Chapter 2
It’s too late to run. My pulse thunders in my ears as he closes in, veering off the flagstone path to head directly for me through the grass.
“Is everything all right?”
The man, a laptop under his arm—the reason he returned home, I’m guessing—looks concerned.
But not mad.
The edge of my right foot still grazes his front lawn. I barely made it to the pavement. But he must not have seen where I came from. Jesus, he’s almost as flawless as his house. Tall. Dark waves. Expensive jeans. An Italian model who lives inside the pages of a design magazine.
I steady myself and force a laugh. “Yes! Oh my gosh, I’m so embarrassed. I think I’m just a little lost. And my phone is dead, of course.”
“Lost here?”
What he means is: How does someone wind up lost in the middle of a residential neighborhood that isn’t near the Metro or any other landmark that would feasibly draw an idiot like me to this spot on the sidewalk, in front of this perfect home.
I remember my Nikes.
“Yeah, um, I was out for a run and I guess I just got a little overzealous. This isn’t my usual route.”
“Gotcha. Did you take a fall then? Are you hurt?”
I look down at my charcoal-gray leggings, soaked through up to the knees.
“Ugh, yes, I sure did.” I roll my eyes at my clumsiness.
“But no, thank you, I’m fine. I wasn’t watching where I was going.
” I push out another laugh. “Honestly, I probably should’ve called it quits a mile ago.
But you gotta take advantage of this weather before it’s sweaty and disgusting out, right? ”
He smiles—he believes me. “For sure,” he says. “I won’t miss that.”
He’s handing me an opening. Should I say something about the house?
“Oh, are you moving?” I feign surprise. “This is such a cute neighborhood.”
“I know. We love it here. But yeah, to London.”
This is my chance. But will it sound unhinged to ask when they’re planning to list—if maybe, possibly I could have a sneak peek inside?
Or, worse, I might give myself away. Although he is being really nice to me.
Dammit, here comes the Prius. I lock eyes with Ian in the driver’s seat and give my head a slight shake, willing him not to stop. He picks up some speed and keeps going.
But now my “dead” phone is vibrating. The man’s gaze darts to my palm.
“Oops, guess it still has enough juice to let me know the battery needs charging!” I hold it flush against my side, out of view, while I reject Ian’s call. That decides it, I just need to get out of here.
“Well, good luck,” I say. “I love London.” I have never been. “Would you mind pointing me to Mass Ave.?”
“Oh, sure, you want to go three blocks that way, then take a right on Redwood. That’ll take you straight to Massachusetts.”
“Thank you so much. Have a good one!”
I take off in a jog. The man is almost certainly also heading to Massachusetts Avenue, so I know I can’t stop until I see the Audi pass. Once it does, I text Ian my location.
“Margo, what the actual fuck?” He gets out so I can reclaim my place in the driver’s seat.
“I know. I’m sorry.” I buckle my seatbelt. “But everything’s fine. And you’re the one who left!”
“Because I didn’t want to look like some creeper in front of the guy’s house.”
“So if he’d caught me in the backyard, I would’ve had to fend for myself, then?”
“You’re being ridiculous. I’m the one who told you not to go back there.”
We don’t say anything for a couple blocks. Fighting about houses is just a thing we do now.
I break the silence. “I’m calling Ginny. The kitchen is incredible. So is the yard.”
Since we spoke earlier, Ginny has done some recon with her sister-in-law and learned the sellers are working with an agent from Long there was just something about his presence—calm, confident—that pulled you in.
I wasn’t sure if he even knew my name, but one Thursday, when postgame beers devolved into an all-nighter in Adams Morgan, still in uniform, we found ourselves alone together in a corner of the bar.
That’s when we discovered we had something in common: we were both miserable in our jobs.
I was sick of being poor and having to fight for every byline.
At only twenty-seven, Ian was making more money than I’d ever dreamed of as an associate at Covington & Burling, but spending most of his days doing document review in a windowless room.
Talking to me made him feel better, he said, like he was finally being seen.
As he leaned across the table to kiss me, I noticed that his eyes weren’t brown, that there was some green in them, too.
For the first time, I understood what “hazel” meant.
It went on like that for a few weeks, us getting drunk with the team, then making out in bars, until I told him we had to knock it off because he had a girlfriend. He broke up with her a couple days later, and he hasn’t left my side since.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder as I come to a stop at a light. A text from Ginny: Left a voicemail. Will be in touch as soon as I hear anything.
You’d think by now I’d be numb to the agony of waiting.
But this is more barbaric than an upper-lip wax after a sunburn.
I’ve been circling the block for fifteen minutes looking for a parking spot when she finally calls back.
(The garage fee in our building is insane and every dollar counts when you’re saving for a down payment.) I pull over in front of a fire hydrant to take the call.
“Ginny? Tell me everything.”
She lets out a long sigh.
Fuck me.
“I’m sorry, kiddo. We knew this was a long shot. They wanna take it to the open market. But the good news is they’re gonna list it soon and it sounds like it’ll be in your budget … though maybe just barely.”
I mute the phone and scream. A guy walking a French bulldog jumps back from the car.
I take a deep breath and unmute. “Then you know that means we won’t get it. It’ll get bid up. Especially with that kitchen.”
“You’ve seen the kitchen?”
Shit.
“Well, no, but you said your sister-in-law thinks it’s stunning.”
“She could be wrong! You know what I always say, kiddo. If it’s meant to be, it’ll work out.”
Yeah, and look where that strategy has gotten us. It’s time to get creative.
“Maybe I’ll feel more hopeful if I focus on getting to know the neighborhood a little better, you know, sort of like manifesting that I’ll live there one day?” I say, as if I couldn’t draw a map of it from memory. “Where did you say your sister-in-law did yoga? Maybe I’ll check out a class.”
“That’s the spirit, kiddo. Gosh, I can’t remember. Grace something or other?”
“That’s okay, I’ll figure it out. Talk to you later, Ginny.”
I Google “grace yoga grovemont bethesda.” There it is: Power + Grace Yoga, less than five minutes from my dream home.