8. Conor
Conor
“I’m very impressed.” A cool, manicured hand lands on my bare forearm.
She’s flirting. Again.
“Thanks, Karla.” I take a step away from my realtor and cross my arms over my chest as casually as I can, hoping to avoid any more unnecessary contact. “I think it should be ready to list in a couple of weeks.”
There’s an awkward pause as Karla registers my putting distance between us.
Flustered, I grab two sample tiles for the backsplash I picked out and hold them out to her. “What do you think?”
She wrinkles her nose at my question, so I give her a little more context. “The blue, textured mosaic will lend itself to the farmhouse feel, but the ivory fleur de lis will look more classic and elegant.”
We went to visit my new purchase in Edgewood an hour ago, and now, we’re standing in the kitchen of another one of my projects—a large Craftsman in Decatur that was a complete gut job. It’s almost finished now, save for a few aesthetic details.
I bought this house at the high end of what it was worth.
The other interested party was a large developer who wanted to bulldoze the place and build condos.
But, that damn sentimental side of me reared its insistent head, and I ended up paying more than I wanted in order to save the historic property.
The house always had good bones. And now, it also has raised ceilings, a chef’s kitchen, and an enlarged master suite complete with walk-in closet and steam shower.
The property is stunning, and I hope I did a good job capturing the essence and beauty of the house.
But man, are the bills adding up on this baby.
Karla frowns at the tiles I’m holding, then waves an indifferent hand. “Whichever one will look more expensive.”
I have to refrain from rolling my eyes. Taste and style aren’t always about price. But, trying to get Karla to believe that would be like trying to explain string theory to a four year old.
“Speaking of expensive, though, let’s talk money,” Karla says, her face lighting up.
I chuckle dryly. Karla definitely doesn’t beat around the bush.
It’s one of the reasons I work with her, to be honest—she’s truly good at her job.
She’s been on this journey with me since my first flip, and I value her market knowledge.
Over the years, she’s given me lots of good advice—even if our priorities do tend to differ more often than not.
I bite my lip as I lean against the kitchen countertop, a little nervous. With house flipping, finding the perfect balance of spending money to make money is a constant battle. And I know I’ve overspent on this project.
I exhale and tell her what I’m in the hole for.
Karla confirms my fears when her eyes widen a touch.
She shakes her head. “Decatur’s on the rise right now, it’s hot.
We both know that. But, there’s lots of inventory, Conor, tons of family homes available.
And, with the price point you’re seeking, a house this size has got to have that extra touch of magic. That special something, you know?”
I nod. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I do know. There’s only so much value you can add by upgrading appliances and customizing bathroom tile.
“To get a premium on this place, you’re going to need to sell the lifestyle that comes with this investment,” Karla continues. She twists a lock of straight, red hair around a long, matching red fingernail as she speaks. “Which means…”
I shake my head. “My sister’s about to pop, she’s not going to be able to help on this one.”
My little sister is usually my go-to for interior design and staging advice.
After I’ve finished the renovations, she’s the one who really makes each house come alive.
She’s always had that eye, and it’s definitely come in handy over the years.
But, she’s also about a thousand months pregnant right now. I can’t put this on her.
“Hire a designer then. Or a professional staging company.”
“I’ll think about it.” Hiring a staging company is the last thing I want to do.
I’m already in the red on this flip, and plus, I’ve gone out of my way to collect furniture and other staging items over the years.
Which, with the help of Mia, makes all my houses look beautiful for a fraction of the price.
“You’d better think about it quickly,“ Karla simpers. “Because I’m scheduling the open house for two weeks from now.”
I open the fridge and retrieve two Cokes.
No such thing as a Pepsi preference here in Atlanta—that would be blasphemy.
I hold one out to Karla, who shakes her head.
I pop the tab off a can and drain half of it in a single gulp.
It’s still baking hot outside, and while the project site has power, I haven’t hooked up the AC yet.
I’m surprised Karla’s not boiling alive in that suit.
“Face it, Conor.” Karla smoothes an imaginary wrinkle in her royal blue jacket. “This was a risky investment to begin with, and I really think you need to take one last risk for this to pay off.”
As she launches into her favorite risk vs reward speech, I down the rest of my Coke, then toss the empty can across the room. It arcs neatly into the recycling bin with a loud clank. Karla watches me, her keen blue eyes trained on my mouth. I wipe my lips awkwardly with the back of my hand.
On top of the constant “going for drinks” talk, she’s asked me out twice in the past, and I’ve turned her down as gently as possible.
She’s whip-smart, and pretty too, but I’m just not interested in her like that.
So, I keep muttering vague, dumb excuses about not mixing business with personal—that I like to neatly compartmentalize every area of my life and keep them separate.
And, because I’m such a clean freak, it’s believable.
I know I’m a hypocrite, though.
