by Vi Keeland
CHAPTER 7
CHARLOTTE
The mood had completely changed the second Reed entered the room. The vibe sort of reminded me of when I was in elementary school and the teacher would suddenly turn off the lights to calm the rowdy class down. The fun was officially over.
Suddenly, my palms were sweaty again.
Taking a sip of the iced caramel macchiato Max had brought me from the Starbucks across the street, I tried to compose myself, but it wasn’t working. Everything about Reed intimidated me—his stature, his bow tie and suspenders, his deep voice. But what I found most intimidating was the fact that I suspected he hated me. So, there was that.
His brother, Max, on the other hand, was the total opposite—charming and down-to-earth. If this were high school and not Corporate America, Max would be the class clown. Reed would be the cranky teacher.
Max had managed to help me momentarily forget about Reed’s chastisement earlier. But the reprieve was short-lived.
Reed flashed Max a dirty look. “What are you doing in here?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? Welcoming our newest employee, which is more than I can say for you.”
Reed’s eyes were like daggers. He looked even more perturbed that I’d told Max about what had happened out there. But I couldn’t help it. Max had asked me what was wrong, and I’d decided to be up front about it. What was wrong was Reed Eastwood.
The younger Eastwood, on the other hand, had told me not to take anything his older brother said or did personally, that Reed could sometimes be tough even on him. He’d assured me that Reed was not as mean as he might appear. He’d just apparently had a rough year. It was really hard to imagine that he was the same person who’d penned that heartfelt blue note. Which made me wonder about Allison. Had she left him because of his attitude? It certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. I felt a twinge of guilt knowing about his failed wedding and that he had no clue how I’d really come to find him.
Reed gestured toward his brother. “Don’t you have—I don’t know—to go get your shoes shined or something, Max?”
Max crossed his arms. “Nope. Actually, I’m good. My schedule is clear for today.”
“Big shocker.”
“Come on . . . you know I’m president of the welcoming committee.” Max took a sip of his coffee and settled himself deeper into the black leather couch.
“Funny how the welcoming committee seems to be very selective. I don’t see you down in accounting welcoming the new bookkeeper who just started today.”
“That was gonna be my next stop.”
“Right.” Reed glared at his brother.
The two of them were similar but different. Although they resembled each other and both had dark good looks, Max had longer hair and seemed wilder and more carefree with a shit-eating grin. Reed was put together and perpetually angry. The latter shouldn’t have appealed to me, but there was something about the unattainable that I’d always found attractive. Through his heavy flirtation, Max made it clear that I could probably have him if I wanted him. And that sort of turned me off. On the other hand, I wasn’t even sure if Reed hated me, yet I was captivated by his mysterious personality.
“Well, I need to talk to Charlotte,” Reed said. “About actual business, unlike whatever it is you call what you were doing just now. Give us some privacy, please.”
I sat up straighter in my chair as Reed closed the door behind his brother. Unlike Max, he didn’t take a seat on the couch. No, this brother preferred to stand with his arms crossed while looking down his nose at me. And I wasn’t putting up with it anymore. I stood, kicked off my heels into the air, and climbed up on top of my chair.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He squinted at me.
Mimicking his posture, I folded my arms across my chest and glared at him over my nose. “I’m looking down at you.”
“Get down.”
“No.”
“Ms. Darling, get the hell down before you fall and get hurt. I’m sure your years of practicing balancing with a dog on the front of your surfboard has made you think you’re capable of riding a chair with wheels, but I can assure you that falling and cracking your skull on the edge of the desk is going to hurt.”
God, this man was such a pompous ass.
“If you want me to get down, then you’ll need to take a seat to speak to me.”
He sighed. “Fine. Get down.”
Just for shits and giggles, I pretended to wobble before I got down. Reed ran to my side to catch me. Well, whaddya know, Mr. Meanie has a chivalrous side. I couldn’t hide my smirk.
He scowled. “You did that on purpose.”
I jumped down and extended my hand toward the chairs on the other side of my desk. “Why don’t we both have a seat, Mr. Eastwood?”
He grumbled something I couldn’t make out, but sat.
I folded my hands on my desk and flashed him my pearly whites. “So what is it you wanted to discuss?”
“Our trip tomorrow.”
Iris had mentioned that I’d need to assist with a property showing out east tomorrow, but since I’d had no idea he was her grandson at the time, I still hadn’t put the pieces together. Great, a whole day with the man who hates me. And here I thought I was getting a fresh start at this perfect new job. Instead, I’d have a man who couldn’t wait for me to screw up watching me like a hawk every second.
“What would you like to tell me about the trip?” I took out a notepad and readied a pen.
“Well, for starters, we leave at five thirty, sharp.”
“In the morning?”
“Yes, Charlotte. People tend to want to visit large estates with acreage during daylight hours.”
“You don’t have to be so condescending. I’m new, you know.”
“I’m painfully aware of that fact, yes.”
I rolled my eyes and wrote down five thirty on my notepad, adding the word SHARP in all caps with a double underline while he watched. “Five thirty it is,” I said. “Will I be meeting you at the train station?”
