Exclusively Yours

by Nadine Gonzalez

  Nick couldn’t hold back a laugh. Overconfidence. They had that in common. “I’m going to miss you.”

  “Oh, go to hell!”

  The line went dead and Nick pocketed his phone. The driver peered at him in the rearview mirror. “How did I do?” Nick asked through the open partition.

  The driver nodded. “Sometimes you have to lay it down.”

  Nick leaned back and stared out the window. Miami women are tacky and dumb. Not true. But he didn’t care about the city’s female population in general. He cared about Leila. Finding her. Getting her back.

  Their split had revealed that she was capable of cruelty. He’d thought her perfect. He’d thought her all love and sweetness. He’d been afraid of hurting her, and had never thought to protect himself. When it was all said and done, she had broken his heart. And yet he wanted her back.

  * * *

  Now only twenty-fours after landing in Miami, Nick was sure he’d made the right decision. The meeting with Reyes had gone well. And meeting Leila at the party was a clear sign. It had whetted his appetite.

  Chapter 18

  The morning after the party, Leila was at her desk, determined to put Nick out of her mind. The lucky bastard was considering yet another promotion. Well, congrats to him! She had to hustle to make things happen.

  Leila reviewed her calendar and called her assistant into her office. “Brie, I’m meeting with the newlyweds in Homestead today. Is there anything else on the horizon?”

  Brie switched on her personal iPad and scrolled through email. “You may have a property appraisal in the Grove around four. But nothing’s confirmed.”

  Leila perked up. “That sounds promising.”

  “It isn’t,” Brie said. “I’m talking about the bad side of the Grove, like right on the tracks.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ll take anything. I’m not picky. Not anymore. Anything else?”

  “George Miller called,” Brie said. “He’s heading home to Atlanta for a couple of weeks. He wants to meet for lunch when he gets back.”

  Leila winced. When she’d first signed Miller, she’d celebrated with champagne. The lawyer was officially her first big-money client. And he was searching for a house in the heart of Coral Gables to relocate his family. But he’d balked at every single property she’d showed him. She was beginning to think he wasn’t serious.

  Brie settled in a chair across from Leila’s desk, in no apparent hurry to get to work. “You look a little tired this morning.”

  Leila swallowed the impulse to reach for a compact mirror. “I need a massage.”

  “May I say something crazy?” Brie asked.

  “Like I can stop you.”

  “A massage isn’t going to cut it. You need to let off some steam.” Brie rattled off some suggestions. “Call your girls, get out there, go dancing...”

  “Is that your expert advice?”

  Leila glanced at Brie—@QueenBrie_21, 10K followers—taking in her flawless brown skin, curly afro and artful nails. Nineteen, full-time college student, part-time office assistant, blogger. Brie reminded her what it meant to be free, creative and confident. Leila was only six years older, but she felt ancient in her beige pantsuit. She’d ordered it online with no concern about the cut or the fit because that’s how little she cared for beige pantsuits.

  “Not really,” Brie replied. “I’d tell you to get laid, but that would be crossing the line.”

  Brie couldn’t point out the fine line of discretion with night-vision goggles.

  Leila got up and grabbed her keys and her purse. “I’m off to meet the newlyweds. Confirm lunch with Miller. Any day he wants.”

  Brie made a face. “Can’t stand that guy. He rubs me the wrong way.”

  “Join the club.”

  * * *

  “I want a decent second bedroom for a nursery, not a shoebox! Why is that too much to ask?”

  Leila’s newlywed clients were in the midst of an emotional windstorm. After touring two town homes in neighboring gated communities, the wife broke down, heartbroken over the limitations of their capped budget. Meanwhile her husband paced the floor and mumbled the dreaded words, “Let’s just rent a place.”

  Goodbye sales commission.

  Leila stepped out onto the porch to give them some privacy. She checked her text messages.

  From Brie: Coconut Grove canceled.

  From Sofia, who’d gotten her into Reyes’s party: Let’s meet for drinks.

  She responded to her friend’s message. Sure. When? Where?

  Sofia’s reply: Tobacco Road. I’m free at five.

  Leila sighed. She was pretty much free all day.

  Tobacco Road was a bona fide dive in the heart of Brickell. Leila knew why Sofia had picked it. With the neighborhood’s wild development, the century-old bar would be closing soon. Still, having to return to Brickell was bittersweet for Leila. From the sidewalk outside the bar, she could see the top of the building where she and Nick once worked.

  Sofia Silva was waiting at the upstairs lounge. She looked fresh and smart in a white blazer and pencil skirt. The bright color flattered her cinnamon-brown skin. Her reddish brown hair fell to her shoulders in disheveled waves. She and Sofia had reconnected a few months ago at a Businesswomen of Greater Miami luncheon, and discovered they had a lot in common, both working to establish footing in their respective fields. Sometime between the appetizer and entrée, and fifteen minutes into the keynote speaker’s speech, Sofia had leaned over and whispered, “I hate these self-important bitches.” With those words, an alliance was forged. They’d started their own private chapter of Miami businesswomen. It was Sofia who’d recommended Leila scrap her marketing plan based on pricey sidewalk bench ads. “Use social media instead,” she’d said.

