Chapter 1 #2
He laughs as he steps inside. “Fair warning, I’m easily distracted.”
“I can tell,” I say, shutting the door behind him. “I’m Brooke.”
“Grant. Grant Whitaker.” He offers his hand, and when I take it, his grip is warm and confident, not crushing, not weak. Just… intentional. Interesting.
“So, Grant Whitaker,” I say, already guiding him into the living room, “are you looking for a place to live, or are you just collecting waterfront properties for fun?”
He glances around, taking in the space. “Little of both. I travel a lot for work, but I’m ready to slow down and plant some roots.”
“Bold move,” I tease. “This house definitely screams ‘settling down.’”
“Is that what you think it screams?” He asks, eyeing me with a heated stare.
I shrug. “Either that or ‘I host very competitive dinner parties.’”
He laughs. “I do make a mean steak.”
“Dangerous thing to admit during a showing,” I tell him. “Now I’m picturing barbecue nights and not focusing on my job.”
“Sounds like a win-win.”
We move toward the windows, and I gesture outside. “The doors fully pocket, so this entire wall opens to the deck. It’s great for entertaining.”
Grant lifts a brow. “You say that like you’ve tested it.”
“I absolutely have not,” I laugh. “But if the new owners invite me to the first party, I will pretend I’m shocked and happily accept.”
He snorts. “So you come with the house is what I’m hearing. That’s good to know.”
“I’m not in the contract,” I tell him. “But I respect the confidence.”
We head into the kitchen, and he leans against the island while I point out the finishes. “Marble counters, soft-close cabinets, upgraded appliances.”
“Translation?” he says.
“Very expensive and very hard to ruin.”
“Perfect. I’m not great at domestic disasters, but I try.”
I glance at him. “That’s not reassuring.”
“I once set off a smoke alarm making toast.”
I laugh despite myself. “Okay, that one happens to the best of us.”
“See, we’re bonding already,” he smiles.
Sir, please stop being charming. You’re laying it on so damn thick, but it’s not bothering me in the least. We continue the tour, and he actually asks thoughtful questions, about HOA fees, dock maintenance, resale value. Real buyer questions, not just pretty-man nonsense.
“So,” he says as we head down the hallway, “do you always work open houses alone, or did I just get lucky?”
“Depends on the listing,” I say.
“Smart. I’d probably forget what I was saying if someone like you walked into my workplace.”
I give him a look. “Flattery will not get you a price reduction.”
“Worth a shot,” He smirks.
The master bedroom gets the expected reaction. “Okay,” he admits, walking toward the windows, “this view might’ve just sold me.”
“Most people fall for the tub,” I say. “But I respect a man who appreciates natural light.”
He turns back to me. “You do this all day? Convincing people to fall in love with places?”
I shrug. “Pretty much.”
“What about you?” he asks casually. “You ever get tempted to buy one yourself?”
The question catches me off guard. “Uh… maybe someday. Right now I’m more focused on helping everyone else find their dream homes.”
He studies me for a second, softer now. “Who’s helping you?”
I open my mouth, then close it again, surprised by the question. “I… manage.”
He nods like he hears more than I said. “Still. You deserve good things too, Brooke.”
Back in the living room, he checks his watch. “I should probably let you finish your workday, but I’m really glad I stopped in.”
“Me too,” I admit, then immediately regret the honesty. “For professional reasons.”
He smiles like he doesn’t believe me. “Right. Of course.” He hesitates, then straightens like he’s made up his mind. “Okay, I’m going to risk being that guy. Would you want to get dinner with me sometime? Not business, not a showing. Just dinner.”
My instinct is to deflect. I always deflect. But then I think about how quiet it is at home, and how my sisters are building families, and how I just told myself I was ready for something more. “Dinner,” I say slowly. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”
His grin is instant. “Perfect. Let me give you my number.”
We trade phones, and when he hands mine back, his fingers brush mine again, deliberate and warm. “Text me,” Grant Whitaker says. “I’ll pick somewhere nice.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“Good. I like a woman who expects effort.”
