by Tracy Wolff
One very long shot, I acknowledge as a hush falls over the office when I step inside. There are only a few people in here now—the rest are presumably showing houses—but every person in the main room is staring at me. Some with scorn, some with pity…either way, I’m not the least bit surprised when Kerry looks up from where she stands by my desk, pretending to be busy.
“Welcome back, Emerson.” The words are as ice-cold as her smile. “Do you have a few minutes to step into my office?”
I want to tell her no, but that’s not an option so I just nod and follow her down the hall. As I walk, I’m totally aware of the people who continue to watch me. Watch us. At least they’re being more surreptitious now, glancing at me from under their lashes instead of doing the full-on stare they were giving me when I first got here.
As we get closer to her office, I try to block out the looks and murmurs and concentrate instead on what I’m going to say to Kerry. On how I’m going to save my job when every step of her ice-pick heels against the Moroccan tile floor seems to sound my death knell.
I want to laugh at myself, at the overly dramatic description, but I can’t. Not when my job—my whole survival as an adult on my own—hangs in the balance.
Once we get to her office, Kerry ushers me in first then firmly shuts the door behind us. I stand there awkwardly for one second, two, as I wait for her to tell me to sit down. She never does. Instead, she moves behind her desk to sit in her beautiful and incredibly uncomfortable-looking chair. And then she just stares me down, like a bug under a microscope. Or worse, like a big cat with its prey, her eyes tracking my every breath. My every blink.
And like a big cat, Kerry is definitely the type to play with her food before she eats it.
That thought, more than any other, stiffens my spine. Has me moving toward one of the chairs positioned on this side of her desk and sitting down without an invitation. Yes, I was late this morning. That’s on me. But everything that’s happened since has not been my fault and I’m not going to sit here like a whipped puppy—like prey—and let her take me apart. If I’m going to lose this job, I’m going to lose it fighting.
She watches me sit with her red-taloned hands crossed on her desk and her impossibly blond, over-plucked brows raised. I’m not sure if she’s surprised at my audacity or annoyed by it and right now I don’t give a damn. Which is why I take my time settling into the chair, crossing my legs, resting my bag on the floor.
She waits as I settle in, not saying anything until I have nothing else to do but look her straight in her beautiful, if pinched-looking, face. Then she purses her lips and asks, “So, how did the house hunting go?”
“It went well,” I answer cautiously. Which isn’t exactly a lie, considering I now know what kind of house he’s looking for. That’s progress, though I’m not so sure Kerry will see it that way.
“Excellent. Which of the houses does he like?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “He likes the Magnolia one, doesn’t he?” she says, naming the one with the all-white foyer Hunter refused to step beyond. “I knew he would.”
“He appreciated the detail in that one,” I answer, struggling to be as diplomatic as I possibly can. “But he’d like to go out again tomorrow afternoon, see some more houses.”
Her brows go impossibly higher, though her forehead somehow doesn’t move at all. I watch with a paralyzed kind of fascination. How much Botox has this woman had injected?
“Did you explain to him that these are the best houses San Diego has to offer? There just aren’t that many waterfront properties of this scale and magnitude available. I handpicked those five for him.”
“And he appreciated it.” I nearly choke on the words—and the need to tell her just how little her preconceived notions are matching up with Hunter’s vision of his house. “But I think he wants to look at something a little smaller. A little less…grandiose.”
“He’s a man,” she answers dismissively. “He doesn’t know what he wants—or what he needs. Which is why it’s up to us to sell him the house we know is right for him, no matter what he thinks.”
It’s all I can do not to raise my brows at her this time. Because she can’t be serious. She can’t actually think she can bully Hunter into buying a house he doesn’t like, does she?
The whole idea is absurd.
I only spent a few hours with the man and I can tell that he isn’t the type to be bullied. Or cajoled. Or talked into something he doesn’t want. Whether Kerry wants to acknowledge it or not, Hunter has a pretty clear vision for his house, and if she won’t help him find it, then he will go to someone else and she’ll lose the big commission he brings with him.
And so will I.
And while there’s no doubt that Kerry can afford to lose the one and a half percent her agency will get from his sale, I can’t. Which means I have to find a way to not just convince her not to fire me—as she’s obviously looking to do just that—but also to let me have a second chance at selling to Hunter. I don’t know the houses in San Diego well enough to have any ideas in mind for him yet, but I’ve got twenty-four hours to learn how to use the database and find the perfect house for him.
I’m going to do just that, if Kerry will give me the chance.
“Yes, but—”
“No buts!” she tells me sharply. “I’ve been in the high-end San Diego real estate game for a decade. I’ve sold houses to more than two dozen football and baseball players through the years, not to mention numerous CEOs and Hollywood types. The Magnolia house would be perfect for him. Plenty of outdoor activities, close to the water, a really unique style that will help brand him when magazines and TV shows come calling for a look at his new place.
“I don’t expect you to understand any of that, though. This is your first day on the job, after all.” Her tone implies that it may very well be my last, as well. I stiffen as I wait for the axe to fall, but before she can say anything more, her intercom beeps.
