6. Michelle
MICHELLE
The afternoon sun hits my desk at the wrong angle.
I slide the paperwork out of the glare and catch myself smiling.
I just got off the phone. It was one of the good calls.
The kind where I get to tell someone that the place is theirs.
That’s the part I love. Honestly, I think I’m more excited than they are half the time.
I keep it professional—obviously—but there are moments I feel it more than I should, and I have to give myself a second to pull it back in.
I call Mary Chen and tap my fingers against the desk, trying not to grin too hard.
The phone rings twice before Mary picks up.
“Hello?” she says, her voice cautious, like she’s expecting bad news.
“Hi, Mary. It’s Michelle Pierce. I wanted to let you know I’ve got some good news.”
She doesn’t say anything and I don’t drag it out.
“Your offer has been accepted.”
She lets out a soft gasp, then the thank-you’s come rushing in, one after another. You’d think I told her she won the lottery, not that she’s getting the keys to a drafty fixer-upper.
“Oh, Michelle, that’s wonderful! But…” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I feel bad for that man. He seemed like he really had his heart set on it.”
I picture Dean, leaning against the kitchen island, talking about family dinners and imaginary kids doing homework at the table.
The Chens had been interested, but they struck me as the type to sleep on it and wake up with second thoughts.
Dean got them excited in a way I couldn’t.
If he ever decides to switch careers, I might have competition.
“Don’t feel bad,” I say. “He’s nowhere near ready to buy. This was always your home.”
We hang up, and despite myself, Dean sticks in my head longer than I want to admit.
He’s not my type. Not even close. He’s blunt, arrogant, and walks around like the sun’s on his payroll. He screwed up my showing at The Union, and the place still hasn’t sold. I should be annoyed every time I think of him. Usually, I am.
Still, I catch myself smiling and press my lips into a firm line, trying to shut it down. This isn’t about him. I’m smiling because the deal closed.
Alright. Maybe there’s something about the way he moves, like he never doubts a single thing.
That kind of confidence should be unbearable, and it is.
But it also does something to my pulse that I don’t particularly enjoy noticing.
I’d never act on it. I know better. But if he were the last man on earth, I might at least give it a second thought.
I shake my head, cutting the thought off before it gets any further.
I turn back to my laptop. The high from the sale is already fading, replaced by the usual weight of whatever’s next.
The master spreadsheet is still open, stalled on the financials I’ve been putting off.
I take a breath and hit refresh. The numbers update.
The Chen commission nudges my total up, just enough to feel like I’m gaining ground.
It’s a solid win, but not enough. Vinnie’s name is still sitting above mine, the gap as stubborn as ever.
I scroll through the breakdown. Lately, he’s been stacking volume. Basic condos, starter homes, quick turnover, low commission. What I need is something bigger. A whale. Something high-end, high-commission. A deal strong enough to finally put me ahead.
My phone buzzes.
The office group chat is blowing up. Vinnie just closed a waterfront condo. The thread is full of champagne bottles and fire emojis, everyone piling on the hype. Vinnie wraps it up with a grinning selfie, holding the signed contract like it’s a trophy.
Of course I make an inch of progress and lose it immediately. I turn back to my screen and start slicing up my weekend into tight, unforgiving fifteen-minute blocks. There’s a frantic edge buzzing under my skin.
I look up at the frame on my wall. Inside is an old newspaper clipping, yellowed at the edges. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. The headline reads: From the Ground Up: One Woman’s Vision for Real Estate and Integrity.
I must have read it a hundred times as a kid. The article lays out Mom’s four principles: discipline, consistency, execution, and integrity.
In the grainy photo, the resemblance is clear.
We have the same build, the same blonde bob, the same tight-lipped expression.
I’ve heard it my whole life. But the resemblance only goes so far.
What I’ve never been able to copy are her eyes.
In the photo, they’re steady and sure, like she trusted herself completely.
Like she knew exactly what she was building.
I work hard. I push. But that kind of certainty? I’ve never had it.
But I believe in her vision. Maybe it’s sad, building your life around someone who’s gone. But for me, she was the map. She had big plans, and she never got to finish what she started.
So that’s what I’m doing. I can do this.
For both of us.
That night, I barely listen while Josh talks.
He’s standing by the window, buttoning his shirt.
Earlier, when I called, he sighed like I was asking for a favor.
Said it was late. That he had an early morning.
A bunch of other excuses that made it clear he wasn’t excited to see me.
I told him not to bother. He showed up anyway.
