On The House (Caldwell Brothers Book 7)

by Colleen Charles

  I’ll admit, I’m excited. I worked with some of South Dakota’s biggest real estate companies, but even though I enjoyed my successes, I still accepted being the proverbial big fish in a small pond. To impress one of the most influential realtors in Las Vegas would take me to a whole new level. Even if we don’t end up on Bravo, he’s still in a position to help my career tremendously.

  If he likes what you’ve done.

  I give my inner bitch a wave of my hand like I’m swatting a mosquito. Now’s not the time for her to come out and play. Let’s not get too cocky, shall we?

  Well, why wouldn’t he like it? I know it’s hubris, but I truly believe this is the finest work I’ve ever done. If Lincoln’s as brilliant and successful in this field as everyone titters when not in his esteemed presence, I’m sure he’ll see it that way too. He’ll understand what I’ve done here, and why it’s special. He’ll open doors for me professionally that would have taken years for me to open on my own.

  As I drift into the huge kitchen, I catch Jamie neatly stacking the cookbooks with the biggest ones at the bottom. I snatch them away from her and set them back where they belong. “No, leave them alone, Jamie. They’re not supposed to look neat and perfect. They’re supposed to look used. This is the epitome of a chef’s kitchen. Not a bachelor’s kitchen that’s only seen take-out and catering.”

  “But it’s sloppy,” she whines. “And I don’t do sloppy. That’s not how I roll.”

  “It’s homey,” I correct her. “And when I get to the girl’s room, I’d better not find that you sorted the textbooks and college applications by alphabetical order or anything like that.”

  She grimaces, a flush of pure guilt stealing up her face.

  I point a finger. “Jamie?”

  “I sorted them by color,” she says in a small voice. Her look says she remains unconvinced.

  I sigh. “Go put it back the way it was. Along with anything else you’ve messed with. We don’t want people thinking a family of tight-assed, anal-retentive nutjobs lives here.”

  She sighs the sigh of a long-suffering employee. “Okay, Chloe. Anything else?”

  I nod. “Yes. When you’re done with that, make yourself scarce. Lincoln will probably be here any moment.”

  Her empathetic gaze sweeps me from head to toe. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stick around? It looks like your, um…leg is bothering you. I could show him around while you take a load off.”

  Damn. Does the pain show on my face? I didn’t realize. I’ll have to do a better job of hiding it. Meanwhile, it seems like Jamie still feels awkward about bringing up my prosthetic, even though I’ve told her it’s fine. I hope she gets over that soon. Having her tiptoe around me about it just makes me feel more self-conscious. Constantly bringing it up slingshots me back to those feelings I used to have about myself and my condition, what I fear will burn a hole right through me if I let them return in earnest.

  “That’s a sweet offer, but I’ll be fine. Trust me, it’s better if it’s just me anyway. Guys at Caldwell’s level are used to dealing with the CEOs of businesses, not their assistants…no offense, of course. They like the intimacy of the personal touch, the boutique treatment.”

  Jamie’s lips twist into a baby grimace. “That makes sense. Okay, I’ll fix the stuff in the rooms and then head out the back and wait in the car. There’s an audiobook I’ve been wanting to finish anyway.”

  I plaster a smile on as she leaves the room. Jamie’s always mentioning the audiobooks she listens to, hoping people will assume they’re historical biographies or bestselling fiction – when in reality, it’s just the same series of self-help books over and over, the kind that feed listeners moronic and meaningless mantras with fraudulent claims stating chanting them will cause a Bugatti to magically appear in the driveway. Hard work makes that fantasy come to fruition, nothing less.

  I lower myself onto the couch so I can breathe through the pain for a few minutes before Lincoln shows up. That way, maybe I can successfully conceal any signs of physical distress when I show him the rooms of the house.

  If he’s one of those perfect people, he’ll be annoyed by any signs of physical weakness. Just to be on the safe side, I reach into my purse, shake three ibuprofens into my palm, and swallow them. They’re not as effective as the real painkillers I tend to save for the later evening hours so I can get to sleep, but they’ll still provide a reasonable cushion against the twinges – though sometimes, I wonder how much of their effect is psychological. Whether it is or not, I’m grateful for it.

