Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Molly
“There’s a panic room. I feel like I’m in a Jodi Foster movie.”
Not looking the least bit surprised by my news, Coco turns to face me from across the massive coastal-inspired kitchen. She’s wearing a blue Chanel suit and matching Louboutins with a heel that could easily puncture some cheating boyfriend’s tire.
“Everybody has a panic room these days, darling,” she dismisses my comment. “It’s the new home gym.”
Maybe Coco’s listings do, but mine? Yeah…no. Although one of them does have a tiny pool, so that’s something at least. Of course, I don’t mention the lack of panic rooms in my listings. I wouldn’t want her to think me ungrateful.
“So, what else do we need to do before the official start time?” I ask instead.
I’m helping Coco with an open house at one of her properties today—her idea. She thought I might be able to schmooze a little and maybe pick up a new client. The house we’re showing is a gorgeous Key West style home in Sunset Park with a list price that has more zeros than I care to think about.
My boss consults her phone. “Just the flowers.”
“Already done,” I say. “One small arrangement in each bedroom and a large one in the entry. The place smells like hydrangeas and money.”
“Perfect.” Coco does a quick check of her lipstick in a compact mirror before snapping it shut. I don’t know why she bothers. Her makeup is always impeccable. With no compact of my own, I quickly check my reflection in the glass of the oven door, immediately noticing the bags under my eyes. Do cucumber slices actually shrink those suckers? I should probably try that sometime.
I glance around the sprawling kitchen and dining area for something to straighten, but the place is immaculate from the Spanish tile floor to the crown moldings bordering the twelve-foot ceilings.
“I guess I should go over the listing sheet in case there’s a hidden passageway or something I should know about.” I take one from the stack on the kitchen island and begin leafing through it.
Coco rounds the island to sidle up next to me. “Since you’re clearly not going to bring it up yourself, I have to ask. Have you gotten any matches on the app?”
“What app?” I ask distractedly, following it immediately with, “Is the pool saltwater or chlorine?”
“Saltwater.” Coco snatches the listing from my hand. “What do you mean what app ?”
I look at my boss and blink a couple times before it all comes back to me. I’d forgotten all about the ridiculous dating app the minute I picked Matty up for hockey practice the other day. After his detention, he was grounded from video games and electronics, but I came home to find he had snuck his Nintendo Switch from its hiding place in my bedroom. Looks like I need to be a little craftier in the future. We argued, of course, and he gave me the silent treatment all the way to practice.
I ended up dropping him off and running errands until pickup time. Oh god. And I embarrassed the hell out of myself with that young guy—that hot young guy. I think he’s on the Storm Chasers’ team, but they all look the same in their uniforms as far as I’m concerned. In street clothes, however, this guy stands out like a triple fudge brownie sundae in a sea of plain vanilla cones.
The memory has my cheeks heating. He was helping Coach Chloe and was obviously just making a light comment in passing. But there I was staring at him like some horny zombie and making a fool of myself. I don’t even remember what I said before turning tail and fleeing.
“I already told you I’m not joining a dating app, Coco.”
She scowls at me. “Darling, you need more fun in your life. What does it hurt to scroll a little? You’re not agreeing to have a man’s baby by taking a peek at his profile.” She flicks nonexistent dust off her suit jacket before plucking my phone from the counter where I left it. Knowing it will be easier to just go along and delete it later, I let her have her way.
“Face.” She turns the phone to me to unlock it before scrolling directly to the app store and starting a search. “Face again.” The app begins installing and I catch the name for the first time.
“ Catnip? What the hell kind of dating app is called Catnip?”
I get Coco’s side-eye in response. “What did I say about trusting me? It’s the best dating app out there, bar none.”
She continues scrolling and tapping as something horrifying occurs to me. “You didn’t post my picture on there, did you?” I can just imagine my creepy dry cleaner cruising dating sites and finding my photo next to “Sparkle Is My Stripper Name.” I suppress a shudder.
“Don’t be silly, darling. No name and no pictures. If you find someone interesting, you can exchange that later. It’s all perfectly safe,” she assures. “Ha!” Her sudden shout startles me, making me gape at her. She only grins in return. “You already have six matches!”
A familiar heat begins creeping up my neck. “Let me see that.” I take the phone from Coco and see that she’s right. There are six “Cat Chat” requests from my “Meow Matches.” Are these people serious with this shit? I mean, I guess it’s just for fun like Coco said, but it’s also, well, a little absurd.
I shove down my panic and hand the phone back to my boss, momentarily forgetting it’s my damn phone. “What do dates from this app consist of? A shared can of tuna over candlelight in the alley behind Long John Silver?”
Before Coco can answer, voices sound from the entryway, and we quickly stash our personal things under the counter before straightening and heading for the hall.
“Welcome!” she declares in what I like to call her queen voice. Thus begins our busy first hour of the open house.
Coco is showing a young tech executive and her husband the upstairs while I walk another couple around the enclosed yard and wraparound veranda. I can tell they’re not really in the market and are just what we refer to as lookie-loos, but you never know. Everyone can be a potential client down the road.
They take my card before returning to their car parked at the curb. As soon as they pull out, one of those insane Cybertrucks swerves into the spot, coming to an abrupt stop, inches from the car in front of it. I turn to go back into the house when a voice catches my attention.
“Hey, I know you.”
The comment—and the deep baritone of the commenter’s voice—have me turning back. The hot young guy from hockey practice stands in the open door of the Cybertruck, looking up at me with a million-dollar smile and—holy crap—are those dimples in his unfairly handsome face?