“Kerry,” says whoever has been answering the phones while I’ve been playing at being a real estate agent. “Hunter Browning is on line three for you.”
She shoots me a warning look as she reaches for the phone. “Hello, Hunter, how are you?” Her tinkling laugh is as fake as her wrinkle-free skin.
I can only hear her side of the conversation, but that’s all I need to hear to be able to figure out that Hunter is singing my praises. And while, that one kiss notwithstanding, I don’t think there was anything exceptional about the few hours we spent looking at disappointing houses, I can’t help but appreciate the fact that he’s a lot more astute than I first gave him credit for.
From what she’s saying—and the furious look she’s doing her best to hide—it’s obvious that he understands Kerry very well. Not just that, he understands exactly how much jeopardy he put my job in this morning when he demanded that I be the one to show him houses. Otherwise, there’s no reason for him to be on the phone with Kerry right now, obviously singing my praises.
“I’m actually speaking with Emerson right now, Hunter. She’s been telling me how much she’s looking forward to showing you some more properties tomorrow.” She pauses for a moment, listens to whatever bullshit he’s feeding her. Then laughs again. “Of course, of course. We’ll definitely have some more properties for you to look at tomorrow. It’s our job to find you the perfect house, after all. Emerson and I are both totally committed to that.”
She nearly chokes on my name as she says it, but I don’t care. Because with one phone call, Hunter Browning has assured that I get to keep my job for at least another day or two. Not to mention guaranteed me that big, fat commission if I find him a house. Which I am determined to do. Not just because I need the money, but because I can’t help remembering how he looked standing in front of that house on Coronado. A little lost, a little desperate, full of a pain I can’t help but recognize even if I don’t understand it.
He might have been a cocky jerk to me this morning, but he’s gone out of his way to mak
e sure that I suffer no ill work effects from our encounter. It’s more than most rich and famous guys would do and I owe him for it.
After simpering at Hunter for a couple more minutes, Kerry finally hangs up the phone. Then she shoots me a look that has the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. “Hunter is adamant that you be the one to show him houses tomorrow.”
“I’m happy to do it.”
“I just bet you are.” She taps her gold pen on the desk in an angry rhythm. “But before you go anywhere with him, I’d like to remind you that you are representing this agency and as such will conduct yourself with the utmost professionalism. Is that understood?”
I block the memory of that one scorching kiss from my mind and nod solemnly. “Yes, absolutely.”
“Good. Because men like Hunter Browning are used to getting whatever they want. Right now, he obviously wants you.” She looks me over with disdain, very clearly saying without words that she can’t imagine what he sees in me.
“But once he gets what he wants, he’ll move on. After all, the only thing they like less than celibacy is having to deal with their one-night stands in the morning. So, while I’m willing to indulge whatever fascination Hunter has for you, you need to understand one thing. If you compromise this sale, if whatever happens between you makes him walk away before he buys a house from this agency, then you are finished. Not only will I fire you, but I’ll make sure that anyone in the business who might be tempted to hire you knows you can’t be trusted with their clients. Do I make myself clear?”
I swallow down the rage building inside of me, concentrate instead on what it will mean if I actually sell him a house. Financial security. A chance to do my art. Not having to run home to my mother and beg for her help. “Crystal clear.”
“Good. I’ll have a new list of houses for you to show him on your desk before you leave tonight. In the meantime, answer the phones and try not to cause any more trouble. Can you do that?”
I grit my teeth, force a smile I’m far from feeling. And remind myself that I can’t afford bail if I get arrested for punching my arrogant bitch of a boss in her perfect, white teeth. “Absolutely.”
“Good.” She reaches for her laptop, opens it up. And pretends I no longer exist.
I know a dismissal when I see it—especially one as rude as this—so I get up and walk to the door. And no matter how many times I tell myself to be good, to just walk out the door, to not say anything else to antagonize her, I can’t help myself.
Which is why, when I get to the door, I turn to her with the sweetest, most saccharine smile I can muster and ask, “What happens when I sell Hunter Browning a house? Do I get to keep my job, then?”
“Let’s not count our chickens before they hatch, Emerson.” She smiles back just as sweetly. “After all, men like Hunter are full of promises. Too bad they so rarely deliver on them. But I guess you’ll just have to learn that the hard way.”
She turns back to her computer then—once more dismissing me—and I’m so angry I don’t trust myself to say anything else for fear I’ll end up shouting at her that I understand men like Hunter better than she ever will. Even when she says, “Please make sure to shut the door on your way out. Some of us actually have work to do.”
Instead of telling her off, like I really, really want to do, I pull out my phone and text Sage a GIF of the Wicked Witch from the Wizard of Oz. Then text: My new boss.
Sage responds immediately, with a GIF of Dorothy’s house falling on the Wicked Witch of the East.
So many reasons I love that girl.
Chapter 9
Hunter
I pull into the underground parking lot of my sister’s condominium complex around seven-thirty, after a long afternoon of watching game tape. Normally, I get here around six or so, but since I spent the morning looking at houses, I had to fit in my workout after team meetings today instead of before.
