19. Michelle
MICHELLE
Ifinish my pitch and step back, watching a couple make a second pass through the house. They won’t put in an offer. I don’t need a crystal ball. It’s obvious in the way the wife keeps steering the husband toward the front door, fingers locked around his arm as she pulls him along.
He likes the place. I saw it a moment ago in the way he paused at the window, fingertips resting on the frame, like he was already imagining the view every morning.
She rolled her eyes at the automation, muttered something about “Who needs that?” and tapped dismissively at the smart control panel, already finished with the conversation.
I get it. The place is unique. It’s not for everyone.
The walls are rammed earth, dense and textured, the color of desert clay.
Triple-glazed windows stretch wall to wall, framing a clean sweep of valley and sky.
Everything runs on automation. Lighting, climate, security, even the irrigation for the native garden softening the edge of the lot.
It’s the kind of house that takes care of itself, built for someone who doesn’t have time to think about how it works.
Perfect for the eco-conscious buyer with seven million dollars to burn.
Max and I were expecting twenty groups. Four showed up.
Yesterday, Vinnie closed on a six-million-dollar listing that had been dead in the water for nearly a year. Just like that, he’s surged ahead again. Every day without a major sale pulls me one step closer to losing the business.
Outside, Max leans against the deck railing, jacket open. He looks completely at ease, chatting with a young couple, making the wife laugh. I watch him for a moment, and that’s when I notice it.
The resemblance is subtle. At first glance, Max and Dean couldn’t be more different.
Max is all easy charm, blue eyes, sun-lightened hair.
Dean is darker. More solid. But there’s something in the way Max stands, the line of his jaw, the twitch of his mouth just before he smiles. Something familiar enough to register.
Max catches me staring. Something faint and curious crosses his face before I look away, pretending I’m scanning the room for new guests.
By the time we’re locking up, the sun is high and hot. Heat clings to the hillside, and the wind has gone still. I walk through the house one last time, flipping off lights, tugging on a door to check the seal. The security panel glows green.
There was a little interest. A few polite questions. But no one asked the right ones. It’s fine. This house will be perfect for someone, I just hope they make an offer in the next ten days.
Outside, Max is already at his car, leaning against the driver’s side with his keys in hand.
“Well, that was humbling,” he says.
“Could’ve been worse,” I offer. “Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for, you know, not firing me.” He glances down, then exhales. God, why do men always look like they’re in physical pain when they try to express a feeling? “Things are…I know I’ve been off. But I’m better now. I think.”
“Riveting, Max. Get back to work.”
He shrugs like none of it matters and slides into his car. I watch him drive off.
I stay there a moment longer, arms folded, but something in me eases. It’s a relief, seeing him come back to himself. He did seem more like the old Max today. I still don’t know what was wrong, but whatever it was, I’m glad it’s passing.
I get in the car. The leather is hot from the sun, and the silence settles around me as I start the engine. My hand stays on the gearshift.
Dean lives just a few minutes from here. He’s probably asleep at this hour. I should let him sleep. I tell myself that. Twice.
Then I reach for my phone anyway.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in Dean’s bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet and dim, with a single strip of afternoon light slipping through the curtains. I should get up. Take a shower. Go back to work. But I haven’t moved.
Dean lies next to me, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes nearly closed. He was clearly asleep when I called him. But it didn’t seem to slow him down.
I reach out and run a finger down the center of his chest, tracing the line between muscle.
“Told you I’d come ruin your peace,” I say.
“You are my peace,” he says, pulling me into his chest.
“That’s extremely cheesy.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
I shift, climbing over him, taking him in. He’s still a little scruffy, half-asleep and unbothered, but it suits him.
“When are you getting Michelle tattooed on you?” I ask, tapping his sternum like I’m placing an order.
He looks up at me, lazy and amused. “Where do you want it?”
“I’m thinking the neck. Big, bold, gothic font.”
He smiles, and I smile back.
“Visible. Got it,” he says. “Mom would have a stroke.”
“At least she’d know you’re truly devoted to me.”
“Is that what it takes?” he asks. He says it so seriously I almost forget he’s joking. Then he shifts, rolling until I’m beneath him, his weight settling over me in a way that’s become familiar.
“Alright,” he says. “Where are you putting Dean?”
“I don’t do tattoos.”
“No?” His hand slides slowly up my thigh, a soft, teasing touch. “Not even here?”
I smirk and shake my head. He shifts again, his fingers drifting to the small of my back, pressing lightly just above the curve of my hips.
“What about here?” he asks.
“Absolutely not,” I say, laughing under my breath.
Dean takes my hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing each finger like he’s sealing a deal. “How about across the knuckles?”
“How about no?”
“Wouldn’t let you anyway. Then you’d want a motorcycle. It’s a slippery slope.” He grins. “And my mom hates tattoos. She’d be horrified…which, of course, is exactly why I got one.”
“Does she know about it?”
He bites his bottom lip, caught. That’s a no.
“It’s more of a quiet rebellion,” he says.
I’ve heard plenty about his mother, Silvia Carter, the powerhouse CEO of Carter. I’ve never met her, but from what I gather, she’s...a lot.
“I think my mom would like you,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“She’s tough,” he says. “But she likes people who don’t bullshit. You’d hold your own.”
Before I can reply, my phone buzzes from across the room. I groan and slide off him.
“I better get back to work,” I say, and the words pull us both back to reality.
“Bad day?” he asks.
I think about brushing it off, pretending everything’s fine, but I don’t. We do this now. Talk, a little. I sit up, tugging the sheet with me, covering myself more out of habit than modesty.
“Bad week,” I say. “Vinnie’s winning, and I need a whale to close the gap.”
“I’ll buy a place. If it helps,” he says.
“That’s stupid. But sweet.” I run a hand down his chest.
“I could.”
“Even if that wasn’t a terrible idea, that’s not how I want to win.”
“A sale’s a sale.”
I shake my head. “It’s cheating. If I start bending the rules just to get ahead, then what does any of it mean? And it’s Vinnie. I can’t do that to him. If he’s the better agent, he should win.”
“Integrity,” he says, nodding. “I respect that.”
I glance at him, curious. “And if I said the opposite?”
“I’d respect that too.” There’s a beat before he adds, “There’s this charity thing this weekend. Might be nothing, but you could come. Schmooze a little. My family will be there. I could introduce you.”
The offer catches me off guard. I look away, trying to keep my voice even.
“We should keep things private. You know…Max works for me.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right.”
The silence stretches between us. Then he shifts slightly, just enough to meet my eyes again.
“I could still get you an invite. You could pretend you’re not into me the whole night. Not sure you’re that good of an actress, though.”
I glance at him. It’s a joke, mostly, but the offer underneath it is real.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”