7. Michelle
MICHELLE
It’s Saturday night, and I’m sitting next to Vinnie at my own personal version of hell: the annual Alton Hills Real Estate Gala.
The venue is over-the-top. Chandeliers hang from the rafters, each one the size of a small car.
There are candles on every table and in every corner.
White hydrangeas cover every surface in perfectly sculpted mounds.
It’s meant to feel intimate and exclusive, but it feels more like a set and everyone here is just playing a part.
I know I am. I’d rather be home on the couch, watching garbage TV with Monty curled in my lap. But we were up for Best Boutique Agency tonight, so I slipped into a backless emerald velvet column gown, clipped in my diamond studs, and made an appearance.
We didn’t win. We never do. It always goes to the agency that’s expanded the most, added the most agents, opened the most offices.
It makes no sense. That’s the opposite of boutique. But growth seems to be the only metric these people care about.
During the applause, Vinnie leaned in and said, “It’s because we stay small.” I didn’t look at him. Just sipped my drink and kept smiling.
We’re in an interlude now, and I’m standing at the champagne tower, watching Vinnie across the room. He’s with the group that just won, shaking hands and laughing. He looks sharp in his suit. My brother plays this game well. Better than I do.
Over someone’s shoulder, he catches my eye and gives me that look. Tight-lipped. Faintly annoyed. He doesn’t like to lose, and he blames me.
I wanted the win too. I want people to see that we’re a good agency. That we take care of our clients. That they’re happy with us. That we put in the time and the effort. That we care about quality, not just numbers.
At least, I do.
It should matter. But it doesn’t. Not here.
I look away from Vinnie and to Josh’s boss instead. Josh isn’t here. He’s not an owner.
I pull out my phone and send the message.
Michelle: My place tonight?
I glance at the message above it. The one I sent last night. It’s the same question but he didn’t reply. I must’ve fallen asleep before I noticed. Usually, when that happens, he texts in the morning with an excuse. Sorry I missed it…Fell asleep…Rain check?
There’s nothing this time. I wait a couple of minutes. The message turns to Read, and stays there. No reply. No little dots. Another nail in the coffin of this arrangement.
And still, the restless buzz under my skin doesn’t let up. I need a release. Sex is the only thing that ever really helps, even if it’s fleeting. Beats a drinking problem, I guess.
Too bad I can’t shut my brain off when I’m the one trying to handle it. I need someone else. Someone who can pull me out of my own head long enough to let everything go quiet.
This event is all agency owners. Half of them I’ve negotiated against. The rest I wouldn’t trust with my drink, let alone my body.
But the pianist is still here. His set long over, and now he’s standing near the back wall with a drink in hand.
He’s tall and a little lanky, younger than me by a few years.
Clean-cut. Neat dark hair. Conventionally handsome in a way that’s never really done it for me, but I like the way he watches the room.
Like none of it impresses him. When he catches me looking, our eyes meet.
He doesn’t look away. Just smiles. I like that too.
I don’t give myself time to second-guess it.
I cross the room before the impulse cools.
“You play beautifully,” I say, stopping in front of him.
“Thank you. Most people don’t notice background music.”
“Well,” I reply, “when it’s good, they shouldn’t.”
He smiles at that, just a small lift of the mouth. Up close, he’s sharper than I expected. His eyes don’t flinch from mine. There’s a steadiness to him I wasn’t counting on.
We talk. His name is Nathan. He tells me he studied at some private music conservatory with a name that sounds expensive.
The conversation flows easily enough, but his gaze keeps slipping to my collarbone and my waist. He doesn’t bother to hide it.
Maybe he gets hit on more than I expected.
Maybe this is routine. Play your set, smile at the right woman, go home with her after.
Doesn’t bother me.
“Can I get you another drink?” he asks.
“Or,” I say, stepping in just slightly, “we could skip that part and get out of here.”
He grins. “I like the way you think.”
Nathan slides an arm around my waist as we turn toward the exit. That’s when a wall of a man steps directly into our path.
Dean.
He’s in a charcoal suit, white shirt crisp beneath it, black tie knotted neatly at his throat. A glass of whiskey rests in one hand, the other slipping into his pocket like he has all the time in the world. But there’s nothing casual about the way he’s looking at me.
He doesn’t even glance at Nathan. His eyes are locked on mine with a lethal kind of calm you only get when someone is really, truly pissed off.
“Michelle,” Dean says.
