The Foxe & the Hound

by R.S. Grey

  Helen sighs and turns back to the white board. “Right, well, as I was saying, we are going to shake things up around here. As you know, I like to host a company event once a quarter to engage the community and expand the Hamilton Realty brand. Next weekend, instead of hosting a brunch over at Hamilton Brew, we’ll be hosting a mixer at the local microbrewery!”

  Lori claps so fast and so loud that I think her wrists are going to snap. “Such a brilliant idea, Helen!”

  Then, of course, we all take turns kissing Helen’s ass before she can continue explaining the logistics.

  “I’d like each one of you to commit to bringing three clients or potential clients to the mixer. They don’t have to currently be in the market to buy or sell a home, they just need to have potential!”

  I’m already running through a mental Rolodex of people I could possibly invite, and I’m coming up embarrassingly short.

  “Can I count on you all to send out invitations today?” she asks, pointing her marker out at us. “We want to give people plenty of time to RSVP before next week.”

  “Absolutely!” Sandra says, pumping her fist in the air.

  I’m left nodding mutely, agreeing to bring people though I have absolutely no clue who I’ll be able to coerce into attending. I could ask Adam, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. Hell, I don’t even think I should be showing him houses today, which is why I’ve taken it upon myself to invite his mom and sister-in-law to tag along for our lunchtime appointment. It’s a brilliant plan: they can offer their input on the homes we tour, and they’ll provide a buffer so Adam doesn’t get any ideas about continuing where we left off.

  I saw him at the training class last night. He was polite, and handsome, and so good with Mouse. He was the one to suggest house hunting today, and I was relieved to know he wanted to continue on as my client given how tumultuous the last few weeks have been for us.

  Still, given the circumstances, it’s best if we aren’t left alone together. The other week, when I ran into Kathy at the grocery store, she gave me her number and made me promise to call her if I ever wanted to hang out. I used that number this morning for more self-serving reasons, but she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she sounded incredibly excited to tour houses with us.

  I meet Diane and Kathy at Hamilton Brew as planned, then the three of us caravan over to the first home. Adam’s black Audi is already parked out front. He’s leaning against the driver’s side door, checking his phone, and I appreciate—and abuse—the few seconds of uninterrupted gawking. He looks ridiculously good in a set of navy blue scrubs. His jaw is clean-shaven, his skin is tan, and every hair on his head is perfectly in place. How does he do it, I wonder as I park my car behind his. He looks up and smiles, and then that smile slowly fades as his gaze shifts to his mother in the passenger seat.

  “Uh oh, he doesn’t look too happy to see us,” Diane comments with an amused grin. She takes no offense at the fact that her son is so annoyed by her presence.

  “Ah, yeah…” I turn to face Diane, prepared to face the music. “I might not have informed him that you two would be joining us, but it’s for his own good. You two bring a female touch to the process, and you might be able to provide valuable insight that Adam wouldn’t have thought of himself.”

  When I explain this to Adam, he heartily disagrees. “No. No way. Too many cooks in the kitchen.”

  “Pfft.” I wave away his concern. “That’s nonsense.”

  Diane and Kathy stand behind me, smiling and waiting for us to stop arguing.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you invited them?” he asks, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “Is this about the other night?”

  Jesus! He might have lowered his voice a smidgen. Everyone this side of the Atlantic Ocean just heard his question.

  “Ah—” I turn to face the lot, ignoring his question and refocusing the group on the subject at hand: real estate. “As you can see, this house is a redone ranch-style home with plenty of modern amenities.” I jerk open my folder full of housing specs and quickly hand out an info sheet to everyone present. “The lot is oversized for this neighborhood, and the previous owners have taken great care in preserving the oak trees around the property.”

  Diane and Kathy ooh and ahh. Adam crosses his arms and puts on his best scowl, annoyed with me for bypassing his question. I walk them around the entire exterior of the home and then we proceed inside. Adam is barely glancing around the place. His attention is on me, not the shimmering granite countertops the owners installed just last year.

