Exclusively Yours

by Nadine Gonzalez

  “Hey there, Leila.”

  “Mr. Adrian. Good morning. You’re back early.” Her voice was weak, betraying her.

  He rested a cup of Starbucks coffee on her desk. “For you. I don’t know how you like it, so I improvised.”

  She reached for the cup. “It’s fine. Thanks.”

  “Just tell me what you like. For next time.”

  “Milk. Sugar.”

  “A latte, then.”

  To save money Leila had avoided Starbucks, brewing coffee at home. Miami’s party scene was pricey. She spent enough on cocktails every weekend and didn’t need an expensive coffee habit, too. If a latte equaled coffee plus Coffee-mate, she’d be fine.

  “I’m not picky, Mr. Adrian. Whatever works.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  Damn it. She needed the buffer that formality provided. She needed that shield. This was his second warning, though, and she’d have to stop. “Okay. What do I call you?”

  “You know my name.”

  Her grip tightened around the paper cup and the heat seared her fingertips. The group moved into his office. Before the door closed behind them, she heard Tony say, “Your new girl is hot.”

  Nick’s quick response was cutting. “Back off.”

  She didn’t see much of him after that. He’d left for lunch at noon, called in a few times, but never returned, which was fine because she had to recover from that brief morning exchange. The next day, Friday, he made an appearance around three. Instead of saying, “Good afternoon. How are you getting along? Do you have any questions?” He gestured for her to follow him. “We’ve got a new listing.”

  She grabbed a pad and pen and trailed after him. This marked her first time in his office. The walls were bare except for matted and framed bachelor’s and master’s degrees in business administration; the first from University of Toronto, the second from NYU. Leila thought of Alicia—“Get a degree! Any degree!”—and felt sick. She focused on a bank of windows showcasing the chaotic mess on Brickell Avenue. The gridlocked traffic looked like a parade of luxury cars.

  Nick handed her a sticky note with an address scribbled on it. “I want this property photographed right away. Call Chris Hopper. His number is in the master file. Tell him to meet me there around four, if he can.”

  “And if he can’t?”

  “Call that other guy. No, call Suzanne. She does good work.”

  Leila returned to her desk and frantically scrolled through the master file, an elaborate spreadsheet of Monica’s creation. Chris Hopper agreed to the appointment. Nick was on his phone when she popped in to tell him. He mouthed, “Great.” Soon thereafter, he came out with keys in hand.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  “A site visit.” He glanced at his watch, a sleek Patek Philippe with a black-lacquered face. “Or is it too late? I never asked. Do you have kids? Monica couldn’t stay late, either.”

  Even as he talked, Leila stood and shrugged off the cardigan she wore to keep warm in the chilly air-conditioned office. The cotton knit fell weightlessly to her chair. Underneath, she wore a sleeveless mini-dress.

  Was it her imagination or had his eyes faithfully followed her every gesture?

  She grabbed her purse. “I don’t have kids.” And I’m not Monica.

  “Then let’s go.”

  From the reception desk, Emilia waived them off with a wry little smile. And while they waited for the elevator, Leila explained that no one had told her she’d have a chance to visit properties or do anything other than answer the phone and manage his calendar. She was grateful for the chance to get out on the field, so to speak.

  “It helps if you know what I’m working on,” he said. “I make most of my decisions on site.”

  The elevator opened. Nick pressed G for garage.

  “Don’t worry. I’m very flexible.” The doors slammed shut. Nick studied her with those keenly perceptive eyes but said nothing. She felt the need to clarify. “Meaning I can work long hours.”

  “Sure.”

  They rode in silence. A FedEx deliveryman joined them on the ninth floor and got off on the sixth. When they were alone again, Nick said, “Leila is an uncommon name.”

  “It means ‘born at night.’”

  “Were you?”

  She nodded. “Midnight.”

  “The bewitching hour.”

  She smiled. “Clever.”

  “Amis is French, right?”

  She nodded. “You know that because you’re from Canada.”

  “And you’re from Florida’s west coast.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Your résumé says you went to school in Naples.”

  “You’ve read my résumé?”

  “Jo-Ann gave it to me.”

  There wasn’t much to her résumé. She was embarrassed by how thin it was: high school and some college. She’d earned her real estate license a year ago, but her only sales experience was in entry-level retail. Leila gripped the handle of her purse to keep from fidgeting nervously. This had to be the longest elevator ride in history.

  When they reached the garage, she followed him to his reserved spot. He drove a black Mercedes coupe. She sank into the leather seat and admired the chrome accents of the dashboard. It was all the things her modest Mazda roadster aspired to be but fell short of. She watched as he pressed the ignition button and put the car in reverse.

  “This car makes me—”

  He stomped on the breaks. “Makes you what?”

  Leila grappled for the right word. “Happy. It makes me happy.”

  “Is that it?”

  Was her seat on fire? “What else is there?”

