No, I’m not bitter about it or anything.
That house on Mike Street just wasn’t good enough for me. Middle class single-family homes are Grandpa’s thing. Were Grandpa’s thing. But they aren’t my thing and that’s okay; I don’t have to excel at everything. It’s better to be great at one thing instead of so-so at several things… or something like that.
Go ahead and add Inspiring Heart-felt Words of Encouragement to the list of skills that lack from my repertoire.
I spend the next few hours replying to emails, ignoring phone calls and listing photos of lofts for sale in the Houston online database. I try to go back to work as normally as possible, pretending that Grandpa isn’t dead and that he never made me promise to quit my job and follow dreams I don’t even have, and that I’m not still beating myself up over failing to sell the house on Mike Street.
Maggie has an open house later today so I won’t have to see her this afternoon. Although I’m free for now, I know I’ll have to account for my behavior eventually, probably over some fancy dinner with Mom or while bumping into her while speaking with a high-dollar client. Maggie’s good at ruining the day like that. Our other two associate realtors, Claire and Jen, tell me they’re sorry for my loss and then go on to be so busy with listing houses that they don’t bother me for the rest of the day.
I’m cropping a homeowner’s hairy arm out of a photograph of his dining room when my office phone rings. My chest clenches into a knot as I read the caller ID: Clear Lake Pain. Pain as in hospital? Is someone hurt?
With shaking fingers, I reach over and press the speakerphone button, checking to make sure my door is closed. “Hello?” I ask, drawing out the word as if this is a fun happy day. Because people wouldn’t give detrimental news to someone who’s having a great day. Right?
“Is this Robin Carter?” asks a familiar male voice.
“Yes,” I say. “This is Robin. Is this the hospital calling?”
“Um, no,” the voice replies a little tentatively.
“I’m sorry but the caller ID said Clear Lake Pain.”
There’s a chuckle on the other end. “That’s because I’m calling from Clear Lake Painting. This is Jason Hightower; we spoke a few weeks ago about the McMullen Loft?”
The two hour conversation with Jason in one of Houston’s most luxurious lofts comes back to me, and I can picture that day like it was yesterday. I remember almost every word we said that day, and well, the other stuff we did that day too. Particularly involving a bottle of wine and the hot tub in his penthouse hotel room. My toes tingle as I think about it.
Even though he just said it was a few weeks ago, it had to have been around five months ago because it was before Grandpa had taken a turn for the worse but after I had become a single woman again, hence my display of unbridled promiscuity. It would have been the biggest commission of my career if he’d made an offer. But he didn’t. I thought I’d never hear from him again. I clear my throat. “Yes. Jason, of course. How are you?”
“I’m doing well, thank you. I apologize for the delay, but I was getting some financial things in order,” he pauses and I hear a car door close and then the rumble of a high-performance sports engine coming to life.
“Oh?” I say, thinking that I might know what his next words will be, but knowing my luck isn’t that good. I give a cautious glance around my office, making sure it really is empty and I haven’t forgotten someone sitting in the chair across from me. For good measure, I click off speakerphone, grab the receiver and put it to my ear.
“I’m ready to make an offer on the loft.”
My heart crashes through my rib cage and lands on the floor with an imaginary splat. “Excellent!” I say in my cheery voice again, hoping it masks the terrible taste of failure that’s still reverberating through me from the house on Mike Street. “Would you like to come to my office?”
I can hear the smile in his voice, and picture the handsome thirty-something man. The engine roars as he speeds up from wherever he’s driving. “Is right now good for you?”
I go through the motion of looking at my calendar, despite knowing I don’t have any plans. I haven’t made plans in three weeks. “That’s perfect. I’ll see you soon.”
The phone feels weightless as I place it on the receiver.
Chapter 3
A few minutes later, the engine rumbling of what turns out to be a sparkly red Maserati shows up in front of Carter Properties. Claire and Jen trip over themselves trying to race to the window and sneak a peek at my bazillionaire client.
“Is that an Armani suit?” Jen wonders aloud, squinting through the wooden blinds.
“Don’t even act like you can tell designer from thirty feet away!” Claire presses her face next to Jen’s to get a better view.
“He’s for me,” I say, standing at the door of my office, smoothing the front of my skirt and white button up blouse that is definitely not Armani. I cock my head to the side and speak loudly enough for Maggie to hear from her office. “I may have just sold the McMullen Loft.”
“McMullen Loft?” Jen’s eyes are about to burst out of their perfectly lined smoky eyelids. “That’s a thirty thousand dollar commission.”