Thinking about this morning’s fruitless house-hunting expedition has me thinking about Emerson. And about the look on her face as she watched me stare up at that damn house on Coronado.
Why did I take her there? I wonder for about the millionth time as I pull into a spot and park my truck. More, why did I even go there? I haven’t been by that place in years, haven’t let myself think about it in nearly that long. So how the hell did we end up there today? And more, why when Emerson asked me about what kind of home I wanted, did that one pop immediately to mind?
The answer is an ache deep inside me and fuck it. Just fuck it. I shut it down as I climb out of the truck and slam the door harder than I need to. I’ve got enough going on in my life right now without dragging ancient history into it.
I walk toward the elevator, distracting myself from the past—and from the immediate future—by thinking about Emerson’s hot little body.
About that see-through white shirt she was wearing this morning and her full, lush breasts.
About the way those breasts felt pressed against my chest and the way her mouth felt moving against mine.
Fuck she’d felt good.
Just the memory of her taste, her scent, the fucking amazing sounds she made as she pressed herself against me, has me growing hard in my jeans. Considering what’s waiting for me upstairs, now isn’t the optimal time for me to be sporting a hard-on, but as I press the button for the tenth floor, I can’t stop thinking about her. Can’t stop wondering when she’ll let me fuck her.
And it is when, not if. Any other outcome is out of the question. Not when I want her as much as I do. Not when that kiss made it obvious that she wants me, too.
The elevator dings and I step off with a grimace, the warmth that came with thinking about Emerson dissipating as I walk along the outdoor corridor to my sister’s condo. For a second, I think about turning around. About going back downstairs, climbing in my truck and driving far, far away from here.
Not forever. Just for tonight. Just until I can get a handle on what’s happening. Just until I can come to grips with it.
But who the fuck am I kidding? There is no coming to grips with this. No getting a handle on it. No doing anything but muddling through no matter how much it fucking sucks. Besides, Heather can’t walk away and neither can Lucy and Brent. So why the fuck should I have the luxury.
I shouldn’t. I don’t. And if I’m honest, I don’t even want it. I just want things to be different. I just want them to be better, want Heather to be better.
I knock on the door, just to let them know I’m here, then use my key to open the front door. I’ve barely taken a step inside before Lucy and Brent come tearing down the hall at me, elbowing and shoving each other as they race to see who can get to me first.
Lucy wins, because even though she’s younger she’s also sneakier. She distracts Brent with a hard elbow to the ribs, then—while he’s wincing in pain—she weaves around him and comes barreling straight at me.
I know I shouldn’t reward her—Heather is constantly harping about them being nicer to each other—but I can’t help it. When she slams into me, her little arms wrapping around my waist and holding on like it’s been twelve weeks since she’s seen me instead of twelve hours, I can’t help but melt.
I swing her up into my arms, holding her to one side as she peppers kisses to my cheek in between squeals of “Uncle Hunter, Uncle Hunter. You’re finally here!” I reach for Brent with the other arm, pulling him in for the more manly one-armed hug befitting a ten-year-old boy and his uncle.
“How you doing?” I ask him, ruffling his hair before pressing a kiss onto the top of Lucy’s head.
He shrugs. “Good.”
“Yeah?” I search his face, looking for proof that he really is okay. It’s not there—of course it isn’t—and I pull him in for another quick hug before propelling us down the hallway.
“Yeah.”
“Uncle Hunter, we made spaghetti for dinner!” Lucy says as she wriggles against me, a sure sign that she wants down.
I put her on her feet, then l
augh as she grabs my hand and drags me toward the kitchen. “Spaghetti, huh?” I take an exaggerated sniff. “It smells delicious. Did you make it?”
“No, silly! Marta did. But I made the garlic bread and it’s the bestest garlic bread in the whole world.”
“Well, let me at it, then. Who needs spaghetti when I can have the bestest garlic bread in the whole wide world?”
“I helped make the meatballs,” Brent tells me. “Marta let me squish everything together in the bowl. It felt like brains.”
“And how exactly do you know what brains feel like?”
He gives a long sigh, like he can’t believe he has to explain something so obvious. “It felt like brains look. All lumpy and slimy.”
“Oh, right. And where exactly are these brain meatballs?” I ask as we finally make it into the kitchen. “I’ve got to try one.”
“They’re not really brains,” Lucy tells me.
I pretend surprise. “They’re not?”
“No! That’d be disgusting.”
“Disgusting? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure! Brains are gross.” Her missing front teeth make her r’s sound like w’s. It’s pretty much the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.
“I don’t know, Lucy,” I tell her. “I bet your brain would be delicious.”
“Eeeeeew. No, it wouldn’t.”
“Well, come here,” I say, reaching for her. “Let me check.”
“No!” she squeals and starts to run away.
“What do you think, Brent?” I ask as I pick her up and stretch her out in my arms. “Don’t you think we should test out this hypothesis? See if little girl brains are actually disgusting?”