Chapter Three
“Chai Tea with cinnamon, cappuccino with chocolate shavings, and dark mocha with hazelnut.” Sarah rotates the cups in the holder as she announces my choices, greeting me right off the elevator.
Much to my delight, she’s thought of every one of my caffeine personalities this morning.
I push open the glass door that leads into our offices, holding it open for her.
Her thick heels clack against the floor as she scurries through, and I pluck the cappuccino from the container before she ends up spilling the drinks to the floor; she had me at chocolate shavings, and I don’t want to see them all over the linoleum.
“His name is Cooper Sterling,” Sarah rattles off.
“According to the articles I found on him, he and his brother partnered in advertising and made their first million fresh out of college. Cooper acts as CFO, and invested the money very wisely.”
I chuckle around my cappuccino.
“Apparently. Did you get anything on his family life?”
Sarah dodges around a small trash can the cleaning crew must’ve left out.
“He’s thirty-two, single, and as far as I know, currently unattached. He likes to buy and flip properties on the side… He’s got a home in LA and one in Texas. ”
“And he’s looking for a realtor?”
“I assume it’s a licensing issue. There’s no record of any properties here, which is probably why he needs someone local.”
A sly grin pushes at the corners of my mouth.
“This is gold,” I tell her.
I’ve hit the jackpot of all clientele—rich, business savvy, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s in my age and relationship status bracket.
It’s a rarity for me to speak to someone who doesn’t have a love interest or a few spawn running around their feet.
“Is he here yet?” I ask.
Sarah shakes her head, her long, red hair waving over her shoulders.
“No one knows about the appointment.” Her lips turn up into a shy, almost shameful grin.
“I just happened to be the person who delivered Parks’ itinerary yesterday.”
Garrison Parks, CEO of the now billion dollar corporation I work for, likes to meet the high-profile clients in person before he sets them up with one of the realtors.
It is not my fault if I manage to bump into those clients before the meeting and put on a little charm.
I pick up my pace, Sarah’s short legs jogging to keep up.
“Will you call Mr. and Mrs. Bloomsbury and tell them you’ll be starting the open house this morning?”
There’s a hiccup in her step.
“Um, Maya… I haven’t run an open house solo yet.”
“You’ve got this.” I hip check my office door open.
“Oh, and leave the Chai will you?” I’ve got plans for it that may or may not involve ruining my Ann Taylor blouse .
Sarah sets the tea down on my very unruly desk, next to a stack of business cards that just came in on Friday.
I pluck one up and tuck it into my jacket pocket.
I don’t usually need the card, but it’s always good to have a backup in case I’m not memorable enough.
The last time I snagged a highly-sought-after buyer, the couple didn’t even make it to Parks’ office before hiring me.
What can I say… when you give up on marriage and family— the life I’d always assumed I’d have at thirty—you get really good at your job because it’s pretty much all you have.
Sarah tosses the cup holder into the garbage, taking the hazelnut coffee and putting it to her lips.
She reassured me months ago that she always orders something she wouldn’t mind drinking.
Her first week I agonized over being one of those bosses.
Thankfully that guilt is nonexistent for the time being.
I take one more pull from the cappuccino before swapping it for the tea, adjusting my blazer and popping the top from the cup just enough that if someone were to…
say… run into me… Whoops!
There goes my drink.
It may be an oldie, but it’s effective.
Sarah gives me an encouraging sort of look, showing me all the whites of her teeth.
“Good luck.”
She doesn’t say it out loud, but she knows that I really need this one.
It’s been an extremely slow month, and there is a certain vacation I plan on taking when I can afford it— after all, a girl only gets one Dirty Thirty, and I don’t mean the mess my niece left on my coffee table last night.
Mr. Parks’ office is two floors above mine, and since there is no logical reason for me to be up there, I have to either make one up, or force the buyer onto my floor.