  He lifted his foot off the pedal. “Leila, are you into cars?”

  God, she loved the way he said her name.

  “Sort of. Sure.”

  “I’m into women who are into cars,” he said with a wink. “But don’t tell anyone.”

  * * *

  The listing was a one-story, mid-century home in Miami Beach’s exclusive Bayshore neighborhood. The original layout had been tweaked to appeal to modern tastes. The renovated kitchen opened to an all-purpose living, dining and TV room. All closets and bathrooms had been updated. The showstopper was the yard that backed onto Collins Canal and the dock that could accommodate a decent-size yacht and flatter the ego of any budding millionaire.

  While the photographer snapped pictures for the agency’s website, Leila tried to imagine the daily routines of the family who’d once lived in the vacated rooms. On a sunny day, they’d probably have breakfast outdoors. Did they throw birthday parties by the pool or spend holiday weekends boating?

  “What do you think?” Nick asked.

  “I think it’s a lovely home.”

  “Would you like to live here?”

  They were in the master bedroom. Leila opened the plantation shutters to admire the water views. “I could get used to this. But how much would it set me back?”

  “Four million.”

  Her heart stopped. “Are you kidding?”

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  Well, when she thought of millions, she thought of mansions. This lovely family home was by no stretch a mansion. “You know this same house in any other neighborhood wouldn’t cost that much.”

  “That doesn’t change anything.” He leaned against the low cherrywood dresser. Every room had a furniture-showroom vibe. “Leila, I need you to believe in the sale.”

  She laughed. “You’ve got me confused with a magical fairy.”

  He grew quiet, a shadow passing over his face.

  “It’s a joke,” she said, worried she’d gone too far.

  “I don’t think I’ve heard you laugh before. You’re so serious all the time.”

 
“Because I’m trying to impress you, Nick!”

  Saying his name had leveled the playing field somehow. They’d swapped the rigid employee-boss dynamic for something looser, less defined. Something trickier. And Nick hadn’t missed it. His face lit up with satisfaction.

  “Could you stop trying so hard?” he asked.

  He hadn’t been exactly easy to read or to warm up to. They’d barely exchanged a dozen words since she’d taken the job. Every morning she dressed like an Office Assistant doll, worried she didn’t measure up to the ghost of Monica.

  “Maybe if I knew what you expected from me...”

  “Here’s the thing,” he said. “I could run my business under a bridge. I don’t need an assistant, not really. But I’d like to have someone on my side. Can you be that someone?”

  “Good luck getting cell phone reception under a bridge.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “That’s more like it.”

  The photographer tapped on the open door. “Hey, Nick, I think I’m done.”

  He left to review the man’s work.

  Leila leaned against the wall, caught in exquisite turmoil.

  She could be that someone.

  * * *

  On the drive back to the office, Nick said he hadn’t eaten all day. “There’s a place on Washington I like. Would you mind hanging out with me?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  This was the perfect opportunity for them to talk. She reached for her phone, sending a quick text to cancel her happy hour plans. She was supposed to meet a guy, a medical resident at Jackson Memorial, whom, after a few chaste dates, she’d started referring to as Dr. No. He was nice enough, but maybe that was the problem.

  “If you have plans, I can take you back to the office,” he said. “You’re off the clock.”

  “I don’t have plans,” she replied. “Not anymore, anyway.”

  “Are you—?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I’d rather have dinner with you.”

  That sounded more personal than she’d intended.

  “I’d rather have dinner with you, too.”

  He said nothing else until they arrived at the restaurant. The hostess greeted Nick by name and showed him to a table on the terrace. He ordered the house burger and a beer. She ordered tuna sliders and a glass of Pinot. They shared an order of parmesan fries and he told her his plans for the Bayshore property.

  “The listing goes live tomorrow. I want to hold the broker’s open on Thursday night. That house was built for parties. I want a bar by the pool, a DJ, everything.”

  “I should take notes.” Leila reached for her phone, swiped past a text from Dr. No and opened the notepad app. She typed “Thursday, bar by pool, DJ, catering.”

  “Do you have a caterer in mind?”

  “We’ve used this place before with decent results.”

  She lowered her hearty slider to her plate and offered some advice. “When I’m trying to look good at a party, the last thing I want is heavy food. Why not taquitos and margaritas?”

  “I bet you don’t have to try to look good, Leila.”

  She took it as a compliment and thanked him.

  “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to do this job.”

  He’d caught her off guard and the lame one-liner was all she could come up with. She had a complicated relationship with her age. According to the scoreboard in her mind, she was trailing the home team by a lot. She’d gone from pageant girl to shop girl and now to office temp all in the time that her high school friends had earned advanced degrees and jump-started bona fide careers.

  “But are you old enough to drink?” he asked, pointing to her half-empty glass of wine.

  “Very funny. I’m twenty-three, soon to be twenty-four.” She paused. “Does it matter how old I am?”

