Exclusively Yours

by Nadine Gonzalez

  “I like the way you think,” he said.

  “We have fifty confirmed guests.”

  “That’s enough. No one shows up alone, and then it’s a big mess.”

  “I’m going to order the food.”

  “Get in touch with Sofia Silva for the bar. She sets it up, picks the wine, the whole thing.”

  Leila jotted down some notes. Then she asked, “Who pays for all this?”

  “The agency. Didn’t Jo-Ann tell you about our expense account?”

  “No. See why these daily meetings are important? There’s so much I need to know.”

  Nick thumbed through his wallet and handed her a corporate credit card. “I’m glad this is productive, but I could talk to you all day.”

  She looked up from her lists and notes and smiled. He wondered if the feeling was mutual. But there was no time to dig deeper. He had a busy couple of days ahead.

  * * *

  He arrived to the open house with Sofia, the event planner. A little red roadster was parked out front and he hoped it was Leila’s. He was impatient to see her again and barely took the time to inspect the house, as he should. It was Sofia who noticed the candles floating on the pool’s surface. She asked whose idea it was. He wasn’t sure, but it had Leila’s delicate fingers all over it.

  “You’re here.”

  Leila walked up from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of her in a red dress.

  It was going to be a long night.

  “Did you do that?” he asked, pointing through the French doors to the pool in full view.

  “The candles? Do you mind? When the sun goes down it’ll look really nice.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s genius.”

  “I agree. It’ll look gorgeous,” Sofia said.

  Nick had forgotten Sofia. He introduced her to Leila. After she left to help the bartender set up, Nick turned to Leila and said, “I’m starting to think you believe in this sale.”

  “You made a believer out of me.”

  They stepped outside and wandered past the pool, toward the seawall.

  “I want the focus to be on the canal,” Nick said. “I want everyone fantasizing about the boat they can’t afford sitting on that dock.”

  “What’s the point in getting the brokers all liquored up?” Leila asked. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s an excuse for a party,” Nick said. “Plus, you’ve got to cozy up to the brokers. They defend the goal.”

  “So, they eat, drink, look around...and then what?”

  “Then they get to work calling their clients.” He pulled her aside. “Here are the rules. These are not friends. If they can screw us over, they will. I want you to be your lovely self, show them around, but don’t hover. Let them roam free and discover the property on their own terms. Answer questions honestly, but don’t over share. If they push back, direct them to me. They’ll try to tear the place down to weaken our hand, but don’t let them. We’re offering a top-shelf item here, and I’m determined to make this seller some money.”

  “How did you get this listing, anyway?” she asked. “Did the owner go through the agency?”

  “It rarely works that way,” Nick said. “I know the owner. He’s moving back to DC. The Miami experiment is over.”

  They stood facing the water. Across the canal, a row of houses rivaled each other in grandeur and stature, each with gigantic boats tethered to their docks. The setting sun splashed everything tangerine.

  “Hey,” Nick said, “is the Miata out front yours?”

  “Yup. That’s my ride,” she said proudly.

  “I had one like it back in the day,” he said. “Mine was black.”

  “Of course.”

  “How many miles?”

  “Around 85K.”

  “Ah,” he said. “You’re loyal.”

  “Are you?” she asked.

  There was a glint of mischief in her eyes. He wanted to know that side of her.

  “Not really. I kept mine two years. It was my first. Bought it cash.”

  “I won mine.”

  “Won it?” he asked. “How? Like in a raffle?”

  The more he got to know her, the more interesting she became.

  “No, not a raffle,” she said.

  “A game show? Were you on a game show, Leila?”

  “No. I wasn’t on a game show.”

  “Was it a talk show? They give away cars, right?”

  She raised her hands and confessed. “I won it in a pageant.”

  Nick saw her with fresh eyes. Her demeanor, walk, even her smile, all of it very practiced and sure. “Yes. I see it.”

  Her face crumpled.

  “It’s a compliment,” he assured her.

  His phone rang. Before taking the call, he said, “We’ll talk later. Put a pin in ‘pageant,’ because that’s where we’ll start.”

  * * *

  Leila watched Nick walk away, laughing with the caller. What did he see? she wondered. Was she running around town with an invisible tiara on her head? The thought caused her unbearable embarrassment. Tonight, of all nights, she wanted to impress him.

  She’d come early to prepare for the party. They’d opted not to hire a DJ but to show off the outdoor sound system, so she hooked an mp3 player up to the stereo. While the caterer set up the food, she had slipped into the guest bathroom, changed out of her jeans and flats, and come out in a ruby-red Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress and heels.

  When he’d glanced over his shoulder and caught her staring, a symphony of emotions erupted inside of her. His eyes were as clear as morning, without even a cloud of suspicion or surprise. When he called her simple idea genius, she’d been transported with joy.

  Leila didn’t have much time to dwell on her feelings because very soon, the guests arrived, seemingly all at once. At first she kept to the margins, too intimidated to speak to anyone. But when approached, she was prepared.

