by Cassie Mae
I nuzzle my nephew, shaking my head and saying in a baby voice I only pull out in front of present company. “Auntie Maya wants to spend her birthday lounging around her house, yes she does.” Katie must not have heard the grumble in my voice when she told me she was coming over and that meant I had to put clothes on.
Katie lets out a long sigh, dumping the mix into the bowl and dusting the counter top with red powder. “I would pay for a birthday like that.”
Claire’s screams change pitch, and one more decibel higher and only dogs will be able to hear her.
“I can’t imagine why,” I tease, then press a kiss to Chase’s head and swivel around to take a seat at my dining table. The first few times Katie made my birthday cake for me, I stood around asking if I could help with anything with awkward, mumbled words. Now that it’s an annual thing—and we’re much closer now—I pull up a high-backed, velvety dining chair and chat while she experiments. She used to make every cake from scratch, but since the kids came, box mixes have become the norm. I’m not complaining; cake is cake, and I’m thrilled to have a sister-in-law who cares enough to feed me chocolate even in her chaotic life.
“Want to hear a funny story?” I ask, settling in with Chase in my seat.
“Always.”
“I got kissed this morning.”
Her eyes widen, and she accidentally cracks egg shell into the bowl. “Oh! Did Vince come over?”
It takes everything in me to not respond with, “Who?” Vince, Vince… do I know a Vince?
Katie laughs, my confusion obviously written all over my face. She shakes her head and looks down at the cake mix as she picks out the shell pieces. “Well, that explains why I never heard anything about…Claire! Please stoooop… that particular date from either of you. I guess I have to take matchmaker off of my resume.”
My niece finally eases up, flopping her arms down on the tile and silently huffing at the ceiling. If the girl had a white flag, it would soon rise above her defeated little body. With the sudden drop in noise, my brain is able to conjure up a blurry memory of a blind date I had not too long ago, but obviously long enough.
I laugh at myself, giving Katie an apologetic grin. “Right… Vince. He was… fun.”
“You’re a horrible liar.”
“Only with you.” She should see me in my realtor’s blazer. I could sell a sandbox to a fish.
She rolls her eyes and searches for a whisk. “So, who was he?”
“He’s… well, I’m not really su—”
A tug on my pant leg pulls my attention down to my niece and her watery eyes.
“Neeta darou wing. Pweese?”
I raise an eyebrow to the two-year-old translator. Katie leans against the counter as she stirs. “Do you have anything she can color on?”
“Drawer right by your hip. I should have some notepad paper in there.” I’ve long since learned not to ask how in the world she knew what the toddler was saying. Moms have super powers—ones I cannot fathom ever possessing.
“Here you go, sweetie,” Katie says, handing over a notepad and the attached pencil. I smile at the fact that she still calls that screaming child “sweetie.” Katie tells her to go color at the coffee table in the other room, and then she turns to me. “Sorry. You were kissed this morning…?”
“Yes.” I pause not only for emphasis, but to leave room for any more possible interruptions. “By a new neighbor I’ve spoken maybe four words to.”
She jerks her head, her nose wrinkling upward as if the cake was suddenly made with rotten eggs. “Please elaborate.”
I lean in, granting her request, even telling her in great detail the cut lines on this man. She listens with intense fascination, stirring the cake batter so lazily that I bet the ingredients could easily be separated. I’m not much of a story teller, never having stories to tell, so I really get into this one. After all, it’s not every day you get kissed by a Grecian God.
“Wow,” she says, her voice still laced with shock. She pushes up off her arm, straightening to mix the batter accurately now that I’m done talking. “I hope he doesn’t have herpes.”
I snort, but there’s a plunge in my stomach that makes me shift Chase in my arms. That would be just my luck; I better keep my lips away from the baby until I know I’m in the clear.
“What’d you say to him?” she asks as she digs for a cake pan in the drawer under my oven.
“Nothing. He took off before I even realized what was happening.”
She sets the glass pan on the counter and nibbles on her bottom lip. “Hmm.”
“What?”
“Maybe we should stay with you tonight.”