He leaves a minute later, and I stand there staring at the closed door like I just agreed to go skydiving without checking the weather. “Well,” I murmur to the empty house, “that just happened.”
I’m still standing in the living room staring at the front door like it might reopen and reveal this was all a very aggressive daydream when my phone buzzes in my hand.
Bri: Earth to Brooke. I haven’t heard from you all day.
Okay. No. We are not spiraling alone. We are involving the sisters.
Me: A very hot man just came to my open house and did the full tour
Bella: When you say full tour, you're talking about the house?
Me: Obviously.
Bri: Back to the hot man.
Me: He asked me out
Me: and got my number
Three dots pop up immediately. Then both of them. At the same time. I love and fear this.
Bella: EXCUSE ME WHAT??
Bri: WAIT HOLD ON. HOW HOT is he ????
I smile despite myself, walking into the kitchen to grab my purse while they type like their thumbs are on fire.
Me: Expensive suit, six two, broad shoulders, very confident smile, definitely moisturizes
Bella: NOT THE MOISTURIZES DETAIL ?? WHAT IS HIS NAME?
Me: Grant Whitaker
Bri: That is a VERY rich-man name. Are we sure he is not a vampire or a serial killer?
Me: He asked real house questions about dock maintenance and resale value so either a very prepared criminal or an actual buyer
Bella: Okay but did you say yes?
I pause, staring at the word yes on my screen like it might judge me.
Me: …yes
Bri: HOLY SHIT BALLS! brOOKE CALLAWAY IS GOING ON A DATE!!!
I laugh, locking up the house and heading out to my car, my nerves finally catching up with me now that the adrenaline’s fading.
Me: It’s just dinner, everyone relax
Bri: No
Bella: Where is he taking you?
Me: He said he will make a reservation somewhere nice
Bri: Oh my god!
Me: Don’t start
Bella: If he hurts you I will cry and Switch will commit several felonies
I smile at that, because yeah, that tracks.
Me: I promise I’m being careful but I also… kind of want to do this
There’s a beat.
Bella: Good. You deserve to want things too
And wow, okay, didn’t expect to get emotional in a driveway, but here we are.
Bri: Also please wear the blue dress, the one that makes men forget how to speak
I laugh out loud, starting my car.
Me: Noted and I will keep you both updated because obviously
Bella: You are not allowed to disappear on this date. I need live commentary
Bri: group chat demands content
Me: you are both ridiculous
Bella: and you dear sister, are going on a date. The cobwebs are being dusted.
I pull out of the driveway, heart still doing that weird hopeful flutter I’m not used to.
Me: Ewww. Never refer to my dating life in regards to spiders.
When I pull into my driveway, I hit the button for the garage and glide inside. Everything’s in its place, just the way I like it. I cut the engine, grab my bag, and head straight into the kitchen.
I drop my purse and phone on the counter and slip off my heels with a soft sigh. Damn, that feels good. I love my heels like they’re my children, but I love taking them off at the end of a long day even more.
I grab a wine glass, pull a bottle from the wine fridge, and pour myself a generous splash. The golden liquid catches the light as I take a slow sip and finally breathe.
This house is mine. I bought it a few years ago, after Bri and Bella finished college, when I finally stopped feeling like I had to keep every dollar tucked away for emergencies.
It’s exactly what you’d expect a real estate agent to live in.
Upgraded kitchen, nice bathrooms, clean lines, everything polished and put together.
The yard isn’t much, but it’s neat and always trimmed thanks to my lawn service. It’s a good life. A safe one.
I head into my bedroom, then into my walk-in closet, and peel out of my suit. I pull on a white tank and black leggings, something soft and comfortable, then wander back into the kitchen to grab my wine.
I turn on some music, light a couple of candles, and sink into my big, cozy reading chair with my Kindle in hand.
This is usually the part of the night where I relax, where I disappear into someone else’s drama for a while.
