I am being. He needs to meet me in order to see the house and he is obviously being polite.

  I haven’t even given him another thought since his email from earlier this afternoon; I have been too busy with Liam and Jess. I decide against replying, instead placing the phone down on the couch beside me before picking up the remote control for the television. I switch it on and flick aimlessly through the channels, finally settling on a home renovation show; an old painted lady located in San Francisco. I try hard to concentrate on the show. However for some reason, tonight it just won’t hold my attention, especially now that my thoughts were elsewhere. Tonight I have a one-track mind, and where did that track lead? Elliot Sands.

  I need to investigate this man, find out as much as possible. I locate my iPad, and settle back onto the couch. I unlock the screen and open the Google application. I tap the cursor into the search bar, the keyboard pops up at the bottom of the screen, I enter his name and hit enter. I take another sip of my orange juice as I wait for the search list to load.

  Several websites are listed, and right at the top of the page was Wikipedia. Ahhh, good old Wikipedia. Sometimes it’s helpful and other times it isn’t. As I had expected, there is an interview with a business magazine and an entry in the Wall Street Journal further down the list. I decide to have a quick look at Wikipedia and then proceed to the next website.

  I click on the webpage and it pops up in front of my eyes, a profile on Elliot James Sands. The first thing I notice, located toward the top of the page, is a color photograph of the man I will be meeting tomorrow. I enlarge to full screen so I can see it better. He is standing with his hands in the pockets of his black suit pants, jacket unbuttoned revealing a light blue button-up business shirt, with unruly sandy blond hair and blue eyes. I stare at the photo for a few minutes, tak
ing in his features. He is very handsome and, no doubt, if he appears like this in a photo then he surely will look even better in person. I minimize the photo and scan quickly over the information listed. He is thirty-four, resides in New York City, owns his own business “Sands PTY Limited.” He is six feet, two inches, and single. Below all of that information, it also lists his net worth. He is wealthy, like Leonardo-DiCaprio wealthy. Of course. A business owner in New York who is listed on the Stock Exchange must be worth a pretty penny.

  I put the iPad down and take another mouthful of orange juice, my thoughts running wild. Why would a super-rich, thirty-four-year-old be looking at purchasing an almost one hundred eighty-year-old cottage in Nashville, Tennessee? I mean, surely, he would have a mansion somewhere in New York City, wouldn’t he? He may even have several properties. Real estate, after all, is always a sound investment, so my grandfather always told me. Maybe he was after something a little off the grid where he could get away and unwind. He could unwind those arms around me anytime…Whoa, Angela, don’t go there. That’s never going to happen.

  The cottage he would be looking at tomorrow is lovely, and it was a rarity these days. To find something of this caliber in Nashville, you had to be prepared to wait. The home itself is situated on a generous lot of close to two acres, which is something that I know for a fact he wouldn’t be able to find anywhere in Manhattan, since everyone builds on top of one another.

  Apartment buildings are literally everywhere you look in the city. We have them here, I live in one. However, where you will live in one of over a hundred in a building there, my own is one of fifty-five. Could that be the reason that he was looking at property here in Nashville? There is always the possibility that he was someone who appreciated older properties. Might he be relocating to a new town to set up business in a second location? I am much more comfortable here in Nashville then I ever was in New York, so it’s possible other people feel the same.

  I have to get my mind removed from this topic and onto something else. I need to relax and ignore the information that I had just learned. Otherwise I won’t be able to concentrate tomorrow. I have absolutely no reason to bring up his net worth at tomorrow’s meeting, after all.

  After powering down my iPad, I finish the glass of orange juice with two unladylike gulps. I tell myself to forget about Elliot Sands tonight, and with that I deposit my dirty glass in the sink. I will wash it later after I cook dinner, and then wander into the bathroom to take a shower. All the while the photo of Elliot in a suit, staring right at me, occupied my mind.

  ~ Chapter Three ~

  I’m standing in the kitchen washing a pile of dishes, surrounded by the mouth-watering aroma of the Thai green curry I’ve cooked myself for dinner wafting through the apartment. That spicy scent mingling with the sweet aroma of freshly-baked chocolate chip muffins, made especially for tomorrow’s viewing, creates an interesting combination. It brings back wonderful memories of the many months that I lived with Liam, reminding me what it smelled like at his house at any given moment in time.

  Liam has this uncanny ability to find ingredients in the fridge and pantry that you would never think would work together, and yet he can whip up something that, nine times out of ten, ends up being incredibly delicious.

  I often wish that I was even half as good a cook as he is. He really is a catch: handsome, kind-hearted, full-time employment, and to top it all off, he is creative in the kitchen, always trying new things. Most men traditionally leave the cooking to the woman in the household, preferring to be waited on hand and foot. That isn’t how Liam operates.

  I make the same ten or so dishes all of the time. These easy meals consist of spaghetti bolognese; chicken stir fry; macaroni, cheese, and vegetables; beef stroganoff; curried sausages; and the green curry I have made tonight. All of these items freeze well, so I generally make a big batch of these recipes, enough for four people to eat. It helps to keep my freezer fully stocked, which comes in handy for those off-pay weeks.

