Chapter 5
The sixty-third floor seemed to take both an eternity to reach yet also rush toward me too fast. In the elevator doors I inspected my clammy reflection. Don’t start, I warned my stomach as it emitted a low growl. My irritable bowel syndrome hadn’t flared up in over two years. Going into the most important meeting of my career wasn’t the time for it to make an ugly appearance.
For the last seventy-two hours, I’d concentrated on mastering this pitch. I knew the figures and what to do for staging. I’d already planned out a full marketing campaign, complete with charts. I’d done everything but sleep at the finishing building, but I would have if they’d asked me to. Hunkering down in a sleeping bag didn’t faze me.
When the doors swished open, I took a deep breath and stepped onto the cashmere carpet, my Kat Maconie red pumps sinking into the lush pile. The metal heels were shaped like a solid gold chain. Ideal for crushing my competitors into the ground.
A receptionist gorgeous enough to be a model sat with her long legs tucked under the glass desk straight in front of me. The nameplate read Sally O’Shaughnessy.
“Scarlett Munroe for David,” I told her.
She nodded and signaled for me to take a seat on the black leather couch. I threw her a smile since it never hurt to be nice to the gatekeeper. Sally grimaced and turned back to her computer. She’s friendly.
I chose to stay standing to prevent my navy cigarette trousers and matching blazer from wrinkling. She gave me the once-over and went back to staring at her screen with dead eyes, and I abandoned the idea of trying to make small talk by asking if her family came from Ireland.
One of the black double doors on the opposite wall opened to reveal David Steel. White chest hair curled over the top of his royal-blue shirt. His crinkled eyes surveyed me. “Scarlett?”
I walked over to take his hand, towering over him by at least a foot. “David, nice to meet you.”
“Come in.” He waved, stepped to the side, and shut the door behind me.
Floor-to-ceiling windows encircled his office, offering a panoramic view of the city below. He motioned for me to sit in one of the Eames chairs on the other side of a formidable oak desk that filled the space. When I sat down, my ass wished Lacey would rethink her wooden stool policy. It felt like being cradled in God’s hands.
He checked a piece of paper in front of him. “So you’re with the Lacey group, that right?”
I nodded, ignoring another warning rumbling in my stomach. Not now, IBS. “That’s right.”
He gestured to the portfolio in my hands. “All right, let’s hear it.”
I thanked God he seemed as keen to get down to business as me. When my intestines resembled a spin cycle, I sensed it wouldn’t be long before they needed to be emptied.
After twenty exhaustive minutes of hunching over and struggling to breathe through the cramps, I’d made it through my talking points. My idea of creating demand by having an exclusive invite-only open house for a few select brokers had elicited a smile. “Everyone always wants what they can’t have,” I’d explained. “And if I know the agents in this city, they’ll do whatever it takes to get in. Including murder.” That had earned a weak chuckle. “Keeping it secretive will be a terrific way to drive excitement for the building. Nobody wants their clients to miss out on an opportunity.”
All in all, he’d nodded seven times and frowned once. According to my research with other agents who’d pitched to him, anything over five nods could be considered positive. The odds were in my favor.
Watching him swing back and forth in his chair, I held my breath for his opinion.
“I like it,” he stated after a few seconds that felt like hours. “It’s bold.”
“That’s what I’m known for,” I huffed, pressing my thighs together.
He didn’t appear to notice my abdominal discomfort, and I sure as hell wouldn’t be bringing it up. If I lost this deal, it would not be because I lost control of my bowels.
“Do you know I’m meeting with someone else from your office, another from the Levine Group, and someone from Triple Two?”
“I do.” I contorted my face into a smile. “But in the end, you’ll make the right decision.”
He stood up, and I winced as I followed him, trying to remember the nearest bathroom I’d passed on the way into this maze.
David opened the door for me. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you.” I straightened my spine, gave a firm handshake, and clenched my ass cheeks together as I walked out.
“Bathroom?” I panted to Sally when the door clicked shut.
She pointed to a door hidden in the wall beside her. “Do you need anything?”
A new stomach. “Not right now,” I threw over my shoulder as I went to park my ass in a toilet stall.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, I felt safe enough to emerge from the bathroom. I’d scoured my handbag for the emergency Imodium I kept on hand and found the box empty.
Maybe because I hadn’t needed them in over two years, since my IBS tended to flare up in moments of high stress. Working in real estate in the most demanding city in the world made that difficult to avoid, but over time I’d learned to control it. Or my body had built up a tolerance. However, I’d never pitched to sell a multi-million-dollar building before. The Crystal was a different ball game from Upper East Side penthouses and two-million-dollar studios.
My body had failed me. On the biggest day of my career. Thanks, body.
With no tablets, I’d no choice but to ride it out, and the reality that I was stuck in a bathroom behind the reception desk of David Steel began to creep in.
The black-rimmed mirror above the sink showed me this morning’s blow-dry was now plastered to my neck and gross, flushed face. Peeking through a gap in the bathroom door, I waited for my moment to slip out. When Sally disappeared and a door clicked shut, I took my chance.
David’s voice boomed as his office door opened. “Gonna be the fanciest place in town once it’s done.”