  The pills start to kick in, and the agony in my leg and hip withdraws, like a venomous snake sullenly backing off from its intended prey. I try to let myself fully feel the relief, but it’s hard when I know the pain will be back later – all hungry eyes and dripping fangs, ready to pounce.

  The doorbell chimes ten minutes later, and I pull myself off the couch, limping to the door. Can’t keep the superstar waiting.

  I open the door and find a hotter than hell but stern-looking man with dark eyes and slicked-back dark hair. Lincoln doesn’t really look like Al Pacino, but for some reason, my mind immediately leaps to Michael Corleone from The Godfather. Maybe it’s the seriousness that emanates from every line in his face. A sleek black Armani suit stretches across his taut body like it was custom made for him, with a painted silk tie and Italian-made shoes which, let’s face it, probably cost more than my car.

  “Lincoln Caldwell?” I extend my hand, trying to show strength even as the pain weakens me. There’s something hidden between the lines of this introduction, a depth that I’m not willing to explore.

  He nods curtly, taking the hand and pumping it once before letting go. “Linc. Please.” Rather than sounding like a warm personal invitation, it seems perfunctory, something he tells everyone when he meets them. A wave of disappointment assaults me at the worst possible moment, and I’ll need to file it away for later as I wonder why on earth that would matter. I don’t even know the man. We exchange a look, mine verging on annoyance, his already there.

  “Like the guy with the pointy ears from The Legend of Zelda?” The words pop out of my mouth, unbidden and unwelcome. Before we even have a conversation, I can tell this man doesn’t appreciate humor, especially my warped sense of it. The joke falls between us, a vain attempt to temper the electricity crackling in that same space. I guess I’d hoped to at least draw a small smile from him, if only a polite one.

  Nope. Nothing. He may as well be a statue, except that statues don’t clear their throats and glance at their gold Rolex watches impatiently. “I suppose so. May I please see the house? I’ve been waiting a long time, as I’m sure you realize.”

  Bastard.

  That was a dig at me sure as the nose on your face. I’ve always been able to brush off criticism like water off a Mallard’s back when it’s directed at me, but when it’s directed at my work? No way. He’s going to pay for that one.

  Is he saying I took too long to stage the house, and he’s not happy about it? His inflection turns as cold and brittle as chips of ice, so his seriousness is hard to gauge. Still, it seems like a pretty rude thing to say to someone you’re meeting for the first time, even in a professional context.

  He’ll change his tune when he sees what I’ve done with the place.

  I’m sure of it.

  “Of course.” I open the door wider and gesture for him to enter the foyer. “Come on in.”

  Chapter Four

  Lincoln

  Even though I’m immune to beautiful women, I have to admit that this Chloe person exudes a loveliness I haven’t encountered in months. Years maybe. She throws me straight off my game. Which is why my surliness comes out to play. Which is why I ignore how compelling she looks with her brow furrowed into lines of irritation at my brisk attitude. The fog in my brain starts to clear as I force my mind away from emotion and back to stone-cold logic.

  Honey-blonde hair cascades down her back in silken waves, and her light blue eye
s sparkle with determination. Every exposed inch of her pale skin resembles fresh cream. There are lush curves in all the right places, and she’s petite without seeming fragile. I don’t approve of her plain outfit, a simple blue blouse, a long gray pleated skirt, and black riding boots, with a thin gold chain around her neck. More than anything, though, she seems to radiate energy and purpose with an intensity that reads as fierce.

  I shove these thoughts aside impatiently. Fine, so she’s a stunner. This isn’t a beauty contest, and if the décor she’s chosen is as unremarkable as her wardrobe, I’ll really be screwed.

  As I walk into the house with her, I notice a slight limp, and I feel an irrational flare of anger. Is she making fun of me? People have done that before – mocked my limp, sometimes even right to my face – but in this context, that would be damned shocking.