  “And did I mention the farm sink?” I ask, sweeping my hand across the appliance like Vanna White. “They’re very in demand right now.”

  “Oh!” Diane squeals. “I’ve been wanting to put a farm sink in my kitchen for years. Look at all that space!”

  Kathy agrees. Adam says nothing.

  I smile over at him, trying to ease the tension. “Do you like farm sinks, Adam?”

  He grunts and walks away.

  “Now I see why it was important to invite us,” Diane says, metaphorically patting herself on the back. “He probably doesn’t even care about the kitchen sink, but any future wife of his will want this farm sink.”

  “I’M SINGLE AND I DON’T CARE ABOUT FARM SINKS!” Adam shouts from the next room.

  As if we’ve agreed on it beforehand, the three of us act as if we can’t hear him at all. I usher them through the door and we proceed without Adam.

  In all, the showings aren’t half bad. While Adam is the absolute worst, moodiest client I’ve ever had to work with, Diane and Kathy are a pleasure. They listen to my short spiel about every property and ask questions I know the exact right answers to. I am definitely convincing them of the advantages of each property we tour, but unfortunately, they aren’t the ones ultimately purchasing a house through me. That would be Adam, the man who is taking a phone call out on the back patio as we walk through our fourth home of the afternoon. I’m disappointed; I saved the best for last.

  “Wow. I’m SOLD,” Diane declares, waving her hand around the spacious kitchen. “This one is my absolute favorite.”

  I smile—and since Adam isn’t the room—admit that it’s my favorite too. The property is located a few minutes north of downtown Hamilton and sits on two acres of land with a shallow creek that runs through the back yard. It’s a redone white farmhouse with a metal roof and a wraparound porch, and it has four bedrooms, three full bathrooms, and top-notch finishes throughout the house. The builders were meticulous about design details, and if I had even one penny to my name, I’d be putting in an offer on the house in a heartbeat. As it is, I probably won’t ever get the chance.

  The house went up on the market two days ago and word on the street is that there are already a few buyers buzzing around, prepared to send in offers. I would hurry Adam along in the purchasing process if he seemed even halfway interested, but I don’t even think he’s bothered to look inside.

  “Who is he talking to out there?” Kathy asks.

  Diane and I shrug.

  “Maybe I should have let him know you two were coming along.”

  Diane levels me with a hard stare. “Don’t you let his little tantrum sway you. He doesn’t get to just stomp his foot and have his way. I’ve been easy on that man his whole life, and maybe it’s time to start pushing back a little.”

  While I can agree with her tough-love stance, I’m not related to Adam. I’m his real estate agent—at least for right now—and it’s my job to ensure he’s getting the most out of the showing.

  I let myself out onto the back patio just as he’s wrapping up his phone call.

  “Work,” he explains with a curt nod, stuffing his phone back into the pocket of his scrubs before he tries to move past me.

  “I invited them as a buffer,” I admit, hoping to end the tension between us. My words stop him in his tracks. “After last week, I was nervous to be around you…and I thought if they came along, you and I wouldn’t be in danger of picking
up where we left off.”

  His green gaze catches mine, and I see that amusement has taken up where anger has left off.

  “We’re in other people’s homes, Madeleine,” he mocks. “Even I have some self-control.”

  Like that’s stopped anyone before.

  I mash my lips together and nod.

  He steps closer and presses his hand to the small of my back. “C’mon, show me the house. I like what I’ve seen of the exterior.”

  “You do?!”

  “It’s my favorite so far.”

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  I lead him back through the house while Diane and Kathy wait for us in the kitchen. We weave through the three bedrooms and the living room, and then I sweep my arm around the massive master bedroom.

  “It’s great, isn’t it? The French doors open up right out onto the porch and there’s a ton of natural light.”

  He nods. “It’s a little big for one person.”

  “The room?”

  He smiles. “The house.”