Lately, the thought keeps circling: I should find someone new. Josh is getting selfish and rushed. It’s all about his release now, like I should be grateful he shows up at all.
The laziness gets to me. His, definitely. But mine too. Starting over means swiping through apps, making small talk over drinks, pretending to care about some stranger’s job or dog or weekend plans. It sounds exhausting.
So I keep coming back to this. Even as it gets worse, it still works. For ten minutes, the noise in my head softens. The numbers. Vinnie. The slow, ticking pressure of what’s coming. All of it fades into quiet.
“…so I was like, the greens are a disaster,” Josh says, snapping me out of my thoughts. He turns toward me, fully animated now. “Seriously, Michelle. They’re overgrown. I’m talking two, maybe three millimeters.”
“Right,” I say, trying to sound interested.
“You don’t get it, but in golf that’s a lot. It throws off your whole putt.”
A small grin slips out before I can stop it.
The problem is so tiny, so far removed from the mess in my own head, that it’s almost comforting.
He finishes with his collar and smooths his hair back into place.
In seconds he’s shifted from the man in my bed to the polished realtor who shakes hands at open houses.
“Anyway, I better go. Big day tomorrow.” Josh walks out without a glance back. The latch clicks shut behind him.
There’s a pang of something when he leaves. I don’t want him to stay. I don’t want his golf rants or his preening. But some sad part of me still wants him to want to stay.
It’s stupid, I know. I made the rules, and he’s following them. But lying here with my problems settling back on my chest, his easy exit feels like rejection. I hate that it does. I’m going to have to end this. Soon. After I find a replacement.
I tie the belt of my robe and open the spare bedroom to let Monty out, but he’s already curled up on the bed, fast asleep. I don’t disturb him. I head to the window instead. I’m tired, wired, and emotional all at once.
Outside, Josh climbs into his ridiculous canary-yellow Corvette and peels away. My eyes drift to the car parked behind where he was. A vintage black Mustang with white racing stripes up the hood. Something catches the light inside. A lens. A big one. A camera pointed straight at my building.
Two men sit in the front. One in a suit, the other in a white t-shirt. The guy in the suit gets out, waving his arms. The other follows, and they start arguing. Or that’s what it looks like from up here. The camera doesn’t move. Still locked on the building.
Probably some PI staking out a cheating spouse. I keep watching. The one in the suit raises the camera to his eye and pauses.
I think he’s looking right at me.
A beat later, both of them scramble back into the car. The Mustang roars to life and takes off.
Weird.
My phone pings on the nightstand.
Dean: That couple put in an offer?
A smile tugs at my mouth. I immediately roll my eyes, disgusted with myself.
I shouldn’t reply. It only encourages him.
I set the phone down. Then, a second later, I pick it back up.
What is wrong with me? I negotiate multi-million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat.
One text from this pest and suddenly I’m giddy like some schoolgirl.
Michelle: Yes. And before you ask, I’m not splitting the commission.
Dean: All yours. I’ll just take the credit. Or a drink. Or dinner. Or you. Your call.
Michelle: That’s a long list of things you’re not getting.
Dean: Be honest. You’ve been thinking about me.
Michelle: I have. Trying to solve the mystery of who keeps encouraging you.
Dean: Mystery solved. It’s you.
Dean: You’re texting me at midnight. What do you think that tells me?
Michelle: That I have insomnia.
Dean: I could help with that. But no.
Dean: It tells me you’re thinking about me…late at night. Hopefully alone. In bed?
Heat flashes up my neck before I can stop it. It’s only mildly suggestive, but my brain doesn’t care. It skips right over sarcasm or a clever comeback and dives straight into disaster.
In an instant, I’m imagining him pressed against me, pinning me to the wall.
His voice in my ear, spelling out exactly how he plans to “help.” His mouth drags from my throat to my collarbone, lower still.
I can almost feel his fingers catch the knot of my robe, the soft pull just before it gives.
My breath catches like I’m actually there.
A pulse sparks low in my stomach, and suddenly everything feels too tight.
Jesus. I need a cold shower. A vow of celibacy. Maybe a lobotomy.
My phone pings again, and I grab it faster than I should.
Dean: Sweet dreams, Michelle. I know I’ll be in them.
I toss my phone onto the bed and cover my face with both hands—not to cool my cheeks, but to block out the fact that I’m this flustered over a text. He didn’t even say anything explicit. It was my brain that filled in the blanks.
I remind myself that I don’t like him. But my body clearly didn’t get the memo.