  No. I’m sure that’s not what’s going on here. Confusion rips through me, and I get my hackles up, ready to get her before she gets me, if this meeting heads in that direction. I run a hand through my already slicked back hair, the way I tend to do when something throws me for a loop.

  I step into the living room and look around. My heart plummets into my shoes like an elevator with its cables snipped.

  “Oh, fuck me,” I moan. “What have you done?”

  As I walk deeper inside the room, my feet stutter-step. It doesn’t look like a Cracker Barrel. It looks much worse.

  A ratty old couch with worn-down cushions? Dog toys on the damn floor? And through the pass-through to the kitchen, I can see some kid’s stupid artwork on the fridge, and a bunch of kitschy-looking cookbooks scattered across the counter like an afterthought. One of them lays open to a specific page, like someone was just looking up a recipe earlier. Who uses damn cookbooks anymore, anyway?

  I turn to look at Chloe, my blood boiling in my temples, showing no mercy when meeting her confused expression. I close my eyes, not wanting to see anything in her expression, hear anything in the tone of her sultry voice, that will make me feel anything but the seething anger bubbling forward.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “‘Is something wrong?’” I snarl, unable to control my raging emotion. I see my bid to star on MLD-LV swirl the toilet bowl like a constipated turd. “Look at this place! We’re trying to attract C-Suite executives. Startup billionaires. Captains of industry. The kinds of people who own yachts and Lamborghinis. Where’s the wealth here? Where’s the luxury? Where’s the fucking opulence?”

  “Now, hang on.” She puts a hand up, but I’m just getting started.

  I lean in like I’m going to tell her a secret. “No, I don’t think I will ‘hang on,’ you incompetent rube! I was expecting class. I was expecting taste. I was expecting silk upholstery and gold trim. And instead, this looks like the kind of place where a middle-class sitcom family would live. This is what you’ve done with the money I gave you? Raid a bunch of yard sales and Goodwill stores? Turn this into a place for soccer moms?”

  Chloe folds her arms, staring at me patiently with those blue eyes. She clearly tries to conceal her disappointment and does a lousy job.

  Well, good. Screw her. I’m disappointed too, and I’m the client.

  After a moment, she says, “Are you done?”

  The words come low and thick with anger. Part of me is surprised because people usually back down in the face of my displeasure. She seems to become taller. Panic creeps inside my chest. What if I’ve just met my match?

  “Why? Do you honestly think there’s anything you can say that would convince me this isn’t a complete fucking fiasco?”

  She takes a deep breath. “First of all, there’s no need for that kind of language. Or for name-calling, either, come to think of it. It’s not professional, and I won’t stand for it, no matter who you think you are or how much money you have.”

  “You won’t stand for it?” I balk. Fighting the way some freakish kind of lust rips through my body, confusing my anger and tightening my crotch, I inhale. Never has something this bizarre happened to me in a business situation. It’s like aliens beamed down and snatched the real Lincoln Caldwell. I’ve never felt this emotional about…anything.

  She holds up a hand, cutting me off again. “Also, I’m very familiar with the kind of buyer you’re describing. It’s the kind of buyer who owns penthouses in Tokyo and chalets in the Alps. It’s not the kind of buyer who shops for five-bedroom homes outside of Las Vegas. Billionaires don’t sit in the suburbs, surrounded by empty bedrooms and floating in a pool by themselves or with their rich friends. There’s only one kind of buyer for a place like this, and it’s someone with a big family…someone who’s been dreaming of a place like this his entire life, and can finally afford one. That’s the fantasy we’re selling. And to do that, we need to tell the kind of story a person like that can relate to, a story he can picture himself in comfortably. Not the kind of story that involves diamond-studded bidets and furniture so expensive it breaks your ass when you sit on it.”

  Her words penetrate the heavy haze of anger, and a nugget of truth seeps past my annoyance just like sifting for gold. In my eagerness to get on Bravo, I forgot how the real estate profession really works. I’d become too focused on the kinds of buyers I wanted to attract in general, instead of the buyers who’d want to purchase this specific house. Feeling chastised and put in my place for the first time in I can’t remember how long, I hang my head a little.