“Oh. Um, hello,” I manage as he swaggers toward me with an ease I instinctively know he was born with. Please don ’ t blush. Please don ’ t blush. Please don ’ t ...too late. Damn my fair complexion! “Welcome!” I try channeling my best queen Coco vibe, but it comes out way too loud for our proximity.
“Thanks.” His smile remains as he comes to a stop on the porch. His dirty-blond hair is damp at the ends, telling me he just showered—something I already could have guessed from the intoxicating scent wafting my way. He smells like citrus and sandalwood with maybe a hint of pepper, and it takes zero time for me to be mesmerized by his melty chocolate eyes. Again!
I need to snap out of it, so I thrust a hand toward him and force my voice to adopt a professional tone. “I’m Molly Sparks with Farnsworth Luxury Realty.”
His eyes widen at the mention of my last name. Yeah, it can be an attention-getter, but it’s leagues better than my maiden name, Hooker. Try escaping high school unscathed with that name.
“Bobby Rhodes,” he replies, taking my offered hand. My blush kicks up a notch when he brings his other hand up to join the first, essentially cradling my hand in both of his large ones. “Your kid plays hockey.”
“So do you,” I reply. He still hasn’t let go of my hand.
“I do.”
We’re both silent for a beat, and I finally rip my hand from his grasp and hook my thumb to the open doorway behind me. “You want to see the house?”
“Absolutely.” Bobby nods before shrugging a shoulder. “I’m actually here to meet somebody named Coco to help me find a house, but I’d love it if you showed me around this one.”
“Oh. She’s inside with a potential buyer.” I step through the doorway, gesturing for him to follow. What are the chances of this guy showing up here? There are over three million people living in the greater Tampa area. Although, I’ve heard it said that rich people all run in the same circles. And he’s got to be rich, right? With a professional sports career and that crazy Tesla?
“I’ve got time,” Bobby says in a tone that tells me he’s well practiced at this easygoing vibe he’s got going on. “Especially for you,” he adds.
Unsure what to do with my hands or my heated cheeks, I default into realtor mode. “The house is just over six thousand square feet if you count the walk-out basement and home theater. It’s owned by the original builder, who’s maintained it in pristine condition, as you can see.” I continue to list the property’s qualities and features while we tour the first floor. Bobby nods at each of my comments as he follows me around, hands clasped behind his back as if he’s afraid to touch anything. My nervousness dissipates the longer I talk until I realize fifteen minutes have gone by and he hasn’t said a word. Crap.
“Do you have any questions before we go downstairs?” I fold my hands in front of me and offer him a polite smile.
He shakes his head slowly, one corner of his lips tipping up. “No. I’ll take it.”
I open my mouth and close it again. I must have heard him wrong. I try again. “I...I’m sorry, did you just say you want to buy this house?”
He’s nodding before I even finish my question. Both dimples are on show this time, and I swear his eyes twinkle.
I step closer and throw both my hands forward in a halting gesture as I look up at him. “You can’t!” I insist.
The amusement remains. “Why not? Has somebody already bought it?”
“No,” I reply. “You haven’t even seen the whole property yet! Or asked about the price! People don’t just walk into houses and decide to buy them without even seeing the bedrooms or peeking in the medicine cabinet,” I continue in dismay, my voice rising with each word. “You might hate the configuration of the basement or get freaked out by the panic room.” I tilt my head and give it another thought. “Although your Cybertruck indicates you may already be preparing for the apocalypse, so what do I know?” His smile grows at that, and I shake my head, determined to talk sense into him. “This is the first house you’ve toured, isn’t it?”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Yeah. But I need a house and this one is nice.” His eyes scan the great room and its numerous seating areas.
I take a breath and study him for a few seconds. “Listen, Mr. Rhodes.”
“Bobby,” he corrects me.
“Fine. Bobby. I’m sure Coco will be thrilled to help you find a house. But it’s important to take time to prioritize and consider what you’re looking for in a home before making any decisions. Do you want a big yard or do you prefer something small and lower maintenance? How many bedrooms do you need? Do you prefer an open concept design or something more traditional and intimate? There are lots of factors to consider.”
“Okay.” He nods, taking it all in stride. He pauses for another second before declaring, “I want you to be my agent. We can figure it out together.”
My jaw goes slack. “No! I can’t. I...I mean, that’s a very flattering proposal, but I’m just a junior agent. Coco can really set you up. She’s been doing this for decades, and she’s a master at it. She knows everyone.”
“But I want you,” Bobby responds, and something in his tone—and those long-lashed baby browns—makes it sound like he’s not just talking about houses. Oh. My. God. What is happening here?
I force myself to take a reality check. He’s obviously just a natural-born flirter, that’s all it is. He’s got to be fifteen years younger than me and he’s a professional hockey player, for goodness’ sake. He’s not hitting on me.
I clear my throat and return to professional mode. “Excuse me for a moment.” I walk calmly toward the staircase, intent on fetching Coco to right this ship. But I swear I can feel Bobby’s stare searing through my knockoff Dior suit. Good lord. I’m so distracted that I almost plow right into Coco when I round the corner.
She reaches out to steady me from her spot in front of an alcove, and I start to apologize. But suspicion gives me pause. “Were you...” I take in her expression and finish my question in an accusing whisper-hiss, “... eavesdropping? ”
Instead of answering, she hooks her arm through mine and forces me back to the hallway where Bobby Rhodes and his dimples wait.
“You must be Bobby Rhodes,” Coco declares, her voice and manner as queenly as ever. “How wonderful to meet you. You’re going to love working with Molly.”