Chapter 7FRAN
CHAPTER 7
FRAN
“ S o, I heard you’re officially in escrow.”
Startled, I look up from my laptop to see Tadd peering over my cubicle wall.
With an obvious sigh, I sit up a little straighter, squaring my shoulders all while trying to act like he doesn’t make my skin crawl. The thing about Tadd Jennings is when he knows he’s affecting you, good or bad, he takes it as a win. Textbook narcissistic behavior.
“You heard right.” I lift my chin.
He lowers a brow, his icy gray gaze dubious. “Who’s the buyer?”
Thankfully, Robbie’s finance manager outlined an LLC on the sales contract, so the famous—or, infamous—hockey star won’t appear in the public record as the buyer. It was my main concern with the whole fake-girlfriend thing, knowing that it would raise alarm bells for anyone bright enough to put two and two together. Seeing me, the woman who was on the precipice of losing her job if she didn’t sell a six-million-dollar apartment, suddenly hanging off the buyer’s arm would be sure to raise some eyebrows. Hopefully by the time someone does manage to figure it out, my faux romance with Robbie will be long forgotten.
“I’m not sure,” I lie with a nonchalant shrug. “I only met the manager.”
Tadd narrows one eye. “How long is escrow?”
“Ten days,” I answer without missing a beat.
“Ten days, full ask, no contingencies?”
I nod.
He stares at me long and hard, his eyebrows climbing slightly higher in a way that almost looks like he’s impressed. “Good girl.”
My nose scrunches up of its own accord. The way he says it, low and rasped. Gross. I am absolutely not his good girl, and I will never be his good girl again. The man is a goddamn predator.
When I catch the flash of a devious smirk tug at his lips as if he can tell what I’m thinking, I quickly turn back to my laptop in an attempt to put an end to whatever this whole interaction is. But, of course, Tadd struts around the divider of my cubicle, inviting himself in and perching his ass right there on the side of my desk. He’s far too close. I’m inundated by his Gucci aftershave, and it’s sickeningly overwhelming.
I make a show of rolling away on my chair as far as the limited space will allow, but he just sniggers, like I’m playing with him. I eye the stapler next to my coffee mug, ready to use it if I have to.
“What do you want, Tadd?”
“What?” He laughs, holding his hands up in surrender. “I can’t be proud of my best girl?”
I steady him with a no-bullshit look. “I am not your best anything .”
He bites down on his bottom lip, concealing his smirk, eyes darkening as they trail down my body and back up again. “We used to have some fun, you and me.”
I balk. “Yeah, I used to love being used and cheated on, having everyone else in this office laughing behind my back because I was stupid enough to fall for your bullshit.”
He doesn’t deny it. How can he when I caught him red-handed? He does, however, have the audacity to cock his head to the side, looking at me like I’ve wounded him.
“Look, Tadd,” I begin through gritted teeth, “I’m really busy, so if you don’t mind—” I glance pointedly at the exit.
“I have a potential listing. Columbus Circle. A penthouse overlooking the park,” he says instead of leaving like he knows I want him to.
“Congratulations,” I say flatly.
Tadd chuckles under his breath, folding his arms across his chest. “Well, I was going to see if you might want to come along to the pitch with me. If it goes the way I expect it to, then maybe we can figure something out.”
He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, and I swear everything he does is suggestive and disgusting, but it’s his tone that irks me more than anything. By “figure something out” he’s referring to something crude and inappropriate, and all I do is blink at him because, frankly, I’d rather stick a cardboard fork in my eye.
“I have an appointment with the seller on Tuesday,” he says after a moment, pushing off my desk and standing to his full height. “Think about it and let me know.” And with that, he offers me one last lingering look before turning and sauntering out.
I release the breath I’ve been holding, my shoulders relaxing some, but then he pauses and casts me one last glance over his shoulder, that same arrogant smirk ghosting his lips. “Good job with Allora, sweetheart.”
I glare at his back as he walks away, strutting through the sales floor like he’s God’s gift. He’s something alright. A painful reminder of just how na?ve I’d been not so long ago.
Rolling my eyes, I go back to my emails, which is when my cell starts to ring. I glance at the device, grimacing as asshat flashes on the screen. I signed the NDA, so what more does he want?
With an annoyed sigh, I answer. “Yes?”
“Well, hello to you too, baby …”
Seriously. I must really need to get laid, because the way he says baby does things to me I do not want to explore. I cringe at the thought. “What do you want?”
He laughs, and I close my eyes on an exhale. I’m already regretting this.
“Get my schedule?”
Snapping into gear, I click open the unread email I have sitting in my inbox from Andy Hoffman, my eyes bulging as the document loads. “ Two pages?” I hiss, keeping my voice low.
“I’m in demand. What can I say?”
I scrunch up my nose as I scour the long list. “Three games a week?”
“Sometimes four.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“You literally know nothing about hockey, huh?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I sass.
“You don’t need to come to every game,” he relents. “Just a home game every now and again.”
“And what if I have a shift at the bar?” I close my eyes again, massaging the hollow of my cheek. The stress is wreaking havoc on my jaw from all the clenching.
“You’re gonna need to quit.”
My painful jaw drops at his blatant audacity. “Um, I beg your pardon?”
“I have a lot of evening commitments that I’m going to need you to attend with me,” he says with the conviction of Richard Gere in Pretty Woman . “And, besides, why would the girlfriend of the highest paid NHL player need to work nights in a bar?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because not all women are unemployed freeloaders. ”
“You’re not unemployed, Fran,” Robbie says smugly, and I can almost hear the cocky grin curling his lips. “You’re a successful real estate agent thanks to me .”
I hate him. I actually hate him.
“I have to go. I have a headache.”
“Maybe you should go rub one out,” he says casually. “It always helps me.”
“Ugh, you’re disgusting .” I end the call to the tune of his grating chuckle, tossing my phone off to the side of my cluttered desk.
With a huff, I sag in my chair, pushing my hair back from my face and closing my eyes.
Robbie Mason is a twelve-year-old boy in a man’s body. Arrogant and insolent and everything in between. I cannot believe I actually agreed to do this. I mean sure, the commission check will look pretty once it’s cleared in my bank account, and even if I never sell another property, it’ll at least afford me some extra time in the city to find another job. And Tony did personally congratulate me in this morning’s sales meeting, which was a nice boost to my ego. But is all that really worth having to associate with the likes of Robbie Mason? So far, I’m unconvinced.