  “Does all of that make sense to you?” She raises an eyebrow, and if I thought she looked beautiful before, she just became even more so, all glorious heaving woman. A woman not afraid of me in the slightest.

  I take a step back, needing every single inch of space between us as I force myself to nod. “Yes.”

  After a few tortured seconds, the corners of her mouth tug in an almost smile. “Good. I’m very glad to hear that. Is there something you’d like to say to me?”

  I swallow hard, gritting my teeth and pushing the words out. “I was rude, and I was wrong. I apologize. You seem to be quite…competent.”

  The almost smile becomes real and steals the breath from my lungs.

  “Imagine my relief.”

  Chapter Five

  Chloe

  Those cool, steely, professional, take no prisoners words that escaped my mouth seem like they belonged to someone else.

  Inwardly, his initial reaction to my staging made me want to throw up and cry. Thank goodness Jamie and the other people I work with weren’t around to see me humiliated like that. I was so damn certain that what I’d done with this place represents the finest work of my career so far. Even more, I was certain that if this Lincoln guy is the hotshot prince of Vegas real estate, he’d recognize and appreciate the effort.

  Instead, he stepped in, took one look, and gave me the single loudest, rudest, most mean-spirited motherfucking of my adult life.

  The sight of the man sliced regret through me, so deeply I stiffened with it, finding my anger in the face of his. And I hated it. Every minute of pain and unworthiness that had led me to this moment, when I’d found myself standing in front of a man that I could actually want. One that I could lay myself bare before but wouldn’t because his physical perfection stabs a knife through my heart at the same time the internal ache rockets out of control.

  I’ve met a lot of cute young wannabes in the real estate business, all eager handshakes and gleaming smiles, so willing to please that they practically fall all over themselves. This man shrouds himself in a cloak of mystery. And I’m pretty sure it won’t ever come off in front of me.

  He seems so firmly-planted, so self-assured. Looking into those dark eyes feels like staring into a still black lake on a summer day – wondering how deep and cold it might be, but too hesitant to take the plunge and find a toothy carp. I’d expected his words to be calm and reassuring, and instead, I got some ridiculous tantrum that seemed to indicate his utter lack of real estate knowledge.

  Well, at least my response stunned him into relative s
ilence, and he seems at least mildly impressed with me now. As I show him how I’ve set up each room in the house, he mostly keeps quiet, grunting noncommittally and giving slight nods like some king being introduced to foreign dignitaries.

  “Hmm…interesting choices, Chloe.”

  The way my name flows off his tongue sends a crisp crackle of energy through me. His extreme arrogance is off-putting and intriguing at the same time, a dangerous cocktail of male energy. I find myself starting to rush through the tour, wanting it over so I can remove myself from his presence as quickly as possible. I know I should feel good about keeping calm under pressure when I pointed out his error in judgment, but negative emotions war within me and I’d like to lick my fresh wounds in private.

  My right hip nags at me, reminding me that a guy like this doesn’t exist in my future. After his man of few words routine, silence stretches between us, cold and lonely. I watch him out of my peripheral vision, but all I see is the width of the trench I dug between me and men like him the day I lost my leg.

  We finish up with the room occupied by the hypothetical teenage girl, and I start to mumble my way through the main points when I glance at his face and notice a change in his expression. It’s subtle, but unmistakable, even though it looks like he’s trying to hide it from me. Admiration. His eyes comb the entire room, lingering on the grass-stained lacrosse equipment and the piles of books and college applications.

  After a few tortured seconds, his gaze shifts to me and regards me from head to toe, throwing a new shiver of dread down my spine.

  “Everything okay?” I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but a sliver sneaks in. I’m not sure whether I expect him to remain silent, or to start nit-picking the room just so he can psychologically regain the upper hand. Lincoln Caldwell is used to being in charge. I wonder if anyone has ever stood up to him in his life.