Chapter 2
chapter two
Mia
The grate of the agent’s voice sitting across from me was like nails on a chalkboard.
He rapped his pen several times on the wooden conference table, enunciating each mundane, uninteresting word that left his mouth with an even more ear-splitting scrape.
I schooled my face into a warm indifference.
Not overtly friendly, not enough disdain to come off as a total bitch.
Nonetheless, it'd become harder and harder to pretend I gave a fuck what vacation a sleazy realtor was taking after selling yet another beachfront property in South Florida.
"This time tomorrow I'll be in Turks," Burt said. He was old, and hanging onto the crown of hair circling his otherwise bald head for dear life. "Have you ever been there, Mia?"
The button extender on the neck of Burt’s button-up was digging into his Adam's apple, and the pinstripe tie he wore was four inches too short, resting starkly against his protruding gut. A bead of sweat did a sad descent down his pocky cheek.
"Many times," I mustered.
My client sat beside me, ruffling through a binder of paperwork, reading the fine print on each one—the deed, the abstract, the HOA agreement, every inspection done over the duration of the lengthy process to buy his third property, this one a beautiful multi-level, mid-century modern with a home gym and private entrance for staff to enter unseen.
It would go beautifully with his chateau in LA and the Upper West brownstone in New York.
Actors.
"Of course you have," Burt continued, a smug, misplaced smile on his face. "Plenty of people want to take you, I'm sure."
I shrugged. "I go anywhere I want to, whenever I feel like it."
An analog clock ticked against the silent room.
Burt and his client turned their heads to their own pile of paperwork; the real estate attorney and his secretary at the head of the table fiddled through unopened emails while deciding where to order lunch; and our lender, Scott, spun idly in the chair at the opposite end.
This was my least favorite part of closing day.
The fucking waiting. My heels were rubbing a blister into my pinky toe I knew would keep me from getting a pedicure for at least another week, and my twin sister Bella was blowing up my phone so steadily the vibration in my pocket was giving me morning masturbation flashbacks.
It'd been way too long since I'd felt the touch of anything other than surgical grade silicon.
I weaseled my phone out of my pocket and glanced at the notifications. Surprisingly not Bella, who wanted my head on a stick for raiding her lawyer pantsuits every time I was speaking to attorneys, but my younger, more evasive sister, Natalia.
Natalia
Call me when you get a chance. It's important.
That's it? That's the text message after three phone calls left unanswered? She couldn't even leave a voicemail with some sort of clue into what was so pressing? I nibbled on the pointy end of my thumb nail impatiently.
Natalia was in her first trimester with my little niece or nephew. She and her husband, Mateo, married in June and had gotten right down to business. He was older, newly thirty-six, but not much older than me at thirty. They wanted a baby as soon as they could manage.
For the next most agonizing fifteen minutes of my life, I sat faking smiles in the stuffy conference room waiting to get a call from the bank, and all I could imagine was that something had gone horribly wrong.
Natalia and I were close—it wasn’t abnormal for her to call me and try to grab a coffee between my showings, or drop a line to vent about our out-of-touch parents—but this felt different.
Then again, if it were really that important she would have kept calling.
Which meant it could wait, and my small rush of worry subsided.
Only to be quickly replaced by the realization that Scott the Lender was now dialed in on me, a small grin stretching his thin mouth.
He scribbled something on an empty envelope and slid it in my direction.
Free this weekend?
A sigh bubbled behind my lips and I swallowed it, instead studying the paper like it was work related.
I had nearly gotten out of this closing without a scrape, without a whisper, without an awkward conversation to follow.
I thought Scott would have given up on this after the first few invitations went unaccepted.
Fear not, the confidence of men proved to be completely misplaced and entirely unwavering no matter how persistently they were shut down.
Granted, I lead with competence first, making mild excuses to save the professional relationship we fostered from becoming unsalvageable.
I'd worked alongside Scott for the better part of three years at Branting Company.
He was a private mortgage lender, who over time became a very easy contact to get a hold of, and despite his unyielding need to push our workplace friendliness into unwanted waters, he was a reliable and determined professional in his trade.
