Chapter 4
Oh, Jesus. Not her.
The name on my cell always meant a problem. I ignored the next four calls, determined to finish the contract on a two-bedroom loft in SoHo before calling her back.
The extension on my desk rang two minutes later. Cracking my neck, I lifted the handset.
“Hi, I have Janelle Dawson for you,” Kalani told me with a cheerful cadence that I envied. “She’s been calling all morning.”
“Put her through,” I instructed.
A click sounded, and I took a calming breath. “Janelle, how are you?”
“I am not happy,” she barked.
This coming from the woman who took every opportunity to claim that all she needed to be happy was her size-two figure and seven-figure-earning husband. I considered her my worst seller by far given her insane demands. “What’s the problem?”
“I need you to come to the apartment.”
Fuck. “All right. I could make it out tomorrow…”
“Not tomorrow. Today. In the next hour. I have yoga.”
“I’m afraid I have meetings today that I can’t move.” I tried tapping my face like they did in those YouTube videos to see if it calmed me. It did not.
“You promised me personal service. Today. One hour. Or I’ll be speaking to David.” And the line went dead.
I banged the receiver into the cradle ten times. That didn’t work to calm me either.
Janelle and her family put their seven-thousand-square-foot condo in Tribeca up for sale a week ago. Even if I got Viv to drive me over there, I wouldn’t make it back in time for the meeting with Lacey. That would leave her wide open for Clarissa.
If I didn’t go, I’d lose the listing. Which I’d chased to help impress David, given that Janelle was his goddaughter. If I messed up with her, my chances of getting the deal would be shot before I ever walked into the pitch.
Stay? Go? Stay? Go?
The Lacey Group would always be my life. I’d worked my ass off, given my blood, sweat, and every spare second—because I didn’t do tears. Not for this company. Lacey Lockmuir held legendary status in our industry. The mere fact she’d chosen me to work here five years ago meant she’d seen something in me that nobody else did. And unlike everyone else, she hadn’t given up on me.
Nausea rippled through my belly, making me reach for the Pepto-Bismol in my drawer, which I’d put Viv in charge of replenishing every so often.
No liquid remained in the bottle, and Viv was nowhere in sight. Where did she keep disappearing to? I catapulted out of my chair and went over to check if she kept a stockpile in one of her desk drawers.
Candy, gum, more candy, a bottle of tequila, and shot glasses. Is she on some drunk sugar high the minute I walk out the door?
No Pepto.
Perching on her chair, I considered taking a shot of Patrón but thought better of it. Instead, I ran my gaze over the four photos on Viv’s desk: three of her son pulling ridiculous faces and another of her standing behind her dad on a visit. He looked frail but held the hand she’d placed on his shoulder with a smile in his eyes.
All the desks around me were sprinkled with photos and mementoes of loved ones.
I looked back at mine with an objective eye. Practical but barren. The single personal item on it was a mug Viv had given me for the office Secret Santa party last year. It read “JERSEY GIRLS LIKE IT DIRTY!” in lipstick font.
Should I have a picture of Hailey and my nephews in a kitschy frame? When did we last take a picture together?
No, I felt happy with my mug. I didn’t need photos. I needed this deal not to fall apart before I got my chance.
Stay? Go? Stay? Go?
The keys to the SUV peeked out of Viv’s white blazer, which was hung over her chair, taunting me.
Go.
* * *
“I can’t do it,” Janelle informed me, resplendent in a figure-hugging zebra-print dress that matched the rug she stood on.
“Can’t do what?” The hallway we stood in covered more square footage than the first floor of my building.
“Sell. I don’t want strangers traipsing through here. These are my things. This is my house.”
If I made it out of there in ten minutes, I could make it back in time for the meeting. “We’ve had this discussion twice already, Janelle. Do you remember? Your husband told me in no uncertain terms that it needed to be sold.”
“I don’t give a shit what he said.”
Don’t lose your shit. She’s David Steel’s goddaughter and she wouldn’t think twice about calling him to bitch about you. “Okay, but the reason you’re selling is because he’s being relocated to Paris. That’s why you agreed to let me show it.”
Six minutes.
A talon-tipped finger scratched at her brown weave. “He can go alone.”
Ouch.
“He said keeping this place wasn’t an option at the listing appointment,” I pointed out. Although if I were the one married to Janelle, I’d leave her here and enjoy the tranquility of Paris alone. “What can I do to make you feel more comfortable about showing the place?”
She pouted and went silent as her eyes glazed over.
Four minutes.
“Janelle?” I pleaded. “You need to tell me what I can do to fix this.” She held my two-hundred-grand commission in her emaciated hands.
Her eyes hardened. “I’m taking the living-room curtains with me.”
“That’s fine.” I doubted any sane person would want to keep the mustard curtains embroidered with oversized palm fronds. Unless they wanted to wrap a dead body in them and burn it.