Oh, there is a science to this ploy, and I’ve been conducting experiments and concocting hypotheses from the moment I witnessed Atticus Lovell swivel his way into a quarter-million-dollar-based commission seven years ago.
He was a real estate god, retired at fifty-three, with homes in Paris and New York.
He wines and dines nightly, never tied down—Atticus’ only love is his 105 pound pit mix—and living out exactly what I’d like in life.
I imagine some chic version of a cat lady in my case, however.
I take the stairs down to the lobby, peeking at the empty front desk.
Our receptionists don’t come in until quarter to nine—when they’re on time—so I casually stroll to the floor indicator right next to the elevators.
It’s surprising they don’t have these locked up after all the times I’ve pulled this move.
I must be stealthier than I thought.
The metal screeches as I slide the name plate of my CEO and switch it with the realty offices.
After a quick text, Sarah will head down and put them back in their correct placeholders before the offices are officially open.
None will be the wiser.
I take a step back, a satisfied sigh floating from my lips.
Images of what I could do with a commission like this flick through my head like a movie montage—sunbathing in Tahiti, drinks in Cabo, perhaps.
Places warm and free of noise and family pushing me into relationships.
Oh, I’m not saying I’ll be alone in paradise.
No… finding a tanned Adonis would be ideal, someone who I flirt and play with for a week before heading back to my house for a stay-cation.
I’ll tell my family I’m still out, and I could park my booty on the couch, make every day a Naked Sunday, and watch guilty pleasures with Tom and Kat.
The elevator dings, and I shake out of my Tahitian fantasy.
I hold the door open with my Coach heels and swap the name plates in there before sending it to the top and doing the same thing with the twin elevator.
My phone buzzes, letting me know it’s 7:20, and I need to get back upstairs.
I take the stairs, careful with the accident-ready tea, and position myself to be casually walking by the elevator when the doors open.
That’s step one.
Step two: The bump.
Get Chai all over Ann Taylor.
Step three: The apology.
Laugh it off, and if he’s gracious, he’ll be polite about it.
If he’s not, apologize to him .
Step four: The lending hand.
Pretend confusion when he says he’s looking for Parks’ office.
When he indicates he’s on the right floor, enter the elevator with him.
Step five: The shut in.
Keep up conversation until the doors have closed you inside with buyer.
Then it’s all up to the gods.
If I’ve been charismatic enough, I’ll seal the deal.
All I’m doing now is being memorable without seeming pushy.
It may be a little unorthodox, but it works, and I’m not technically breaking any realtor code.
I blow out a breath and watch the clock on one of the front desks tick the minutes away.
My heart beats a little harder the closer it gets to the appointment time.
Being a punctual person, when people aren’t at least five minutes early, it gives me the annoyance itches.
It’s come to the point that I need to tell my siblings an inaccurate event time due to the fact that they do not share this particular peeve.
A few years back I got into quite the quarrel with my sister Julie over this topic.
She was ten minutes late for a dinner party she’d set up so I could meet whatever guy it was that time around.
The fella and I had no chemistry, and I was left to my own awkward devices while we both waited for her and her husband Nathan to arrive.
During the traditional bathroom trip after the main course, I lost it, letting her know that I was tired of being disrespected every time she showed up late.
She then broke down and said I didn’t know what it was like, waiting for the sitter, going over emergency protocol, worrying every second if being out meant being a bad mother.
I chalk that argument as the moment of striking realization that my sister and I led very different lives.
It was a blow at the time.
I’m happy to say I’m content in the life I’ve chosen now.
Not as resentful.
My newly manicured nails drum lightly against the to-go cup in my hands, my foot tapping in an impatient rhythm as the clock ticks from 7:30 to 7:31.
If the buyer wasn’t a brilliant paycheck, I’d probably ditch out.
Yes, I really am that neurotic about punctuality.
The elevator dings, and my heart stops its unusual pattern.
Before I took an interest in real estate, I was fond of the stage, so my acting isn’t completely amateur.
