Chapter 22
“Is Clarissa in?” I barked at Kalani. The entire cab ride, I’d worked myself into a frenzy.
“Yes, she’s at her desk,” Kalani said.
“Is Lacey in?”
She shook her head. “No, she’s at a luncheon.”
Good. I kept marching toward the back of the room, not breaking my stride.
Viv popped up like a meerkat from behind her screen. “Uh-oh.”
Clarissa saw me coming and stopped whispering to Aria, who looked confused before following her gaze. She slid off Clarissa’s desk and returned to her own.
“What the fuck do you call that?” I demanded, shaking with adrenaline and lack of sugar.
She had the gall to look surprised. “What do you mean?”
“The showing, genius. With your mute client that you bribed not to talk.”
“Mr. Yamamoto doesn’t speak to people he doesn’t connect with.” She picked at a piece of lint on her black lace shirt. “It’s not my fault The Crystal didn’t live up to his expectations.”
“Oh, but I bet it would have if you’d been the woman selling it,” I accused. “You kept me waiting for forty minutes, you didn’t even apologize, and then you walked around verbally trashing the place. I don’t have time to play your bullshit games.”
Her pale grey eyes rolled. “You’re starting to sound paranoid.”
“I got it. You didn’t. Get over it. You can pull every trick in your little mean-girl playbook, but it’s not going to work.”
Her eyelids fluttered. “God, you’re soooo dramatic.”
“Clarissa don’t test me,” I said through gritted teeth.
Viv pulled at my arm. “Hey, let’s take a walk.”
Clarissa let out a tinkly fake laugh. “Yeah, let Mommy take you for a walk. Hey, Viv, buy her a popsicle. That should cool her down.”
Viv’s head snapped round to her. “Why don’t you go play a game of hide-and-go-fuck-yourself?”
Clarissa gasped, having never been on the receiving end of Viv’s tongue.
“C’mon.” Viv steered me back down the office.
We rode the elevator in silence. I kept swallowing the lump in my throat, forcing it down to my stomach. I kept a hold on it until we were standing outside in the oven-baked air.
“What happened?” Viv knew better than to hug me or pat my shoulder. She stood next to me and waited.
Breathe in. Breathe out. “That selfish… bitch is trying to play some weird power game by wasting my time.”
Viv spotted an empty bench next to the door and pulled me toward it. “Ella es una perra podrida,” she muttered, pulling me down next to her.
My hands held my knees to stop them from shaking. “As musical as the Spanish language is, you know I don’t understand it.”
“She’s a rotten bitch,” Viv translated, sticking her tongue out at a passing toddler in a stroller to make him smile.
“Sí.” My foot tapped a mile a minute. “Not to change the subject, but how is Operation Bachelor panning out?”
Viv pulled a face. “Uh, underway until you burst into the office acting like Denzel in The Equalizer.”
“So no leads?”
“You should have asked Jack. Would have been so much easier.” She waved at a little blonde girl with a lollipop.
“Let it go.” I stood up, eager to step back into the AC and cool down, mentally and physically. The connection I felt with Jack couldn’t get in the way of what I needed to do for this job. Even if he was a big cartoon magnet and my body turned into a lump of steel around him.
“Not until I’m the maid of honor, honey.”
* * *
Jack suggested a change of scenery for our catch-up meeting this morning, so we agreed on a bakery halfway between our offices in the West Village. Their macaroons were better than the best sex I’d ever had. Not a very high bar to beat, but they did last longer.
“Did you get the contract for the three-bedroom on twenty-six?” Jack’s eyes darted around his laptop screen.
I sifted through my spreadsheet. “Yes. Do you have unit 12A?”
Jack paused to sip his latte. “Got it. So where does that put us?”
I filtered the end column. “Ten apartments and one penthouse sold.”
“Thirty-six units and three penthouses to go? Not bad, considering the open house happened four days ago,” Jack mused, biting into a croissant. Tiny flakes stuck to his lip, and I imagined licking them off.
“Don’t think David will see it that way,” I pointed out.
“We can’t be doing that bad a job or he wouldn’t have invited us to his party.”
“Maybe he wants to humiliate us in public,” I said.
“Do you always see the negative in everything?” Jack stared at me.
Fail to prepare, prepare to fail. “I call it preparing for every scenario, good and bad.”