Claire starts singing with her very powerful vocal chords from the other room.
“I’m good. I really think he’s harmless.”
“I’m worried.”
I smile. “You’re always worried.” I nod to Chase in my arms. “I think it’s in your job description.”
She gives me a look like she wants to argue, but she isn’t going to. Thankfully the conversation is interrupted again… this time by me.
“Oh, it’s Sarah,” I say, looking down at my buzzing phone. “Give me a sec.”
Shifting Chase, I push up off the chair and take the call in my living room. It must be big news if Sarah’s calling on my day off and my birthday. I anxiously swipe the answer button.
“Hey!”
“It’s a big one, Maya,” she says, getting right down to business; it’s why we get along. “The buyer’s coming in early tomorrow, looking for someone to help him buy a property up on Rose Summit.”
My heart soars up into my throat. “What time?”
“He scheduled an appointment at 7:30, but I’d get here at—”
“7:00. Yeah, I’m on it. Thank you.”
“No problem, boss.”
I click off and happy dance with my phone in one hand, newborn nephew in the other. Rose Summit is full of million dollar properties. Multi-million dollar properties. The commission on that sucker… hello vacation!
The beeps from my oven timer sound through the room, and a few seconds later Katie appears in the archway, wiping her hands off on her jeans. “We’ve got a little bit. Did you record The Bachelor?”
“MOM!” Claire screams from the formal living room. “Leru a poopa fleur.”
Katie sighs, her shoulders slumping as she’s summoned. She points to the remote, silently telling me to at least get the show started, before she trudges her way to her toddler. And though I still didn’t catch what Claire was saying, by the look on my sister-in-law’s face, I’m pretty sure I really don’t want to know.
3
Fumble and Mumble
“Chai Tea with cinnamon, cappuccino with chocolate shavings, and dark mocha with hazelnut.” Sarah rotates the cups in the holder as she announces my choices, greeting me right off the elevator. Much to my delight, she’s thought of every one of my personalities this morning.
I push open the glass door that leads into our offices, holding it open for her. Her thick heels clack against the floor as she scurries through, and I pluck the cappuccino from the container before she ends up spilling the drinks to the floor; she had me at chocolate shavings, and I don’t want to see them all over the linoleum.
“His name is Cooper Sterling,” Sarah rattles off. “According to the articles I found on him, he and his brother partnered in advertising and made their first million fresh out of college. Cooper acts as CFO, and invested the money very wisely.”
I chuckle around my cappuccino. “Apparently. Did you get anything on his family life?”
Sarah dodges around a small trash can the cleaning crew must’ve left out. “He’s thirty-two, single, and as far as I know, currently unattached at the moment. He likes to buy and flip properties on the side… He’s got a home in LA and one in Texas.”
“And he’s looking for a realtor?”
“I assume it’s a licensing issue. There’s no record of any properties here, w
hich is probably why he needs someone local.”
A sly grin pushes at the corners of my mouth. “This is gold,” I tell her. I’ve hit the jackpot of all clientele—rich, business savvy, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s in my age and relationship status bracket. It’s a rarity for me to speak to someone who doesn’t have a love interest or a few spawn running around at their feet.
“Is he here yet?” I ask.
Sarah shakes her head, her long, red hair waving over her shoulders. “No one knows about the appointment.” Her lips turn up into a shy, almost shameful grin. “I just happened to be the person who delivered Parks’ itinerary yesterday.”
Garrison Parks, CEO of the now billion dollar corporation I work for, likes to meet the high-profile clients in person before he sets them up with one of the realtors. It is not my fault if I manage to bump into those clients before the meeting and put on a little charm.
I pick up my pace, Sarah’s short legs jogging to keep up. “Will you call Mr. and Mrs. Bloomsbury and tell them you’ll be starting the open house this morning?”
There’s a hiccup in her step. “Um, Maya… I haven’t run an open house solo yet.”
“You’ve got this.” I hip check my office door open with a grin. “Oh, and leave the Chai will you?” I’ve got plans for it that may or may not involve ruining my Ann Taylor blouse. The commission will make up for it.