And yeah, my taste in books says a lot about me.
I always end up reading about men who are in charge.
The kind who take control without being cruel, who protect what’s theirs, who step in when the world gets heavy and say, I’ve got you, sweetheart, rest for a minute.
Men who are strong, confident, a little dangerous, and very, very good at taking care of the woman they love. Seriously sexy, too. Because obviously.
I tell myself it’s just fiction, just escapism, but lately it feels like more than that.
Like my brain is quietly reminding me what I want, even if I haven’t let myself say it out loud yet.
I have my job. I have my sisters. I have a life I worked my ass off to build.
And I love it. I really do. But I’m finally in a place where I can admit it feels like something’s missing.
I’m finally able to want something for myself.
Can I let myself meet someone? Let myself fall?
Give a man my heart and maybe, someday, have a family of my own?
I’ve spent over ten years taking care of my sisters, and I’d do it again a hundred times without hesitation.
But I think I’m ready for it to be my turn.
Ready for someone else to carry the heavy stuff for a while.
Someone who lets me be me, but also knows how to take the lead when I’m tired of being the strong one.
I take another sip of wine and glance down at the page, at the fictional hero promising to protect his woman like it’s the only thing that matters. Must be nice. Maybe it’s finally time to stop just surviving and start wanting more.
My phone buzzes on the side table, and I pick it up, expecting a group chat notification from Bella or Bri. It’s not. It’s Grant. My stomach does a stupid little flip, which is rude, because I’m a grown woman with a mortgage and a wine fridge and I do not do butterflies.
Grant: Hey beautiful. How’s your night going?
I smile before I can stop myself.
Me: Quiet and cozy. Finally home and in comfy clothes.
Three little dots pop up almost immediately.
Grant: I wish I was there with you instead of imagining you all comfy and making it impossible to focus on anything else.
Okay, sir. We are not jumping straight into making me blush in my own house. I take another sip of wine, pretending I’m cooler than I am.
Me: That sounds like a you problem ??
Grant: Oh, it definitely is. But I’m willing to suffer if it means I get to see you again.
My lips curve, slow and helpless.
Me: Bold strategy. Is it working?
Grant: Depends. Are you smiling right now?
I glance around my empty living room like someone might be watching me flirt with my phone.
Me: …maybe.
Grant: I’ll take that as a win.
I shift in my chair, crossing my legs, suddenly very aware that I’m in leggings and a tank top and smelling like vanilla candles and expensive wine and soft girl energy.
Grant: So tell me I can take you out Friday night.
I glance down at my Kindle again, at the dominant, protective hero who knows exactly what he wants and isn’t shy about going after it.
And then I think about what I just told myself.
That I’m ready. I want more. Someone who shows up and takes charge and makes me feel like I don’t have to hold the whole world up by myself anymore.
Maybe Grant could be that guy. Maybe he’s the kind of man who opens doors, makes plans, and means it when he says he wants to see me again.
My thumbs hover for half a second. Then I decide to stop overthinking it.
Me: Friday works.
The reply comes fast.
Grant: I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear those heels you love.
Okay, that one definitely does things to me.
Me: Confident, aren’t you?
Grant: When I want something, yeah. And right now, I want you across the table from me.
My chest tightens in that soft, hopeful way that scares me a little.
Me: Then I’ll see you Friday, Grant Whitaker.
Grant: I’m counting the hours already, Brooke.
I set my phone down slowly and stare at the ceiling, letting out a quiet breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
God, I hope he’s real. I hope he’s steady and kind and strong in the way my books always promise but real life rarely delivers.
I hope he’s the kind of man who takes care of his woman, who steps in when I’m tired of being the one in charge, who gives me the very thing I’ve been craving and pretending I don’t need.
Maybe I finally found my book boyfriend in the wild.
I lift my wine glass to the universe, to fate, to whatever decided to send Grant into my open house. “Here’s to hoping,” I murmur.