Since Jess showed up yesterday, I’ve done nothing but think about my buddy’s little sister. Which I know is not cool. Especially because, when Aiden gets home, I’ll have to live with both of them until my house is ready. Talk about blurring the lines.
But, there’s just something about Jess.
Last night, I was having the best time getting to know her— until my friends showed up and popped our little bubble.
Since then, I can’t stop picturing her liquid brown eyes that narrow every time she’s trying to work out if I’m joking.
Her pale skin that reddens every time I tease her.
Her soft, full mouth—possibly the most distracting mouth I’ve ever come across. A mouth that begs to be kissed.
This morning, I made the corners of that mouth turn down when I clammed up at the joke she made. I didn’t mean to—she just caught me off-guard and it took me a moment to recover.
I could tell she was embarrassed, but I couldn’t bring myself to explain my reaction.
If I did that, I’d have to tell her the truth: that there’s been no woman in my life for years, but lately, I’ve had this nagging feeling that I want more than casual dating.
Maybe seeing my sister and her husband so happy triggered something within me, but I want someone I can have a life outside of work with.
A relationship to share in each other’s successes, and help each other through our failures. Not a “me” anymore, but a “we.”
It’s not exactly an easy, breezy conversation to have with the woman who just moved in with you.
The one I just had to text last night, even though I knew better than to play that game.
After a beer or two, I was convinced that a little harmless flirting was just that—harmless. Like friendly flirting.
Besides, keeping my growing desire to settle down and have a family to myself is an easier, less vulnerable place to exist. So, I went ahead and put my walls back up, keeping things in the friends-who-flirt zone.
Because that’s totally a thing.
“Conor?” Karla’s voice rips me back to the present. “Are you even listening?”
“Uh-huh,” I lie.
“So-o?” She draws out the last syllable, pursing her artificially plump lips.
I blink, trying to recall what we were talking about before I so thoroughly tuned out.
She takes in my bewildered expression and laughs. “Liar, liar!” she sings. “You’re so out of it today—late night last night, then?”
“Something like that,” I mutter with a sheepish smile.
“I was just saying that I need to get to my next appointment. But, I’ll ask around about options for affordable staging companies and check in with you this week.”
“ Right, ” I say. “Thank you, Karla. Sorry for the mush for brains today.”
She pokes me in the ribs and it takes everything in me to avoid flinching. “You can thank me by taking me out for a drink when this house sells for over asking.”
Great. I tune out for a couple of short, tiny little moments and, in that time, I’ve managed to secure drinks with Karla.There’s nothing I can say to avoid looking beyond rude, so I simply nod.
I slip on my sunglasses and open the front door. I gesture for her to step out in front of me, and she waits for me to lock up. We walk down the tree-lined front path together and, when we get to the curb, she hovers for a moment.
“Thanks again, Karla.” I stand as straight and businesslike as possible. Kind of hard to do when I’m wearing athletic shorts and flip flops, but so be it. Then, I walk to my vehicle as fast as I possibly can without it looking like I’m trying to run away (which I am).
As I unlock my truck, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Jess: My turn to cook tonight.
A warm feeling gathers in my belly and my stupid face grins from ear to ear and at the thought of going home to a home-cooked meal after a long, hard day at work.
Going home to Jess . When we talked about our routines this morning, Jess and I never discussed sharing the cooking. But, I have to admit I love this idea.
In my head, I’m picturing something out of a 1950s magazine. Jess looking adorable in a sweet, polka dot dress and I’d walk through the door and yell, “Honey, I’m home!” I’d drop my briefcase so I could swing her around my arms, then dip her and kiss her hello.
Wait, what?
Since when does my brain go all I Love Lucy in my fantasies? I’d never want any woman in my life to feel like she has to stay home and clean all day. Obviously, because I’d want her to feel empowered to do anything she wants. But also, because I like cleaning.
There’s nothing better than getting my emotions out by aggressively scrubbing countertops.
It’s therapeutic. Not that I’d ever admit that to Jess.
To prove my point that I’m a normal-amount-of clean person, I even left a dirty mug in the sink this morning instead of putting it in the dishwasher.
Take that, clean freak tendencies. I’m cool as a well chilled cucumber, see?
“Byeeee, Conor!” Karla’s yodeling cuts through my jumble of thoughts like a knife. She’s at the door of her white Lexus, waggling her fingers.
“Bye,” I call before jumping in my truck. I lean my head against the headrest, then turn on the ignition. A sigh of relief escapes me as the air conditioning blasts my face. I watch Karla pull away from the curb, but instead of putting my own vehicle in drive, I type out a message.
Conor: It’s like that, is it?
Jess: Least I can do. Get ready for some culinary excellence.
Conor: Oh yeah, whatcha making?
Jess: Waffles.
My heart speeds to double time as I’m thrown back to our little exchange this morning. Before I can reply, another message comes through.
Jess: So, get ready to do breakfast.
Oh, I’m ready.