Sarah sets the tea down on my very unruly desk, next to a stack of business cards that just came in on Friday. I pluck one up and tuck it into my jacket pocket. I don’t usually need the card, but it’s always good to have a backup in case I’m not memorable enough. The last time I snagged a highly-sought-after buyer, the couple didn’t even make it to Parks’ office before hiring me. What can I say… when you give up on marriage and family— the life I’d always assumed I’d have at thirty—you get really good at your job because it’s pretty much all you have.
Sarah tosses the cup holder into the garbage, taking the hazelnut coffee and putting it to her lips. She reassured me months ago that she always orders something she wouldn’t mind drinking. Her first week I agonized over being one of those bosses. Thankfully that guilt is nonexistent for the time being.
I take one more pull from the cappuccino before swapping it for the tea, adjusting my blazer and popping the top from the cup just enough that if someone were to… say… run into me… Whoops! There goes my drink.
Hey, it may be an oldie, but it’s proved effective.
Sarah gives me an encouraging sort of look, showing me all the whites of her teeth. “Good luck.”
She doesn’t say it out loud, but she knows that I really need this one. It’s been an extremely slow month, and there is a certain vacation I plan on taking when I can afford it— after all, a girl only gets one Dirty Thirty, and I don’t mean the mess my niece left on my coffee table last night.
Mr. Parks’ office is two floors above mine, and since there is no logical reason for me to be up there, I have to either make one up, or force the buyer onto my floor. Oh, there is a science to this ploy, and I’ve been conducting experiments and concocting hypotheses from the moment I witnessed Atticus Lovell swivel his way into a quarter-million-dollar-based commission seven years ago. He was a real estate god, retired at fifty-three, with homes in Paris and New York. He wines and dines nightly, never tied down—Atticus’ only love was his 105 pound pit mix—and living out exactly what I’d like in life. I imagine some chic version of a cat lady in my case, however.
I take the stairs down to the lobby, peeking at the empty front desk. Our receptionists don’t come in until quarter to nine—when they’re on time—so I casually stroll to the floor indicator right next to the elevators. It’s surprising they don’t have these locked up after all the times I’ve pulled this move. I must be stealthier than I thought.
The metal screeches as I slide the name plate of my CEO and switch it with the realty offices. After a quick text, Sarah will head down and put them back in their correct placeholders before the offices are officially open. None will be the wiser.
I take a step back, a satisfied sigh floating from my smiling mouth. Images of what I could do with a commission like this flick through my head like a movie montage—sunbathing in Tahiti, drinks in Cabo, perhaps. Places warm and free of noise and family pushing me into relationships. Oh, I’m not saying I’ll be alone in paradise. No… finding a tanned Adonis would be ideal, someone who I flirt and play with for a week before heading back to my house for a stay-cation. I’ll tell my family I’m still out, and I could park my booty on the couch, make every day a Naked Sunday, and watch guilty pleasures with Tom and Kat.
The elevator dings, and I shake out of my Tahitian fantasy. I hold the door open with my Coach heels and swap the name plates in there before sending it to the top and doing the same thing with the twin elevator. My phone buzzes, letting me know it’s 7:20, and I need to get back upstairs.
I take the stairs, careful with the accident-ready tea, and position myself to be casually walking by the elevator when the doors open. That’s step one.
Step two: The bump. Get Chai all over Ann Taylor.
Step three: The apology. Laugh it off, and if he’s gracious, he’ll be polite about it. If he’s not, apologize to him.
Step four: The lending hand. Pretend confusion when he says he’s looking for Parks’ office. When he indicates he’s on the right floor, enter the elevator with him.
Step five: The shut in. Keep up conversation until the doors have closed you inside with buyer.
Then it’s all up to the gods. If I’ve been charismatic enough, I seal the deal. All I’m doing now is being memorable without seeming pushy. It may be a little unorthodox, but it works, and I’m not technically breaking any realtor code.