  Does he think I’m pressuring him into a big house? Maybe he doesn’t want children. Maybe I’m assuming too much.

  “I know four bedrooms seems like a lot, but you’ll fill them up quick. You could have a home office and a gym if you wanted to.”

  “Until kids.”

  I avoid making eye contact at all costs. “Yes, err…until that.”

  “Madeleine?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Why can’t you look at me?”

  I focus intently on an old oak tree I can see through the French doors. “I’m just really enjoying the view.”

  “I’m not asking you to have children with me.” He laughs.

  “Ha! I know!” My voice sounds strained, and I want to hide my face from his view. “This is just all so awkward. I don’t usually have hardcore make-out sessions with clients before I show them houses.”

  He steps closer. “Weird. I always make out with my real estate agent before I let them show me homes.”

  I try to laugh at his joke, but it sounds hollow.

  “You’re overthinking this.”

  “Am I?” I finally turn to face him. He’s standing a few feet away, his hands propped on his hips. There’s a playful gleam in his eye and a smile waiting to break free across his lips. “Maybe you’re not thinking enough. Have things changed? Are you suddenly ready to date? Or are you just done trying to keep your distance?”

  He smiles ruefully. “Both? Neither? Madeleine, it doesn’t have to be so black and white.”

  Maybe not for Adam, but for me, it does. I’m done playing in the gray area. I don’t have the luxury of romping around with Adam until he comes to his senses. I spent most of my 20s dating the wrong kind of guys: the bad boy, the egoist, the womanizer. No more. Now, it’s time to go down a different path. I need someone who doesn’t balk at the idea of marriage, who isn’t going to cringe every time I bring up children.

  “Can’t we just take it one day at a time?” he asks.

  If I were 22 and fresh out of college, his proposition would sound like a dream. Now, I need to know what to expect in the next month, the next year. I have to start planning for the future or I’m going to wake up 40 and alone with Mouse as my only companion.

  I sigh and shake my head. “Let’s just focus on real estate for right now. You only have a few more minutes before you have to get back to work.”

  “But when am I going to see you again? Can I take you out?”

  Out? On a date?

  It sounds too good to be a true. Because it is. I drag my hand down my face. “Adam, c’mon. This isn’t the right time.”

  “Madeleine.”

  He steps closer and I shake my head. He’s doing it again—crowding my space until I give in. Twice this has led to an inappropriate make-out session; I won’t let it happen a third time.

  I turn back to the porch and he comes to stand beside me.

  “There’s a mixer thing that my agency is hosting,” I relent, focusing on the oak tree. “I have to invite three people. You can come.”

  “When is it?”

  “Next week.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s too far away. Let me come and run Mouse.”

  Run Mouse is nothing more than a euphemism at this point.

  “Adam, I’m giving you the mixer.” I cross my arms to emphasize my point. I’m not budging. “Take it or leave it.”

  I can see him smirk out of the corner of my eye. “I’ve never had to beg a woman to spend time with me before.”

  I smirk. “You haven’t been on the market in a while.”

  He reaches out and smooths his hand beneath my hair, resting it on the base of my neck. Goose bumps bloom down my spine, but he plays coy. “Maybe I’ve lost my touch.”

  I shrug. “Maybe.”

  He laughs and then bends to press a kiss to my hair. “I’ll play this game, Madeleine. You want me to wait until the mixer? I’ll wait.”

  But he doesn’t take his hand off my neck. He turns me until I’m facing him. My breath is coming in short, weak spurts, and my knees are starting to feel shaky. I’m rooted to the spot, staring up at him with my fists clenched by my sides.

  “It’s next Saturday at the brewery downtown,” I volunteer.

  His hand skims higher and his fingers weave through my hair. He barely tugs and yet I stumble toward him, catching myself against his chest.

  “At the brewery?” he asks, leaning down and pressing another kiss to my cheek, this one just at the corner of my mouth.

  I nod mutely.

