Chapter 3
Viv still occupied the same parking space when I stormed outside, trying not to twist an ankle while dripping wet and seething. When she caught sight of me, she choked on the burger she’d been eating.
“Ahhh,” she gargled, laughing and coughing at the same time out the open window.
My surviving right shoe squelched as I walked around and opened the passenger door. I tossed my head downwards and wrapped the towel around my hair like a hat before hopping in. Better than nothing.
Viv managed to swallow and compose herself. “What the hell happened?”
“Jack Shane happened,” I grumbled, irritated at the water escaping from the towel and dripping down the nape of my neck.
She flicked the blinker and pulled away from the curb. “You got in a water-gun fight?”
“No.”
The left heel refused to affix itself to the shoe, no matter how much pressure I applied. I threw it into the footwell.
“He offered to wash your hair and it got outta hand?”
“No.” I tugged off the right heel and dropped it next to the broken shoe.
We rolled up to a stop sign.
“You were living out the fantasy that you lived there and decided to take a bath in that tub you mentioned thirty times?”
“Yep, that’s what happened.” I punched the sun visor.
“You want me to take you back to your apartment?” Viv asked.
“No time.” My unexpected swim had put me behind schedule. “I have a change of clothes and emergency makeup in the office.”
“Trust you to have backup clothes.” A red Lexus veered into our lane, and Viv blasted the horn. “You sure you weren’t a Girl Scout?”
I wasn’t allowed to be a Girl Scout. “I’m sure.” I flicked away a stray droplet that was cascading down my neck as Viv turned to me with concern.
“Now are you going to tell me what went down in there?” Viv asked as we cruised toward SoHo.
“I got into it about the price of the house with a lifeguard at the pool on the bottom floor,” I said.
“Oh, this is gonna be good.”
“The lifeguard turned out to be none other than Jack Shane. Except I didn’t know that, because I had no goddam idea what he looked like,” I spat, giving the visor another slap.
Viv tapped her nails on the steering wheel. “So what did he look like?”
Ripped. Sharp. Like he would throw you against a wall in the heat of passion and bite your lips raw. “He has grey hair at his temples.”
“Wait, the assistant over at his agency told me he was young?” Viv knew everyone’s assistants, drivers, mistresses, etc. She was real estate’s version of Gossip Girl without the embellished headbands.
I shrugged. “He’s around forty maybe.”
“And that’s it? Greying hair, around forty?”
“His obnoxiousness made it impossible to focus on anything else,” I lied, getting goosebumps as I recalled our debate over the price per square footage. Real estate had always been my passion, but by God it had never excited me like that before.
“So he pushed you into the pool?” Viv asked, slowing down as we approached a red light.
I fumbled with the towel beginning to unravel around my hair. “Uh, yes, kind of.”
Viv looked over at my shoeless feet and let out a giggle. “Your reaction?”
“I called him a dick and ran out of there with a towel over my head to hide.” My fingers curled, thinking about the agents I knew who may have witnessed it.
“Safe to assume you won’t be taking Ashley back to view the house?”
I grimaced. “I’d rather peel the skin from my leg and eat it than work with that guy on a deal.”
“Never known a man to get under your skin this bad.”
“He is not under my skin.”
Or on it. Or near it. He never will be. Our skin will never touch.
“Hmm.” Viv smirked. “You never got this worked up when Denzel made you mad.”
* * *
A lanky shadow appeared over my desk an hour later. For any other shadow, I’d pause, but I continued hunting through my desk drawer for my emergency pair of panties. I felt exposed, despite the knee-length navy-blue Karen Millen hiding my modesty. It strained tighter against the back zip than I remembered—solid proof I ate too many bagels at my desk.
The shadow didn’t take the hint.
“Is there a reason you’re hovering, Clarissa? Because I have clients to call back—real ones.”
My cheap black pumps were cutting into my feet already. Note to self—buy new backup shoes.
Her over-inflated lips pursed. “Maybe if you hadn’t spent your morning swimming down at the Jersey Shore, you’d be all caught up.”
The words “Jersey Shore” dripped like acid from her tongue. This girl never left the safe cocoon of the Upper East Side. To Clarissa Darby, anyone who lived below Fifty-Ninth Street was considered a hillbilly.
The speed of the real estate grapevine never failed to amaze me. I abandoned the panty hunt. Either they were in my hamper, or we had a creep in the office. “You didn’t answer my question—why are you here?”
She sniffed through a sculpted third nose. “Lacey wants us in her office at three.”
“Could’ve sent that in an email,” I responded.
She arched a thick micro-bladed brow. “It’s about The Crystal. They might move the pitch up.”
My jaw dropped. I’m supposed to have another three days. “We’re not pitching till Friday.”
Clarissa smirked, reaching to fondle the twenty-inch braid hanging down her back. “That face right there is why I’m hovering. Totally worth it.”
Her voice sounded like a carbon copy of Cher from Clueless, except she drew out every syllable three seconds longer than necessary.
I sucked my cheeks in. “You should be more concerned about that rat tail hanging off your head getting stuck in an escalator.”
Viv walked past, dropping a blue file onto my desk. “Play nice, you two.”
Clarissa headed back toward her desk like a newborn foal learning to walk.
If that sociopath gets this deal, then I’ll lose all faith in humanity.
“Scarlett?” Our mild-mannered receptionist, Kalani, had appeared in front of my desk. “You have a couple of messages.”
I continued typing out an email to Ashley, explaining why the brownstone wouldn’t be suitable for her, and nodded to the corner of my desk. “Stick them over there, thanks.”
She did as I asked, her hands shaking as she pressed the notes down. Kalani didn’t speak much, but she possessed a sweet soul, a rare trait in this office. “They’re from your sister. She said she’d tried your cell.”
Hailey had called my cell numerous times. And any other time I’d pick up on the first ring, but I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth for a heart-to-heart right now. “No problem. Thanks again.”
Kalani nodded and shuffled back to the glass reception, her loose hair rippling like black water down her back.
The pink sticky notes taunted me from the edge of my desk until I couldn’t take it anymore.
● Call me
● Answer your phone
● Stop sending me to voicemail
They crackled in my hand before falling into the bin next to my desk. I had two hours to respond to emails before going over my pitch and then meeting Lacey. Hailey would understand.
Ping!Denzel’s name popped up in a text alert. Might as well get this over with so I could relegate him to a box in my brain. I clicked the message, bracing myself for an onslaught of abuse and self-pity.
When can I get my stuff from your apartment?
Ugh. I hated the post-breakup exchange.
I’ll have it sent over.
I’d rather come and pick it up myself.
Men.
Why? I can arrange a courier to leave it with your doorman.
Because some of my shirts are expensive and I don’t want them getting wrinkled.
He couldn’t be serious.
You mean like my clothes are now? I don’t have time for this—I need to go to a meeting.
Three dots flashed.
Surprise, surprise. You’re too busy.
I deleted the string of messages and felt my shoulders lighten.
Until my cell rang.