I blow out a breath and watch the clock on one of the front desks tick the minutes away. My heart beats a little harder the closer it gets to the appointment time. Being a punctual person, when people aren’t at least five minutes early, it gives me the annoyance itches. It’s come to the point that I need to tell my siblings an inaccurate event time due to the fact that they do not share this particular peeve. A few years back I got into quite the quarrel with my sister Julie over this topic. She was ten minutes late for a dinner party she’d set up so I could meet whatever guy it was that time around. The fella and I had no chemistry, and I was left to my own awkward devices while we both waited for her and her husband Nathan to arrive. During the traditional bathroom trip after the main course, I lost it, letting her know that I was tired of being disrespected every time she showed up late. She then broke down and said I didn’t know what it was like, waiting for the sitter, going over emergency protocol, worrying every second if being out meant being a bad mother. I chalk that argument as the moment of striking realization that my sister and I led very different lives. It was a blow at the time. I’m happy to say I’m content in the life I’ve chosen now. Not as resentful.
My newly manicured nails drum lightly against the to-go cup in my hands, my foot tapping in an impatient rhythm as the clock ticks from 7:30 to 7:31. If the buyer wasn’t a brilliant paycheck, I’d probably ditch out. Yes, I really am that neurotic about punctuality.
The elevator dings, and my heart stops its unusual pattern. Before I took an interest in real estate, I’d been fond of the stage, so my acting isn’t completely amateur. I learned that it’s a key ingredient in my salesmanship.
The doors open, and I wait until I see a grass-stained Reebok step onto the floor. Interesting choice—I expected shiny and polished footwear. Maybe this isn’t the buyer… and I curse myself for realizing the flaw in this particular plan; I’d completely spaced asking Sarah for a physical description.
I flick my gaze up to his face, hoping for a lost puppy look in his expression, only to come to a complete halt.
There is about a single day’s old scruff on his chin, he’s donning a baseball cap over his dark blond locks, and he’s wearing a shirt. But other than those f
ew details, he’s a dead ringer for my drive-by kisser. His blue eyes slowly swivel around the floor, thick brows pulling inward. It’s the lost puppy, but I’ve suddenly forgotten my entire five-step program.
In a moment of brain inactivity, I turn on my heel so quickly that I do exactly what I’d intended, just not in exactly the intended fashion—the tea splashes from my cup and onto the office linoleum, making my quiet exit very noisy.
A deep, friendly chuckle sounds from over my shoulder, sending a flock of appreciative wings through my midsection. I can’t quite say if it’s attraction because I’ve been fantasizing about him for about a month, or if it’s because he’s a man and that laughter sound just does something to a girl, but I feel I have to cover a blush that’s rising up the back of my neck.
“Whoops,” he says. A swish of jeans and the thud of his feet against the floor follow. I let out a very breathy laugh before turning to face the inevitable awkwardness that is about to ensue.
He’s not looking. God has given me a pass because it gives me time to fix the expression on my face. I push away my shock and try to go about this as if nothing weird has happened between us at all. He’s pulling tissues out of a box from Phil’s desk, one right after the other quick as lightning. Swish, swish, swish.
His knees crack as he crouches down, and through my muddy thoughts I allow myself a grin. Creaky bones doesn’t always come with age; it’s usually coupled with a lack of stretching, as I discovered in my late twenties. Maybe he hasn’t gone on his run today.
He’s taken every tissue left from the box, so on top of feeling off my game, I’m now useless in cleaning up my own mess.
“Those lids are unreliable at best,” he teases, tossing the soppy tissues into Phil’s trash can. My ability to humor him has flown out the window, along with any professionalism I may have possessed.
“You… you’re the…”
“Cooper,” he finishes with a heart-melting smile. He sticks his hand out to shake only to realize it’s gotten a bit moist from clean up duty. A low chuckle shakes his shoulders, and he wipes the tea residue onto the butt of his jeans. “By any chance do you know where Garrison Parks’ office is? He said it was right off the floor, but… obviously…” He waves a hand around at the clutter of agent desks. His eyes indicate no familiarization, absolutely nothing to the fact that he’s face to face with the woman he’s been jogging past every day for the last month, not to mention, the woman he kissed on his morning run yesterday.