  “List price?”

  “Four million.”

  “Is that firm?”

  “Very much. We believe it’s priced to sell.”

  “How many bedrooms?”

  “Three bedrooms, including a master suite, and three fully renovated bathrooms.”

  “Square footage?”

  “Roughly twenty-eight hundred.”

  “I need an exact number.”

  “Two thousand, eight hundred and seventy-three.”

  “There’s no garage. Am I right?”

  “There’s a carport.”

  “A four-million-dollar house with a carport? Where does the Bentley go?”

  “In the carport. The yacht goes on the dock. Have you seen the boat lift? State-of-the-art.”

  “Is the seller willing to make any concessions?”

  “You’ll have to ask Nick.”

  The last couple of questions were from an agent named Marisol Sanchez. Earlier, Nick had introduced her as an old friend. Marisol stood as tall as Leila and wore cigarette pants and high-heeled pumps to better show off her long legs. Leila wanted to know his definition of the word “friend.”

  “But he’ll likely say no concessions are necessary,” Leila added. She couldn’t help herself.

  “My client will be the judge of that,” Marisol said.

  The other agents were equally annoying. Leila was shocked by the behavior of these so-called professionals. They trampled the grass, stomped on the newly polished floors and slammed the kitchen cabinet doors. They pointed to hairline cracks in the ceiling and quizzed Leila on the local zoning laws, as if the only reason their clients would not put in an offer was because they’d likely want to convert the porch into a Florida room.

  The most appalling behavior was from one of the agency’s own, Tony Manning. He showed up late.


  After chatting with Nick for a while, he came looking for her. “Nick says you’re responsible for this impressive turnout.”

  Leila took a look around. The party was in full swing. Now that business was out of the way, everyone appeared more relaxed, drinking and munching on taquitos. Her job was done.

  “How would you like to take on my next open house?” he asked.

  “Sorry. Nick keeps me busy.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Tony said wryly. “That might not always be the case, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just want you to know you can always switch camps.”

  “Nick’s been very nice to me. I wouldn’t think of switching.”

  “I’ve known that guy a long time. He’s a lot of things, but nice isn’t one of them.”

  Leila looked him in the eye. “Tonight’s signature drink is a classic margarita. Would you like to try it?”

  “I can find my way to the bar,” Tony said with a snicker. “I always do.”

  Nick called out to her from the house. “Leila! I need you.”

  Tony let out a playful whistle. “You heard the man. He needs you.”

  Leila’s gaze swept from Tony to Nick. She was the rope, stretched taut, in their tug-of-war. When she was close enough to see the scowl on Nick’s face, she very nearly laughed.

  “You needed to see me?”

  “That’s a careful edit. I said I needed you, period.”

  “Well, here I am.”

  “Marisol says you’re tough,” he said. “I’m impressed. You might be a natural.”

  His approval raised her two feet above ground. “I think the open house is a success.”

  “Success is a confirmed offer, but this is a very good start.”

  The music stopped, Sean Paul’s raspy voice cut off mid-chorus, leaving the party din bare like teeth.

  “I think the mp3 player died,” Leila said. “I’ll go check.”

  “One more thing,” he said forcefully. “Be careful around Tony.”

  She should have known he wouldn’t tap-dance around the issue. But she was familiar with guys like Tony and wasn’t concerned.

  “I can take care of myself, Nick.”

  “I can take care of you better.”

  “How is this a competition?”

  “Don’t you know me?”

  “I’m not sure.” Who was he? The shark that Jo-Ann and Tony described, or the nice guy who bought her coffee, offered to mentor her and complimented her achievements?

  Marisol joined them. “What’s going on here?” she asked nastily. “I thought Monica was your one true love.”

  Nick turned to her. “Monica’s gone. Now Leila’s the light of my life and if she says we’re not willing to make any concessions, it’s because we’re not.”

  * * *

  While a cleaning crew returned the house to its former pristine condition, she and Nick sat at the breakfast bar with a platter of leftover appetizers and three open bottles of wine.

  “What if Marisol’s buyer doesn’t come through?” Leila asked.

  Nick filled their glasses. “I already have an offer.”

  Even before the open house had started, an offer had come through by phone: the call that had saved her from having to regale him with tales of her pageant days. A woman who’d grown up in the house was hoping to raise her kids in it.

  “That’s so sweet. I’m rooting for her.”

  “You’re rooting for me, remember?” Nick said. “It’s a low offer.”

  “How low?”

  “Three point five.”

  That sounded like a lot of money to Leila.

  “This brings us back to our talk. Keyword: pageant.”

  Up until then, she’d been feeling fine, riding high on the success of her first open house, Nick’s approval and even Tony’s fit of envy. She had no desire to revisit the past, not when the present was so good.

  Nick browsed through his phone and pulled up a photo he’d saved. There she was, on stage, in a yellow bikini and perilously high heels, hair curled and sprayed in place, and gold glitter rubbed into her brown skin. Leila blinked at the photo then scooted off the bar stool, taking her wineglass with her.