Nathan’s arm tightens around my waist. “We’re just leaving, man.”
Dean’s gaze slides to Nathan’s face, then drops to the hand on my waist and back up. Nathan’s smile falters.
“No,” Dean says, the word quiet and final. “You’re not.”
He doesn’t elaborate. His presence does all the talking. The stillness of his posture, the absolute certainty in his eyes. Even I’m unable to speak.
Nathan’s expression shifts from bravado to confusion, then to something like survival instinct kicking in. He looks at me and I can see it land. This isn’t worth the hassle.
“You know what,” he mumbles, dropping his arm from my waist and taking a full step back. “I think I’m just gonna...” He doesn’t finish. He turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving us alone.
Dean isn’t supposed to be here. This is invitation only. Agency owners and top producers. I would’ve noticed him if he’d been here all night.
“Crashing my open homes wasn’t enough? Now you’re hitting award shows too?”
“Someone’s got to keep an eye on you,” he says. “Would’ve been here sooner, but traffic was hell.” He takes a sip of his drink, looking past me. “That your type then? Looks like a strong breeze could take him out.”
“You’re late and full of opinions. What a shock.”
I step to the side, but Dean moves with me, blocking the path.
“I just saved you from disappointment,” he says, that smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The least you can do is have a drink with me.”
“A drink with you? I thought the whole point was avoiding disappointment.”
“I don’t disappoint,” he says, stepping closer. I don’t move. I’ve learned how to look unaffected. But the truth is, he gets to me. That smug confidence of his lights up something in me I wish would stay quiet.
“Bold of you to assume you’d get the chance to try.”
His smirk deepens. “God, you’re really something,” he says. He sounds impressed. Almost admiring. It throws me off.
Men don’t usually react this way. They like to act tough, but they’re fragile. I’ve learned to soften my edges, watch what I say. One sharp comment, one honest opinion, and they shut down or lash out. But Dean doesn’t flinch or get rattled. He just soaks it all up like it’s nothing.
His smirk says try me. And that’s the problem. Part of me wants to. Part of me wants to see if he’s all talk or if I’ve finally met a man who can keep up. Someone who won’t crumble when I speak my mind.
“Let me take you home,” Dean says.
“What part of no—”
“Not like that,” he cuts in. “…unless you insist.”
Heat flares in my stomach. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I am,” he says easily. “You really want to hang around here? With this crowd?” He gestures vaguely at the room. “Traffic’s already bad. It’ll be worse once everyone starts leaving.”
I suppose he has a point. Getting home does sound good. But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving with him.
“You’ve been drinking,” I say, nodding at the whiskey in his hand.
“I’ve got a driver.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts typing. “Car’s out front. Beats waiting an hour for a cab.”
I hesitate.
“You don’t have to sit next to me if you don’t want to,” he adds.
That almost makes me smile. Almost. The driver makes it feel safer. More like a ride, less like something I’ll regret.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “Just a ride home.”
Outside, a black stretch limo with tinted windows idles at the curb.
“You’re kidding me,” I say.
“What?” Dean opens the door for me, all mock innocence. “It was all I could get last minute.”
I slide in, and he follows immediately, settling in right next to me despite the fact that there’s easily room for six people in here. The partition between us and the driver is up.
“There’s a whole seat over there,” I say, nodding to the opposite bench.
“I know.” He doesn’t move. “Where am I taking you?”
I give him my address. He reaches up and presses a button overhead. The partition lowers with a quiet hum, and he passes the address to the driver. It slides back up, sealing us in, and the car eases away from the curb.
“You know what I think?” Dean says, settling back.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“I think you like that I showed up tonight.” His voice is low, lazy. “I think you’re relieved.”
I scoff. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” He leans in slightly. “Because you could’ve told me to leave. Could’ve walked out with him anyway. But you didn’t.”
“Because you scared him off.”
“I gave him an out. He took it.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “You didn’t.”
Shit. He’s right. I roll my eyes and look away because I don’t know what else to do. He’s throwing me off balance, and I hate it. He shifts, opening his legs just enough that his leg brushes mine. The contact sends a sharp jolt through me.
“You’re wound tight,” he says. “I can help with that.”
There’s no pressure in it. He offers it like a glass of water. Take it or don’t.
I look at him. The sharp line of his jaw. The calm behind his eyes. I pull my phone from my purse and check the screen. Nothing. Josh hasn’t replied. Figures.