  “I’m just trying to get to know you.”

  “Sorry. I’m a little jumpy.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said. “I’m thirty, and I like the tacos idea.”

  “Taquitos.” She typed the word into her phone.

  “Are you seeing anyone?”

  Leila went still and laid down her phone. “That’s kind of personal.”

  “Extremely personal,” he said. “Someone should’ve warned you about me. I’m about to hijack your whole life.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Someone did.”

  He wiped his mouth with a black cloth napkin. “You can tell me to go to hell at any time.”

  “You’re harmless,” she said, even though his eyes said otherwise. “And, yes, I’m dating someone. Sort of.”

  He didn’t ask for specifics, leaving her disappointed. Instead he asked, “Will he mind if you have to work late?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t usually ask a boyfriend before making career moves.”

  “So, he’s a boyfriend.”

  “I only meant—”

  He reminded her that she was under no obligation to apologize or to explain. She could tell him to go to hell. That option was still open.

  “We’ve got some time,” he said, again consulting his watch. “Is there anything you want to ask me?”

  She reached for a fry and the opportunity to ask the one question burning inside her. “Whatever happened to Monica?”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “How long have you been wondering about that?”

  “Since day one.”

  Nick took a sip of beer. His long fingers had a firm grasp of the frosty glass. “She got into it with Jo-Ann and things went south from there. She should’ve let me handle it, but Monica won’t back down from anything. We were together three years.”

  Together three years...an odd way to describe a working relationship.

  “I doubt we’ll be together that long,” she said.

  “Planning to ditch me?”

  “What I really want is to learn the business.”

  “So this is a short-term thing?”

  Leila worked to keep her voice steady. “Does that bother you?”

  “I’m fine with it.” He leaned closer. “I know you have retail experience. Anything else?”

  “No.” She’d worked at designer boutiques, selling sunglasses, scarves and handbags.

  “Selling is selling,” he said. “But what drew you to real estate?”

  “My aunt sold her home last spring. Her agent was my age. When I found out what she made in commission... I figure if I can sell pricey handbags, I can definitely sell condos.”

  “Overpriced handbags.”

  Leila’s hand instinctively went to her overpriced handbag hanging from the arm of her chair. The iconic logo was stamped into the buttery-soft leather. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  “That’s a matter of fact.”

  “Says the man with a very expensive watch.”

  He flashed an easy smile. “The watch is an investment.”

  “Please!”

  “We’re getting off topic.”

  “If I can learn the ropes while studying for the exam, that would give me an advantage. The agency has a great reputation.”

  She’d done her research. Kane & Madison, headquartered in New York City with branches in Miami and Los Angeles, racked up impressive yearly sales. She didn’t expect to stay on with the agency. All the associates were seasoned business professionals. But wouldn’t it be awesome to someday be the single woman associate who could give the boys a run for their money?

  “We’ve got the best inventory,” he said. “And I’ll teach you everything I know. How’s that?”

  That was actually pretty damn nice. “I appreciate it. Really.”

  He waived down the waiter and handed over a card. “To be clear, you’re using me as a stepping stone.”

  She could kick herself.
Why hadn’t she kept her big mouth shut? “Is that okay?”

  “If you’re going to use me, go ahead and use me,” he said. “Don’t worry about how I feel about it.”

  Within the span of a meal, he’d shown her that she was way too earnest. Apologizing, explaining, stumbling over her words. She was nowhere as sharp as she believed herself to be.

  “You must think I’m really green.”

  “That’s not what I’m thinking.”

  The bill arrived. He signed it and left a heap of cash as a tip.

  “I’m going to be the best assistant you’ve ever had.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “The bar is really high.”

  “Don’t underestimate me.”

  “I promise I won’t.”

  Their waiter cleared the table of crumbs but, as far as she was concerned, they were alone in the restaurant.

  He asked if there was anything else she wanted to know. Leila would have liked to ask if he was seeing anyone, but came up against the blunt edge of a double standard. He could push the boundaries all he liked, but she’d be dumb to try. She played it safe and asked what had drawn him to real estate.

  He took a minute before answering, tapping the table with the credit card held loosely between his thumb and forefinger. “I started out in finance, as an analyst. Made good money. But routine kills.”

  “You’re restless,” she said almost without knowing it.

  He looked up, surprised. “You’re right.”

  Yes! She clenched her fists under the table, thrilled she’d scored at his game.

  Chapter 4

  Nick listened as Leila enthusiastically gave him an update on the broker’s open house. She’d used a contact list prepared by Monica to call the top local brokers. No invitations were extended; she offered to add them to a restricted guest list.

  “It’s the fastest way to create a buzz,” she said. “Getting on a list—any list—drives people crazy.”

  They were in his office with coffee. The night before, they’d agreed to daily meetings, if only for a few minutes. Nick was happy for an excuse to sit with her.