I learned it’s a key ingredient in my salesmanship.
The doors open, and I wait until I see a grass-stained Reebok step onto the floor.
Interesting choice; I expected shiny and polished footwear.
Maybe this isn’t the buyer…
and I curse myself for realizing the flaw in this particular plan; I’d completely spaced asking Sarah for a physical description.
I flick my gaze up to his face, hoping for a lost puppy look in his expression, only to come to a complete halt.
There is about a single day’s old scruff on his chin, he’s donning a baseball cap over his dark blond locks, and he’s wearing a shirt.
But other than those few details, he’s a dead ringer for my drive-by kisser.
His blue eyes slowly swivel around the floor, thick brows pulling inward.
It’s the lost puppy, but I’ve suddenly forgotten my entire five-step program.
In a moment of brain inactivity, I turn on my heel so quickly that the tea splashes from my cup and onto the office linoleum, making my quiet exit very noisy.
A deep, friendly chuckle sounds from over my shoulder, sending a flock of appreciative wings through my midsection.
I can’t say if it’s attraction because I’ve been fantasizing about him for about a month, or if it’s because he’s a man and that deep, throaty laughter just does something to a girl, but a rush of heat flows through my neck.
“Whoops,” he says. A swish of jeans and the thud of his feet against the floor follow.
I let out a very breathy laugh before turning to face the inevitable awkwardness that is about to ensue.
He’s not looking. God has given me a pass because it gives me time to fix the expression on my face.
I push away my shock and try to go about this as if nothing weird has happened.
He’s pulling tissues out of a box from Phil’s desk, one right after the other quick as lightning.
Swish, swish, swish.
His knees crack as he crouches down, and through my muddy thoughts I allow myself a grin.
Creaky bones doesn’t always come with age; it’s usually coupled with a lack of stretching, as I discovered in my late twenties.
Maybe he hasn’t gone on his run today.
He’s taken every tissue left from the box, so on top of feeling off my game, I’m now useless in cleaning up my own mess.
“Those lids are unreliable at best,” he teases, tossing the soppy tissues into Phil’s trash can.
My ability to humor him has flown out the window, along with any professionalism.
“You… you’re the…”
“Cooper,” he finishes with a heart-melting smile.
He sticks his hand out to shake only to realize it’s gotten a bit moist from clean up duty.
A low chuckle shakes his shoulders, and he wipes the tea residue onto the butt of his jeans.
“By any chance do you know where Garrison Parks’ office is? He said it was right off the floor, but… obviously…” He waves a hand around at the clutter of agent desks.
His eyes indicate no familiarization, absolutely nothing to the fact that he’s face to face with the woman he’s been jogging past every day for the last month, not to mention, the woman he kissed on his morning run yesterday .
The skeptical part of me perks up, knocking at the corners of my brain.
Maybe I’m seeing things.
“Two floors up,” is all I can mutter, pointing one finger sky high.
My brows knit together, studying his features as thoroughly as I can before he’s back on the elevator.
Maybe it’s a totally different man.
A doppelganger at the least. Does insanity come standard at thirty?
I was told it only creeps up on those with “Mom” brain.
He nods, taking a long step backward into the elevator and pressing the button on the side.
I tilt my head, noticing how similar in body type, the hair, the smile lines—I won’t ever forget those smile lines.
“Thanks,” he says. The doors start to close, his face morphing from casual to apologetic in the last second.
“And I’m really sorry about yesterday.”
The relief I feel in the realization that I’m not losing my mind is short-lived, quickly replaced by irritation.
His apology is the last thing I see in his blue eyes before he’s on his merry way to the correct floor.
No, wait! I have questions.
Many, many of them.
My reflexes certainly aren’t what they used to be—by the time I scurry over to the up button, the elevator has already ascended.
I let my head fall against the metal doors and bang it a few times.
What just happened was definitely not one of the steps.