  Sofia greeted Leila with typical bluntness. “You don’t look so hot.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “Sit down. I want to hear all about last night’s party, all the juicy details.”

  Leila opened a menu. “Why juicy? Nothing juicy happened.” She was trying hard not to sound paranoid. “I didn’t get to talk with Reyes, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Well, I’m not.” Sofia snapped a picture of her cocktail, a bourbon concoction that harkened to the bar’s speakeasy days, and posted it on Instagram before holding out her phone. “I’m asking about Nick Adrian.”

  Leila stared at a picture of her and Nick descending the grand stairs toward the Vizcaya gardens, hand in hand. She noticed details that had escaped her last night, like the cut of his suit and the newly defined angle of his chin. The look in his eyes was determined but grim. She was grateful her hair had concealed her face.

  All day she’d forced Nick out of her mind. And now here he was in glorious high-definition.

  “Who posted that?”

  “Some blog. Read the caption.”

  Leila sighed. “‘Nicolas Adrian and sexy companion.’”

  “Of course, they know his name.” Wasn’t the objective of last night’s outing to get her name out there?

  “I can get the blogger to edit the caption. He’s a friend.”

  “Don’t bother.” She could just imagine the new caption: Leila Amis, Formerly Known as Nicolas Adrian’s Sexy Companion.

  Sofia hammered her with questions. “What’s going on here? And when did Nick get back in town?”

  “I don’t know. I ran into him at the party.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “It’s a long story and I don’t want to get into it.”

  “You’re getting into it, whether you want to or not,” Sofia said. “I deserve this information.”

  Leila grabbed Sofia’s glass and took a gulp. There really was no escaping Nick.

  Sofia flagged the waiter and
ordered a second cocktail. Then she ordered Leila to talk.

  “It’s what it looks like,” Leila said finally.

  “I always had a feeling about you two.” Sofia held up her phone again, displaying the incriminating evidence. “But this looks serious. Do you see the look in the man’s eyes? He’s not playing around.”

  Leila rested her chin on her palm. She was near tears. “No, he wasn’t.”

  “All this time you’ve been hiding this hot secret. This makes me love you so much more!”

  “You don’t get it,” Leila said. “It was a mistake, and I paid for it.”

  “You always do,” Sofia said. “Especially when you work together.”

  “I was his assistant. I worked for him.”

  “Well, skip to the part when you met your hot boss and wanted to hop on his desk.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Leila said. “Well, it was, but it wasn’t.”

  “Oh, God. You fell in love.”

  Leila nodded.

  “Sloppy love?”

  She nodded again. That was a good way to describe it.

  “And?”

  “You know. He moved to New York City for a promotion.”

  “Isn’t that how it goes?” Sofia mused. “The good ones always packing and leaving for NYC? Then moving back after a few harsh winters.”

  The waiter arrived with her drink. Leila stared at it.

  “He wants you back,” Sofia said.

  “I don’t know what he wants.”

  From the taste of things, revenge was more like it.

  Sofia clapped with joy. “Love it.”

  Chapter 19

  Since opening her agency, Leila had relied on the Nicolas Adrian real-estate playbook, charging pricey lunches and dinners to woo, or in this case, retain clients.

  George Miller, her client from hell, had picked Versailles, a popular Cuban restaurant with a French name. She’d arrived early and sat waiting a full half-hour. The waiter refilled her water glass time and again. He suggested, in Spanish, that she order an appetizer. When she declined, the look he gave her required no interpretation. This wasn’t a coffee shop where she could hang out and daydream and not run a tab. This was Versailles at the peak of lunch hour. The table she was holding was prime real estate.

  Her table offered a full view of the restaurant floor. This was her first visit to the famous establishment, better known as a political hotspot than a culinary destination. But then, Miller was new to Miami and likely still picking venues off the internet. These days the patrons of Versailles were more likely to plot business mergers rather than regime change. She imagined business transactions concluding in the time it took to brew a cortadito. As she watched, she grew hungry and her hunger fed her frustration.

  Finally, Miller arrived. He stormed past the poor hostess who was struggling to do her job and lead the way. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored Ray-Bans. He strode up to the table, hovering silently over her for a few seconds, and something inside her shrank. Evidently her clients weren’t the charming and delightful people that Nick had the privilege of wining and dining.

  He took a seat and spread the cloth napkin on his lap. “I’m not going to renew our contract when it expires. I’ll tell you that right now.”

  If she didn’t deliver, he would drop her.

  Leila took the punch to her gut but did not waver. She looked across the table at him with a smile pasted on her face.

  He followed up with a second blow. “I knew you were inexperienced. Thought I’d give you a chance, anyway. But if it turns out you wasted my time, I’ll put it out there. I’m not kidding.”

  Alarmed, Leila tried to defend herself. “I’ve showed you every single property in your price range and you’ve hated every one of them.”

  “I want ‘wow.’”

  “You don’t have a ‘wow’ budget.”

  It was time for real talk. Her reputation was on the line.