“We’ll be driving.”
“Okay.”
“I have a seven a.m. phone call with a client in London. When Lorena and I go out for the day, I usually drive for the first hour or so. When we hit the end of the LIE, we grab some breakfast, and she drives the rest of the way so that I can take my calls and work on emails before arriving at the property.”
“Uh. I don’t drive.”
“What do you mean, you don’t drive?”
“It means I don’t have a license, so I won’t be able to take a shift.”
“I wasn’t asking the question literally. I was asking why a twentysomething-year-old woman doesn’t have her license yet?”
I shrugged. “I just don’t. A lot of people who live in the city don’t drive.”
“Have you never attempted to learn?”
“It’s on my to-do list.”
Reed let out another loud sigh and shook his head. “Fine. I’ll drive the entire trip. Email me your address, and I’ll pick you up. Be ready.”
“No.”
His brows rose. “No?”
I was guessing that this man was not acquainted with being told no too often. “I’ll meet you at the office.”
“It’s easier for you if I pick you up at home at that hour.”
“It’s okay. I don’t feel comfortable with you seeing where I live.”
Reed scrubbed his hands up and down his face. “You do know that I can go into the employee database and look up your address anytime I want, right?”
“That’s fine. But knowing where I live and seeing where I live are two different things.”
“How so?”
“Well . . .” I sat back in my chair and gestured to the outfit I wore. “You know I’m naked under here. But that doesn’t mean I have to show you my breasts.”
His full lips curved into a wicked smile as his eyes dropped down to the hint of cleavage that my shirt displayed. �
��I don’t quite think those are the same thing. But whatever you say.”
This man had the ability to unnerve me with one look. I straightened my spine and held my pen to the notebook again. “What else?”
“We’re showing the Bridgehampton estate to two families. This is a seven-million-dollar property, and our clients expect privacy. You’ll need to position yourself at the front door so that no one enters the house during the showing. If the second family arrives too early, you’re responsible for limiting them to the sitting room in the front that is off the main hallway.”
“Okay. I can handle that.”
“Have the caterer set up in that room so you can offer the clients something while they wait. Of course, you should offer both families something when they arrive. But it’s also a discreet way of getting buyers who show up too early to move into a room while I finish a showing.”
“Caterer?”
“Citarella. They’re in the vendor directory. You should download the contact information to your phone in case there are any issues.”
I tilted my head to the side. “How come the Bridgehampton prospective buyers get food and I didn’t? My penthouse had a higher price tag.”
Reed smirked. “That would be because I told Lorena not to offer you any food since I’d already figured out that you were a fake.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.”
“Please also dress accordingly. Nothing so tight that it’s distracting.”
I took offense to that comment. I was always dressed appropriately for work. “Distracting? What’s that supposed to mean? And . . . distracting for who?”
Reed cleared his throat. “Never mind. Just wear something like you’re wearing now. It’s a workday and not a day trip to the Hamptons for fun. And . . . it would be whom.”
“Who? What?”
“You said, ‘distracting for who.’ It would be ‘whom.’”
I rolled my eyes. “You went to one of those all-boys prep schools, didn’t you?”
Reed ignored my question. “There’s a glossy prospectus on the property in the file. You should become acquainted with the amenities so that you can answer any questions that might arise if I’m not available.”
I jotted down a note. “Okay. Anything else?”
He reached into his pants pocket and took out his cell. “Program your number in, in case there’s a change of plans.”
I started to type.
First name: Charlotte
Last name: Darling
Company: I inwardly smirked as I ruminated over typing in Deez Nuts but then thought better of it. At least I thought I’d inwardly smirked.
“What are you doing wrong?” Reed craned his neck, peering over to look at his phone.
“Nothing.”
“Then why did I see a flash of the devil on your face for a moment?”
I extended my hand with the phone in it to him. “My grandmother always said a lady gave an angel’s smile and kept her devilish thoughts to herself.”
He grumbled and stood. “No wonder you and Iris hit it off so easily.”
Without saying he was finished with our conversation, Reed walked to the door. “By the way, I was looking down at my phone while walking earlier when I crashed into you. My grandmother said it was a vase in your hands that broke all over the floor. Bring me the receipt, and I’ll reimburse you for it.”
I shook my head. “No need. The supplies were only a few dollars. I made it.”
His brows drew down. “You made it?”
“Yes. I sculpt. And make pottery. Well, I used to anyway. When Iris and I met in the bathroom, I’d mentioned that and said I missed doing it. She encouraged me to start back up, get back on track with things that make me happy. So I spent the weekend at the wheel making it. It had been a few years and, well, she was right. I need to focus on things that make me happy instead of dwelling on the past, which I can’t change. Making that vase was the first step in the right direction for me.”
Reed stared at me funny for a long time, then turned around and walked out the door without a word. Such an asshole. A gorgeous, arrogant asshole who looked just as good going as he did coming.