I had nowhere to go.
David spotted me. “Scarlett, what are you still doing here?”
Lie. Lie. “I left my cell on the sofa; didn’t realize till I got halfway to the office.”
David appeared to buy it. “Great, I was just talking about you. Jack, this is…”
A broad-shouldered man in a pinstriped suit stepped over the threshold of David’s office. “Scarlett Munroe,” he muttered.
“Jack Shane.” He shouldn’t be here, in a snazzy suit, at almost 9 a.m. Viv used her contacts to confirm his meeting had been scheduled for 3 p.m., right after Clarissa’s. So why is he here six hours early? He should be somewhere far away. This had to be a setup.
David looked back and forth between us. “You two know each other?”
Jack gave me a wink. “She pushed me into a pool.”
Why does he look even better in a suit than he did in shorts?“I did not.”
“I had to give people tours wrapped in a towel and a borrowed jacket.”
“That wouldn’t have stopped me from doing my job,” I told him. But him walking around in a towel might.
David remained oblivious to the tension festering between us. “Well, I have a conference call. I’ll be in touch once I’ve made my decision. Monday at the latest.” He disappeared into his office and left the devil and I locked in a staring contest.
“What are you doing here? Your meeting’s not till this afternoon,” I hissed.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Aw, checking up on me?”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Damn, you caught me. I couldn’t resist that alpha-male charm of yours.”
“Your meeting ended almost an hour ago, so why are you still here? Sniffing out the competition?” he asked.
I became aware that I’d left the bathroom door a tad open, and I prayed he wouldn’t sniff anything. “No, I left… my pen.”
His nose wrinkled as a blast of air-conditioning carried a pungent smell through the open door. His eyes flicked behind me and back to my blushing cheeks. Why hadn’t I shut the door?
He knew. And he knew I knew he knew.
“I have to go,” he coughed.
Before I could respond, he strode out the door and left me in a mushroom cloud of my own making.
* * *
An hour later, I brimmed with Imodium and frustration. Viv had requested the morning off to take Connor to the dentist, so I’d taken a cab to the meeting with David and now this showing in the Flatiron District. My regular intervals in the SUV with Viv gave me a chance to rant and rave like a lunatic. It had become my enclosed little safe space before I stepped onto the sidewalk and turned sane again. Not having the chance to vent had left me feeling like a whistling kettle on the stove about to blow.
I bit my lip as the cab driver screeched around every corner, my brain reminding me to update the will stashed in my sock drawer.
With three minutes to spare before Carmella Williams’ arrival I’d straightened cushions and spritzed every room with the baked-bread scent I kept in my handbag. She waltzed right in before I could throw the tiny bottle back in my bag. I’d shaken her hand with the other one behind my back, clutching my secret weapon.
Carmella’s slim finger ran along the top of the marble fireplace. “Not bad, Charlotte.”
“It’s Scarlett,” I responded. This was the fourth listing that her agent Steven Fermin had arranged for me to show her, and she’d yet to get my name right. Charlene, it doesn’t have a balcony. Juliet, I bought a horse from Dubai. What should I name it? Violet, it doesn’t have space for my two nannies.
Steven himself turned out to be a no-show. Again. If I was Carmella, I’d ditch him and come with me. But suggesting that would be a snake move. A Jack Shane move.
The six-bedroom loft on Carmine contained everything on her wish list: separate space for the two nannies of her two children, a playroom and home office, and twelve-foot-high ceilings to accommodate her six-foot-seven NBA husband Chris.
She went back to the primary suite for a second look. “Scarlett is… okay, but Charlotte is so much… classier.”
I followed her, pulling a childish face. “I agree.”
“If we ever have a girl, we’ll call her Charlotte,” Carmella mused. Her Gucci flip-flops slapped around the tiled primary bathroom. “But after two boys, I’m not trying again. Do you have kids?”
Viv once pointed out that when I found something distasteful, I curled my lip like Elvis. Carmella’s eyes dropped to my mouth, and I knew she’d seen it. “No.”
For the first time, a woman with kids didn’t push it or tell me I’d change my mind when I met the right man. For me, the right man would be childless with me.
She stepped into a shower cubicle big enough to hose down a small pony. “I like it.”
Thank fuck. You’ve looked at everything four times. “They’re asking for five,” I reminded her.
“I’m not paying that,” she told me.
“The buyer wants full asking price,” I repeated. Fifty percent of real estate consisted of telling people the same thing over and over until their brains clicked into gear. The other fifty percent involved gaining their trust, so when you did repeat yourself, they listened.
She paused. “I’ll give them four. And I want to close in three days.”
My ears were ringing. “You’re offering a million under ask? They won’t accept that. Also, with cash offers, it takes at least a week to close.”
“Yes, all cash. We’ll have to replace the fireplace.”
“But the fireplace is brand new.”
“We’ll see.” She shrugged. “I’ll have my agent call you.” The same agent who’d missed this appointment because he’d been stuck at the dentist. Unless he was having all his teeth pulled, he should be here.
“Look forward to it.” I smiled through clenched teeth.
Note to self: Have a two-hour bath when I get home and rewatch season one of Million Dollar Listing New York.