  She heard him scramble to his feet. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m bracing myself for the jokes,” she said. “Go ahead.”

  She’d heard it all. It had become a “first date” ritual, of sorts. The guy would say, “Tell me about yourself.” She’d say, “I used to compete in pageants.” He’d follow with asking, “So, what’s your plan to wipe out hunger?” or “How will you bring about world peace?”

  “I wasn’t going to make a joke,” Nick said. “I think you look good.”

  “That’s not why you showed me that picture. To tell me I look good.”

  “Leila, look at me. I thought we’d laugh.”

  “Laugh at me.”

  Nick swore quietly under his breath.

  She wasn’t ashamed of the photo. Similar photos of her posing and twirling and strutting on stage would live forever on the web. All she wanted was to forget they existed.

  She faced him. “I’m not that girl anymore. I need you to know that.”

  “Was she so bad?”

  “She was looking for a shortcut. And I’m here to work.”

  At seventeen, she’d been certain she’d found a fast track to fame and fortune. While her friends worked on their SATs, she’d worked on her strut. And now she had nothing to show for it except an aging sports car and pictures on the web.

  “You sound like me,” he said. “About five years ago.”

  “Oh, really? Are there pictures of you in a yellow bikini out there in cyberspace?”

  He didn’t laugh at the joke. “There may be pictures of God knows what. I’ve screwed up. Partied hard. Wasted money. Crashed a car.”

  “The Miata?”

  He nodded. “I turned it around, though. Switched careers. Ditched my friends. Focused on work.”

  Leila was too overwhelmed to speak. He understood. That was exactly where she was in life. Ditching bad habits and focusing on work.

  “Leila, I’m sorry.”

  Then his phone rang and the mood changed.

  Marisol had an offer, all cash, three million six. Nick jolted into action. Pacing the floor, he told Marisol his client was considering a similar offer from a buyer with sentimental attachment to the property. “She grew up in the house and won’t tear it down. I’m guessing your guy is a developer, in it for the waterfront.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Marisol called back with a better offer: three point seven. Nick wasn’t moved. After consulting with his client, he countered. “Four million clean.” They argued about comparative pricing, price per square footage and the relative value of a canal with bay access. Nick had Marisol on speaker, so Leila could follow the exchange. “This is your bread and butter,” he said to her between calls. “Everything hinges on the negotiation.”

  Then her own phone chimed with a text message from Dr. No asking if she wanted to catch a late movie. The short answer was hell, no.

  Can’t. Working late.

  She couldn’t possibly leave now. Watching Nick in his element, moving the ball down the field, trying to score, was incredibly exciting, better than anything on the big screen.

  You work longer hours than I do.

  How about tomorrow?

  I’m on call tomorrow. Saturday?

  Saturday works.

  No sooner had she put her phone away than Dr. No was forgotten. Nick had her full attention.

  After one hour of furious calls to Marisol, the seller and the sentimental buyer, an agreement was reached. Marisol came up to three point nine, which turned out to be a quarter million more than Nick’s client had expecte
d to make. Leila saw Nick transformed, the tension of the night leaving his face and an unfamiliar calm rolling in like night fog. He was in ecstasy.

  “I’ll need proof of funds,” he told Marisol.

  “You’ll get it, asshole,” she said dryly.

  Nick let out a low laugh. “I love doing business with you.”

  “Sure. Say goodnight to your new girlfriend.”

  Leila rolled her eyes. Girlfriend? Whatever.

  Nick chucked his phone and took a victory lap around the great room, soliciting a standing ovation from an imaginary crowd. Leila obliged him with a slow clap. When they settled down, she said, “Marisol is tough!”

  “She works with developers. There’s good money in that. I knew she could go higher, but wanted to hold out for her client. I respect it, but I don’t have time for those games.”

  “Will they tear down this house for sure?”

  “You said it yourself. This house in any other neighborhood wouldn’t be worth as much. That’s a problem.”

  “I feel sorry for the woman who wanted to raise her kids here.”

  Nick came to stand before her. “Don’t go soft on me now.”

  Leila held his gaze. The world went silent. For a fleeting second, she thought he might kiss her. If he did, heaven help her, she’d kiss back.

  “Are we okay?” he asked.

  Her throat tightened. “We’re more than that.”

  He caught the double meaning. She wished she’d chosen her words more carefully, but it was the truth.

  “I’m not going to pull a stunt like that again. You’re the most interesting person I’ve met in a while. I don’t want to make fun. I want to get to know you.”

  She wanted to get to know him, too. But could she say that? How would that sound?

  “I can’t lose you to Tony.”

  He had to be kidding about Tony. Nicolas Adrian wasn’t that insecure. But when she replied, her voice was hoarse. “You’re not going to lose me to anyone.”

  Chapter 5

  This should count as a first date. They’d hosted a party, and that beat dinner and a movie. They’d had their first fight. Nick hated to see her upset, but with that crucial milestone out of the way, couldn’t they move on to make-up sex?