Scott was good at his job, I was good at mine, we both needed one another, so therefore, there was no getting rid of him.
Scott was the exact type of man I should be interested in, on paper.
He was well off, as his family were investment bankers and realty tycoons.
I knew he lived in a beautiful two level on Park in South Beach even though it was just him and a stuffy little gray cat, because he'd told me several times.
He was polished and well dressed, the type of man who got manicures to keep up appearances.
He would, in theory, take care of me. But I wasn't vaguely turned on by the thought of him hairless and shirtless, a forgetful, boring sex life, and even more boring mornings after.
I pulled out the pen tucked behind my ear to scribble back to Scott when the phone rang on the table and the real estate attorney picked it up.
Preemptively, I gathered my folders of paperwork as he hemmed and hawed for several seconds, thanking the person on the other end before hanging up and clapping his hands together. "We're funded."
A brief hoorah was followed by a chorus of handshakes and congratulations.
I handed the keys of his new home over to my client and let myself off the hook, rushing through the doors onto the warm pavement outside.
It was a disgustingly humid September day.
The wet air licked at my arms as I pulled the oval sunglasses that were pushed into my long hair down onto my face.
I was nearly to my car, but not near enough. A deep voice beckoned me from behind, dress shoes hitting the blacktop in a jog trying to keep up with the clacking of my heels. "Mia Russo!"
"God fucking dammit,” I cursed under my breath before whirling around with a cheery grin. "Hi, Scott."
He slowed to a stop beside me, catching his breath and fixing the tuft of hair that came loose from entirely too much gel at the apex of his forehead.
"Everything okay?” I asked. “Did we miss something in the paperwork? Questions? You know you can call the Branting office at any time to get a hold of me."
“You didn’t let me know if you’re free this weekend.”
There was that persistence again.
I braced myself against the door of my BMW, crossing my arms over my chest. The hot metal scorched my exposed shoulder and I made a pained noise. Not even my car was letting me out of here unscathed.
Scott continued, "Are you ready to let me take you out for dinner yet?"
The corner of my lip twitched into a semblance of a smile. Not to be mistaken for an actual smile. It was the friendliest, most professional thing I could grind my face into at the moment. An awkward silence hung in the air. "You know how busy I am,” I settled on.
"Always busy," Scott countered. "Never let yourself relax. Let me let you relax, Mia. One date, and I promise, you will be thoroughly satisfied."
"I can definitely look at my schedule for the next couple weeks and let you know," I said, dawdling with my phone as if scrolling Google Calendar. Realistically, I was willing something dire to pop up and tear me away from the conversation.
"Next Friday," he decided. "I'll pick you up at eight. Harrison's on the Bay. I won't take no for an answer."
My long fingernails dug into my underarm flesh. "Maybe."
He smirked. "Not taking a maybe either."
"Can perhaps suffice?" I squirmed. "It’s hard to make plans in our field. Could have a night of writing offers and crunching numbers on the horizon."
"Say yes, Mia," he urged, leaning in ever so slightly that my skin started to stand on end. His aftershave was a musty mix of spice and fruit that reminded me of my late grandfather and his house. Like the dust from the old attic my sisters and I would hide in, playing with broken dressers and forgotten books in packed cardboard boxes. Not at all the pleasant and irresistible scent that I’m sure he was going for.
As if willed by a higher power, my phone started ringing in my hand and I drew it up between us, nearly uppercutting Scott in the chin. Natalia was on the line, a photo of the two of us from her wedding a few months ago taking up the screen. I had never loved her more than I did at that moment.
"Gotta take this," I blurted, finding the handle of the car door and wrenching it open. "My sister. She's pregnant, could be really important. Bye, Scott!" I hurtled into the driver's seat and closed myself inside the swelteringly hot sedan before he could get another word in edgewise.
Scott lingered, confused and expectant for another second before he defeatedly walked away, and I was able to let out a breath of relief. "I fucking love you," I said, answering the phone.
"Who are you and what have you done with my sister?" Natalia’s voice was pinched with concern. "Is this a hostage situation? Are you safe? Say coconut if you need help."
"Coconut?"
"Fuck."
"Why coconut?"
“Are you safe or not?"