Later that afternoon, I noticed a blue note sitting on my desk. It really caught me off guard and made me pause for a moment before picking it up. That’s because it was the same exact blue stationery as from inside of the wedding dress.
Shivers ran down my spine. I’d almost forgotten about that beautiful note and the emotions I’d felt back when I first discovered it. I couldn’t imagine the unpleasant man I’d come to know could ever be such a romantic. The Reed I encountered was pragmatic and cold. It made me even more curious about what had soured a man who was once so sweet.
I sighed.
A blue note from Reed.
Meant for me.
This feels surreal.
At the top were the embossed letters that read From the desk of Reed Eastwood. I took a deep breath and read the rest:
Charlotte,
If you have any further questions about Bridgehampton, feel free to air-type them up for me.
Reed
CHAPTER 8
REED
I pulled up to the light at the corner fifteen minutes early. Charlotte was already there, standing out in front of the building. Since the light was red, it gave me some time to observe her from a distance. She looked at her watch and then glanced around at the sidewalk before walking to a nearby empty water bottle lying at the curb. She picked it up, then looked around some more.
What the hell was she doing? Looking for bottles on the streets of Manhattan to return for a five-cent deposit? This woman was definitely out there. Who had time for this crap? I watched as she walked over to something else, bent to collect it, then walked a few feet away and did it again. What the . . .
The light turned green, so I proceeded to turn right and pull down the one-way street in front of our building. Charlotte took a cautious step back, then bent down to see who it was. The woman was collecting germ-infested treasure from a New York City street and was worried that the Mercedes S560 pulling up might be trouble. I rolled down my tinted window. “You ready?”
“Oh. Yes.” She looked right, then left, and held up her pointer finger before wandering halfway down the block. “One second.” My eyes followed as she walked to a garbage can and tossed in the crap she’d collected. Great. Not only does she clean city streets at the ass-crack of dawn but her ass in that skirt looks fantastic as she’s doing it.
She opened the passenger door and hopped in. “Good morning.”
Chipper, too. Perfect.
I pointed to the glove compartment. “There are wipes in there.”
Her little nose wrinkled in confusion.
I sighed. “To clean off your hands.”
That devilish smirk was back. Charlotte held up her hands, palms toward me, and waved them in front of my face, taunting. “Are you a germaphobe?”
“Just wipe them off.” This was going to be one long-ass day.
I pulled away from the curb and started toward the tunnel as she cleaned her hands. Neither of us said another word until we were out of the city and in line to pay the toll on the other side of Manhattan. “Don’t you have one of those passes?” she asked, looking at the large sign overhead that read CASH ONLY.
“An E-ZPass. Yes. But last time I used it was in my other car, and I forgot it there.”
“Is your other car a work van or something?”
“No. It’s a Range Rover.”
“Why do you need two cars?”
“Why do you ask so many questions?”
“Geez. You don’t have to be so rude. I was just trying to make conversation.” She stared out the window.
The truth was, the Rover had been Allison’s. But I wasn’t opening that can of worms with this woman. There were two cars ahead of us in line, so I reached into my pocket to grab a twenty and realized I’d tossed my wallet into the glove compartment. �
��Could you take my wallet out of the glove compartment for me?”
She continued to stare out the window. “How about using ‘please’ in that sentence?”
Frustrated, and faced with only one car between me and the toll collector, I leaned over and grabbed my wallet myself. That position, unfortunately, also gave me a spectacular view of Charlotte’s tanned, toned, shapely legs. I slammed the glove compartment door shut.
Once we were through the toll and onto the Long Island Expressway, I decided to test how well our new assistant followed directions.
“How many bedrooms and baths does the property we’re showing today have?”
“Five bedrooms and seven baths. Although I have no idea why anyone would need seven bathrooms.”
“Pool construction?”
“Gunite. Heated. In the shape of a mountain lake with imported Italian tumbled-marble decking and a waterfall.”
She’d done her homework . . . although . . . I’d lofted some softballs her way.
“Square footage?”
“It’s 4,752 for the main house. An additional 650 for the pool house, which is also heated.”
“Number of fireplaces?”
“Four inside, one outside. The interior are all gas, outside is wood burning.”
“Appliances?”
“Viking, Gaggenau, and Sub-Zero. There’s actually a separate Pro Series Sub-Zero refrigerator and freezer in the main kitchen and another combined unit in the pool house. And, in case you were wondering, the three refrigerators, combined, cost more than a new Prius. I checked.”
Hmmm. I wanted her to get one wrong, so I slipped in a question that wasn’t in the prospectus. “And the interior decorating was done by who?”
“Carolyn Applegate of Applegate and Mason Interiors.”
I had the strangest battle being waged inside of me. Even though I’d wanted to trip her up so she’d get one wrong, a part of me also inwardly fist-pumped that she’d gotten it right.
“And ‘whom’ . . . ,” she mumbled, her voice trailing off.
“Pardon?”
“You said, ‘And the interior decorating was done by who?’ It would be ‘whom.’”
I had to pretend to cough to hide my smile. “Fine. I’m glad you’ve done your homework.”