  “What time?” he asks, wrapping his other hand around my waist.

  “7:00 PM,” I croak.

  He hums as he bends down and presses a chaste kiss to my lips. It’s over so fast that my eyes are still closed when he pulls away. I wilt toward him like a flower, desperate for a little more sunlight.

  “Madeleine? I’m not going to kiss you again.”

  I blink my eyes open. “You’re not?”

  I sound upset about it.

  “No,” he says, tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear.

  Oh, what perfect torture. I could write off our past indiscretions as unsolicited attacks, but if I ask him to kiss me now, there’s no shirking my half of the responsibility.

  “Maybe just a short one?” I offer. “Your mom is waiting for us in the kitchen.”

  He laughs at my justification, like a short kiss is hardly a kiss at all. Then he steps back and releases me.

  “Show me the master closet.”

  What about our kiss? I want to ask. Did he not like my compromise?

  “Madeleine, show me,” he says again, and this time I catch the insistent tone, the subtle desire he’s barely keeping under wraps.

  I play along as he ushers me toward the walk-in closet to our left.

  “It’s one of the largest ones I’ve seen. There are…”

  My sentence drifts off as the closet door closes and locks behind me. We’re draped in darkness, and I think Adam is going to reach up and turn on the light, but his hands find my hips instead.

  “Go on.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me about the closet.”

  I laugh. “I can’t see my papers anymore.”

  He squeezes my hip, and with his other hand, he takes my papers and drops them to the floor. “You’ve seen it before. Tell me what you remember.”

  “Oh…um…”

  He steps closer and my brain starts to scramble. Is he going to kiss me?

  “There are built-ins for shoes and folded clothes…”

  His mouth finds my cheek and I inhale sharply.

  “What about the folded clothes?” he asks, and though I can’t see his face, there’s no mistaking the amusement in his tone.

  “They’re plenty of drawers for them…”

  My voice is fading. I can’t concentrate with his mouth so close to mine. His hand hooks around the nape of my neck and he tilts my head back. I shiver when his fi
ngers weave into my hair.

  My eyes flutter closed and he steps closer, sliding right up against me until our bodies meld together like matching puzzle pieces. When I press up onto my toes, our hips meet, and his hands find my waist, keeping me there. My chest brushes his and he takes my earlobe between his teeth. I claw at his shirt, suddenly impatient for more.

  “Do you want me to kiss you, Madeleine?” he whispers against my ear.

  I nod, but he does nothing.

  “Tell me,” he says.

  My hands grip his biceps. “Kiss me.”

  In that instant, his lips find mine and he kisses me like he intends to leave a mark. He bites, drags, and sucks the life right out of me. It’s passionate and heated—kissing that feels more like fucking. His name is in the air, moaned by someone who sounds a lot like me. His hand is in my hair, my shirt, my bra. There’s no slow lead-in, no polite invitations or barriers crossed over weeks of polite foreplay. I feel crazy, and then his palm is on my breast and I don’t feel crazy anymore. I feel alive in the dark closet as we sink down onto the carpet.

  Adam is over me, holding his weight up just enough for my lungs to expand a little, but not nearly enough to fill them. I can’t draw a full breath, and his hips are rolling over mine and my fingers are digging into his shoulders, ensuring that he doesn’t back off even one inch. I don’t want air; I want the kiss Adam is delivering to my stomach. I want the feeling of my silk blouse sliding up and over my head. We barely fumble in the darkness, our movements intuitive.

  We were moving fast last week, but in this closet, it’s as if all bets are off. We’re frenzied and wild. Shirts are flying and pants are getting unzipped. His mouth is on my breast. My nipple. He bites down and I arch off the ground.

  “Adam.”

  He moves his mouth to the other side, bestowing the same soft kiss, hard bite combination on my other breast. My nipples are so sensitive and he takes advantage, rolling his tongue over them until I’m near tears.

  I’m aware of how wrong this is, of how unethical it is to have sex in a client’s closet.