“Life’s too short to worry about scenarios you can’t control.” He took another sip of his latte, eyes glazing over. I knew without asking that his thoughts had drifted to his brother. Every time I thought about asking what happened, I’d see the look on his face when I’d first asked, and I’d bite my tongue. I wouldn’t inflict pain on him to satisfy my curiosity.
The day’s warmth prompted him to remove his jacket and roll the sleeves of his blue shirt up to his elbows. Every time he lifted his cup, the veins in his forearms would ripple underneath the skin.
What is it about a man with rolled-up sleeves that makes them so attractive? Like they could wrestle an alligator to save you.
“Maybe. But being in control is who I am. Can’t change that. Trust me, people have tried,” I remarked.
“Boyfriends?”
“All of them,” I told him. “As if I was some shack that needed fixing up, so I’d be worth more in the future.” Assholes.
Jack laughed. “I love how you managed to incorporate real estate into an analogy about your love life.”
“It’s true though,” I told him. “Then they try to tell you what you’re supposed to want in life. No, pal, I’ll decide what’s right for me.”
“So what stand-up guy will you be bringing to David’s party? Or will you have depreciated too much by Saturday?” he joked.
Damnit. “He’s… a guy.”
His eyes sparkled. “A real human? Breathing and everything?”
“You think I can’t get a date who’s alive?” I felt outraged that he’d almost been right. After hours of messaging contacts on social media and contacting old clients, I’d managed to drum up a date who wasn’t a date.
He rubbed his stubble. “Did I say that?”
“Yes, he’s real. And very much alive.”
Oliver Hart played a starving artist while making millions selling art consisting of nothing more than angry dots and slashes on the canvas. He’d invited me to see his latest show after I’d sold him a lavish penthouse uptown. An agonizing night for someone who didn’t understand the first thing about art, but when a past or future client invited you to an event, you attended. Even if your appendix was on the verge of bursting, you’d still make an appearance before hightailing it to the hospital.
I’d walked along the row of canvases, pretending to be interested as he’d described his “process.” To me, it looked like a three-year-old had got in a fight with a bottle of paint.
He was easy on the eyes and, best of all, gay. No chance of him misconstruing a touch on the arm.
Jack closed his laptop. “Looking forward to meeting him.”
I closed mine. “Who are you bringing?”
“A woman.”
“Breathing and everything?” I asked.
“Course.” He slurped back the last of his latte and dabbed his mouth with the napkin.
I concentrated on swallowing my macaroon so I didn’t choke. “Cool.”
He cast a look at his watch. “Anything else we need to talk about? I have a showing at Hudson Yards.”
Yes, who is your date? “Don’t think so. I have a showing for unit 39B this afternoon at three. They want to see the space before deciding.”
“You need me to be there? I could head over straight from my listing appointment in Brooklyn at…” He checked his phone. “One thirty?”
“I can handle it.” I swept the crumbs from my lap and gathered my stuff. “Thanks.”
He rolled his sleeves back down and button the cuffs. Boo.
“I’ve maybe got someone wanting to check out 24C on Friday afternoon if you wanna come along?”
A crashing sound reverberated from behind the counter, making me jump. A waitress with a flaming-red face stood with an empty tray at her side.
“Nah, I trust you,” my mouth said faster than my brain could process. Why the fuck did I say that?
“What’s that?” Jack squinted. “Couldn’t hear you over the noise.” He jerked a thumb behind him, where the waitress crouched down to pick up the debris.
Thank you, clumsy waitress. “I said I have a full schedule on Friday.”
“Okay, well let me know how today goes,” he said, tucking the grey suit jacket under his arm.
“I’ll update the spreadsheet I saved on Google Drive,” I reminded him. My anal way of keeping track of everything so we both knew which units were available.
“Of course—the Bible,” he teased, scooping the last yellow macaroon from my plate and biting into it.
I scowled. “I wanted to eat that.”
He held the remaining piece out to me. “Here you go.” A tiny piece of saliva trailed from it.
“You keep it. I don’t want anything that’s been in your mouth.”
If I believed in hell, then I’d have a suite down there for all these fibs.
“You’re forgetting I know when you’re being dishonest.” He dropped a wad of bills on the table. Forty percent tip—generous. “Your tell, remember?” His dimple deepened when he looked at me.
My arms crossed. “Bullshit.”
Note to self: Have Viv film me while I lie and examine the footage for this so-called tell.