  “Those houses were overpriced,” he said. “You know it.”

  “We’ve been through this. The market sets the price. Not me. Not you.”

  “Your job is to drive the price down. That’s why I hired you.”

  “Look, I have a couple of listings lined up. One is in the Gables. It’s been on the market for a while now. The price was slashed twenty percent yesterday, which puts it in your range. And it meets most of your requirements.”

  Miller’s wife and kids were back in Atlanta, waiting out the school year. This gave him some time to waste. In the meantime his firm had put him up in a condo on Ponce de Leon, and he was enjoying the quasi-single life. His list of wants and needs was pretty straightforward. A stellar school district was a must. His wife had requested an updated kitchen and the kids wanted a yard large enough to accommodate the dog Miller had promised to sweeten the prospect of moving to a new state.

  “Why has it been sitting on the market for so long?” he asked.

  “It needs cosmetic work.”

  The listing agent had described the old house as “charming,” which was never good. But a fixer in the Gables was well worth the trouble. The City Beautiful, as they called it, was the place to plant roots if you wanted to join Miami’s tightest social circles. Miller and his wife would have access to the Women’s Club, Junior League, shopping, theater and the Biltmore golf course. A renovation was a small price to pay. After all, a diamond was a diamond even when covered with crap.

  “The second property?”

  “It’s in South Miami.”

  “Damn it! I said—”

  “I know what you said. What’s the harm in looking?”

  Miller ordered calamari for the table. “My schedule is tight today. How about we see this first property and check out the other tomorrow around noon?”

  How about we skip calamari and get started now? Leila was smart enough to bite those words. She wasn’t exactly standing on solid ground.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  A while later, Miller followed her down US-1 toward Coral Gables. They sped along winding roads and through canopies of mature oaks, around a series of roundabouts leading to a dead-end street bordered by a canal. They pulled up to a two-story Mediterranean Revival with a For Sale sign planted in the front yard.

  Leila got out of her car, the same red Miata she’d had for years now, and took a minute to study the house before Miller tainted her judgment. Unfortunately she hadn’t had a chance to preview it and the tight-angled photographs she’d studied hadn’t revealed much.

  The house was an Old-Spanish charmer, a coveted Miami classic, and despite its yellowed stucco façade, chipped barrel-tile roof and overgrown lawn dotted with bright yellow dandelions, it was worth something. Built in 1921, it had been gutted and renovated in 1991, which was a great big red flag. Nineties-era renovations were the absolute worst.

  Miller took out his phone and snapped a picture “for the missus.” He turned to her and said, “Not much curb appeal, huh?”

  She asked him to keep an open mind.

  They walked up a cracked stone path that doubled as a bed for intrepid weeds. The medieval front door was studded with iron nails. Leila had the combination to the lockbox. After a struggle, the door creaked open. Before letting Miller in, she turned to him and said, “This could be a great deal. The owner is eighty-five and lived here alone until she fell down the stairs and broke her hip. Needless to say, she’s a motivated seller.”

  They entered a tight foyer that presented all the signs of an identity crisis: a tray ceiling with an iron candelabra above and a groovy shaggy carpet below.

  Miller sighed. “Good grief.”

  They walked through the first floor, inspecting the closed-in kitchen with mismatched appliances and the dining room with frosted-mirror paneling. In the living room, Leila announced that they’d reached the heart of
the house and pointed out the ceiling lined with hand-painted cypress beams, a masterpiece of craftsmanship. The ceiling’s appeal was undermined by a botched faux-finish paint job that stripped the room of any authentic mid-twenties appeal.

  They climbed the grand staircase that had sealed the owner’s fate. Leila thought the master bedroom lovely, but Miller frowned at the pink-and-green floral wallpaper. She threw open the French doors and stepped out onto a generous Juliet balcony overlooking a courtyard littered with brittle palm fronds. The sultry afternoon heat caused her skin to bead with sweat.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “It’s a disaster.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” She’d blurted out the words and immediately wanted to recall them. Real Estate 101: the client’s tastes were not to be questioned.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Miller said. “It’s not a bad house. If my grandma were looking for a place, this would be it.”

  She gently proposed they leave his grandmother out of it and consider the property’s potential. Whether he knew it or not, this house was perfect for him. “Think of your boys. They’d be so happy here. This is the right house on the right street in an excellent school district. Yes, it needs TLC—”

  “SOS is more like it.”

  “It’s nothing a little money and a savvy decorator can’t fix. This house has great bones. And the price is bargain basement for the area. If you don’t grab it today, someone else will.”

  “Let them have it,” Miller said gruffly. “It’s not for me.”

  She shut the balcony doors, snuffing out the street noise. The matter was settled. “Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”

  “Doubt it.”

  * * *

  Sidewalk access to the agency was obstructed by construction debris, large piles of chewed-up concrete and gravel made pretty by a ring of bright orange cones. The city had put up signs reminding drivers that the barricaded shops were in fact open for business and remote parking was available somewhere. They only had to follow confusing detour signs. Leila was now used to parking near a dumpster behind her bungalow. It no longer bothered her.