Three minutes.
Tiny fists moved to even tinier hips. “And I don’t want any showings at night. After 6 p.m. is my time to decompress.”
“That may be an issue if some people aren’t available until the evenings.” I adjusted the strap of my watch. My patience and the time were wearing thinner than Janelle’s legs.
She knew she held all the power. “No showings after 6 p.m.”
What choice did I have? “All right.”
“Anything else?”
Two minutes.
“No, but I’ll call you if I think of anything.”
“Great. I’ll walk myself out. Have a great day.”
Between waiting for the elevator and dashing two blocks to where I’d abandoned the SUV, I’d run three minutes behind.
* * *
“Lacey’s waiting for you in her office,” Viv told me as I dumped my bag and car keys on her desk.
Between sprinting for the car, traffic, and parking, I’d arrived twelve minutes late.
The gingerbread keyring Connor made Viv in first grade clinked on the metal surface. She reached out to inspect the keyring. “Did you… drive?”
“Emergency,” I explained, running a slick of pink gloss over my lips. “I can drive, you know.”
“Not well,” Viv retorted as I sashayed toward the back of the room.
Touché. I hated driving in the city and therefore didn’t usually attempt it.
Lacey was typing out an email with her frosted pink nails when I knocked on her open office door.
Clarissa’s mouth twisted when she saw me. “Good of you to finally turn up.”
I gave her a hard smile. “Keeping my clients happy.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Lacey gestured to the empty wooden stool in front of her glass desk—a plain piece of wood that a designer had the gall to call a seat and charge fifteen hundred dollars for.
We waited in silence until a whoosh signaled her email had been sent.
“Okay, this is a quick catch-up to find out where you girls are. Clarissa, do you have an update on Palmer?” The sunlight filtered through the corner window, creating a halo effect over her lilac hair. Each strand of her chin-length bob shimmered with a hint of silver that accentuated the depth of her hazel-flecked eyes.
Clarissa coughed. “Uh, yeah, we got an offer—2.5 million. No contingencies. Thirty-day close.”
“Fabulous.” Lacey ticked something on a notepad—she preferred pen and paper to technology. “Scarlett, where are we with Sandtree?”
So this isn’t about The Crystal? Or what happened with Jack Shane? Ughhhhh, I hate?—
An aged, Van Cleef Arpels-jeweled hand waved at me. “Scarlett?”
I caught myself before I went sideways off the stool and into an expensive-looking ceramic tiger. “Sorry, I thought I’d swallowed a… a fly.” Oh my God, you moron. “We’re staging it tomorrow—should be ready for pictures by Friday.” Goddamn Jack Shane throwing me off my game.
That earned a tick. “Right. Anything else? I’m leaving for an eye appointment.” Code: Botox.
We shook our heads. My left ass cheek was numb. For fifteen hundred dollars, people deserved some padding.
“Ready for the pitch on Friday?” she directed to both of us.
We sized each other up out the corners of our eyes and nodded in sync.
She flicked to a new page on her notepad and began scrawling. “Fabulous. Off you go then.”
That’s it?I’d almost taken out three pedestrians and a hot-dog cart to rush back for this.
“Looking a bit pale there, Scarlett,” Clarissa taunted as we left Lacey’s office. Each of my steps required her to take two, giving her a trotting gait as she tried to keep up with me.
I kept going. “This is what skin looks like if you don’t sleep in a tanning bed and let it turn to leather.”
“The grapevine is buzzing about your little dip this morning. Not very becoming of a professional agent. What are you going to do when I land The Crystal and Lacey makes me partner?”
I stopped dead. “Call a psychologist to make sure Lacey is aware of what she’s about to do. Then ask God what we all did to deserve it.”
Her tiny nostrils flared. “When I’m partner, you’re not going to know what’s hit you, trust me.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. “I’ll know what’s hit me. A narcissist in last year’s shoes.” I pulled it out to check the screen. Ugh, Denzel. “If you don’t mind, I have more interesting people to speak to.” I flipped the switch to turn the volume off.
She turned on her heel and stamped away.
“So?” Viv purred in my ear, making me stumble into the printer.
“Jesus, you’re like a cat,” I exclaimed as we walked back to our desks. “I’m going to make you wear a bell.”
Viv gave an exaggerated wink. “So was it about The Crystal?”
“No, she wanted an update on a couple of our deals. Thank God she never mentioned the open house, so I’m not screwed. Yet.”
Viv twirled around in her seat like a schoolgirl. Her caramel hair whipped around her face, like an acorn in both shape and shade. “No guy screws Scarlett Munroe.”
Another call from Denzel lit up my phone screen. I hit ignore again. “No guy will be screwing Scarlett Munroe for a very long time.”