  It isn’t the first time I have considered asking my best friend for some cooking lessons. I mean at my age I should at least be able to cook a roast, shouldn’t I? Even if I could, though, what would be the point? I would only be feeding myself. I don’t ever have a reason to cook for two. Maybe instead, I could ask for a few easy recipes, some things that even I could follow. I make a mental note to send him an email asking him for both.

  After I hand-wash all the dishes and put them away, I pack the muffins into the carry case in preparation for tomorrow’s meeting. Something sweet can generally help a tense situation. Not that I am expecting it to get tense; awkward, though, is definitely a possibility. Maybe one of my death-by-chocolate muffins might help to sell the property? I doubt it, but a gal can dream, can’t she?

  I switch off all the lights in the main living area and take myself to bed, picking up the latest edition of “Sotheby’s Auction Guide” from my bedside table. Once I’m comfortable, I flick through it absentmindedly. I’m not really reading anything in particular, just looking at the photographs. There are so many products listed in here that I have often dreamed of owning. But tonight my mind is elsewhere, thinking about tomorrow, thinking about the viewing, thinking about that gorgeous human I will be meeting tomorrow, wondering if he will wear that suit.

  I will really need to wear something a bit nicer than usual, then again, why bother? It’s not like he will be looking at me. The house, yes, but not me. I’m not uncomfortable being around high society. I’ve done it before. My father is a well-known, highly sought-after architect back in New York, and my grandfather, Ernest, was a real estate property developer. I say “was” since he passed away just short of four years ago now. He is the reason I pursued my passion and entered the world of real estate. He and Grandma pooled their assets and purchased their first property back when he was twenty-one; by the time they were both retired they owned a total of twelve properties.

  I’m not greedy. I don’t feel the need to own more than one property, but I do. Several of them, in fact, not that I had to work hard for most of them. The one I live in, here in Nashville, still has a decent chunk of mortgage owed on it, the others were passed down to me from Grandfather’s inheritance. I considered selling them at one point, it would certainly make things easier. That was until I looked at my bank account one day and saw that a new account had been opened with a gigantic amount of money deposited. I’m not exaggerating, either. When I say gigantic, I mean it. It was to the tune of several million dollars.

  You see, I don’t consider myself wealthy, but I am. I come from a wealthy family and even though I have plenty of money myself now, I don’t flaunt it. To look at me you wouldn’t have the foggiest idea that I am possibly one of the wealthier residents of Nashville, Tennessee. Except for the likes of Tim McGraw or Carrie Underwood; they definitely have more money than me.

  I replace the auction guide back down on the nightstand where I had retrieved it no more than five minutes ago. Hopping up out of bed, I make my way to the bathroom to brush and floss my teeth before returning to seek comfort between the covers, clicking my bedside light off for good measure. Lying down, I allow myself to relax, and try to push all thoughts from my ever-active mind and drift off to sleep.

  It has started to rain, heavily. I can hear the raindrops hitting the tin roof above me. I walk into the bedroom to close the window. I don’t want the rain to get inside; the floorboards don’t do well with water on them. They become incredibly slippery. It is almost time to head home for the day and away from this open house. Not one person had turned up to look through the property today, which wasn’t really unusual. When bad weather was threatening to appear, people tended to choose to stay indoors.

  I turn away from the closed window when I hear the sound of footsteps. Maybe someone had braved the weather after all, “I won’t be a moment, I’m just making my way to the front door now,” I call out to the interested party. I turn the corner coming into the open space from the hall
way.

  I lock eyes with the man and I feel dread starting to appear in the pit of my stomach, I know those angry green eyes, I would know them anywhere. They belong to someone who I had left in my past. Those eyes are the emerald colored slits of Dylan.

  I break our eye contact by lowering my eyes. Slightly, slowly, I drop my eyes, looking at his nose, then his mouth. Bad mistake, as I notice that he is wearing a small smirk on his face. His arms are held behind his back, which is unusual. He doesn’t tend to hide anything. He brings them both forward, and that’s when I notice the baseball bat in his right hand.

  I instinctively hold my hands up in front of me, “Dylan, you don’t really want to do this, please don’t,” is all I am able to say, my voice barely audible, barely above a whisper. I feel a single tear escape my eye and fall down my left cheek. He found me. How did he find me? Never mind the how right now, he has me cornered. This can only end one way. This is going to be bad, really bad.

  “You left me, Angie.” He was twirling the bat around in his hands, all the while never breaking eye contact with me. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hurt you? You deserve to be punished for what you did to me. You broke my heart, Angie.”

  I was backing away, slowly trying to get closer to my folder sitting on the dining table. If I could just get to it, I could grab my cell phone and possibly with the speed dial feature call the office. They would at least hear me scream and send someone, wouldn’t they?

  “Don’t even think about taking another step, Angie.” He was crossing the room towards me, one slow, meaningful step at a time. “You’re going to pay for leaving me, Angie. You’re going to feel what I felt when you left.”

  With those words spoken, he was now right in front of me. He lifts his arms and with one swing of the bat he connects with my chest. The force of the blow forces me to hunch over, holding my arms across my chest and screaming out in pain. I’m sure I just felt several of my ribs break. The next blow is almost instantaneous, this time, landing over my lower back. I arch back up and scream again, the pain is so intense, more intense than the last attack. This one has surely done quite a lot of damage to my kidneys.