“Indeed it is,” I match her awed tone. The McMullen Loft has been on the market for three years, an outstanding fail in today’s housing market. Upscale Houston lofts rarely last thirty days without being sold, sometimes for over asking price. Millionaire architect and idiot Derek McMullen, however, shot himself in the foot when he designed and built an extensive six thousand square foot monstrosity on the outskirts of Houston’s poorest neighborhoods.
Every agency in Texas has had their go at trying to sell it, and despite the terrible odds, Grandpa spoke with Derek McMullen at an Irish pub one night, got totally drunk and promised him his granddaughter would have the place sold in a month.
Granddaughter being me, although Maggie has been going behind my back trying to find a buyer for it from out of state. She’s wanted the commission ever since her divorce, and even with Grandpa’s inheritance, I’m sure she’d still kill me to make the sale herself. We don’t know why Derek chose to stay with Carter Properties after Grandpa’s promised timeline had passed; but I think it has something to do with the fact that no other reputable agency wants anything to do with a massive property that won’t sell.
Jen stares at me with a childlike admiration. With her strawberry blond hair tied in loose pigtail braids, she almost looks like a child instead of a recent college graduate. “I officially want to be exactly like you when I’m a full agent.”
I throw my arm around her shoulder. “If anyone can do it, it’d be you.” Claire whirls around, her bottom lip jutting out. “And you,” I tell her, laughing in a way that almost makes the butterflies in my stomach go to back to sleep.
Claire’s eyes focus on the floor while she thinks. “Thirty grand? That’s like a half a million dollar sale?”
I nod, and the butterflies are back. A dark feeling casts a shadow on my excitement, making me second guess this meeting with my buyer. This would be the first sale I’ve made since I made that silly promise to Grandpa on his deathbed. Why does the biggest sale of my career have to be the first sale I make after a three week hiatus and my grandfather’s death? I can feel the smile singed into my face, but my whole body is terrified. Some guy from Arizona in an Armani suit, who I happened to have drunk sex with, is about to sign on the dotted line and suddenly, I have no idea how to do my job.
“Fuck me,” Jen says under her breath. “Thirty grand in one sale.”
Though she says nothing, Maggie’s chair makes a loud squeak like it does when she’s leaning back trying to hear what’s going on out here. A satisfied smile spreads across my face. And then it vanishes when she clears her throat. “Robin, I need to see you in my office, please.”
Jen’s eyes go wide even though this has nothing to do with her. Sometimes I think she’s more scared of my sister than I am. Not that I’m scared of her. “I
’m busy,” I call back, only a few feet away from her office but refusing to walk up to her door.
“It can’t wait.” Her voice sounds so much like Mom’s. I cringe and trudge over to her door. She’s sitting at her desk, arms folded over a stack of papers, reading glasses tipped at the edge of her nose. Her long acrylic nails tap on the desk in an annoyed rhythm. Pinky, ring, middle, index, middle, ring, pinky.
Jen flutters away from the window and makes frantic arm circles toward the door. “He’s almost here! What do we do?”
“You let him in, offer him a drink and tell him to wait in my office.” I turn around. “And do something with her,” I say, pointing to Claire who is still awestruck and stuck to the window. That wouldn’t make a good impression, now would it?
Around the corner, I rest my hands on either side of Maggie’s doorframe. “What do you want?” I ask, glancing sideways at my oversized Rolex. “I’m busy.”
“Did I hear you say you’re selling the McMullen Loft?”
“I didn’t stutter.”
I can tell by the look on her face that she wants to retort with something equally juvenile, but my sister knows better than to do that. She simply blinks. “To whom, may I ask? Because I showed it to two very interested buyers last week. I have a good feeling one of them will make an offer.”
From around the corner, I can hear Claire ask Jason if he wants a drink. “What are you doing showing my listings?”
She shrugs. “I was at work these last three weeks. You weren’t.”
“Fucking excuse me for mourning the death of my grandfather,” I hiss, making my voice as venomous as possible without being loud enough for Jason to overhear. Everyone else in the office is used to hearing our arguments. It’s only gotten worse since Grandpa fell sick and I offered to take over his clients. I think Maggie thought she deserved first dibs on them.
Maggie’s lips are a thin line, the pink skin white where her teeth bite into it from inside her mouth. “Your client is waiting,” she says, shoving one hand in my direction in a signal that clearly means go away.
I pop into my office, smiling the entire time as if I’ve just had the most glorious chat with my elder sister, and let the door swing shut with a satisfying click. Jason sits in the chair across from my desk, his fingers swiping madly across the screen of his tablet. A steaming cup of coffee rests on my Texas-shaped coasters. Is that really an Armani suit? With Jason’s gorgeous jawline, five o’clock shadow and broad shoulders, he could be wearing a garbage bag for all I know.
“Jason, hello,” I say, extending my arm across my desk to shake his hand. It wavers in the air a fraction or two long enough to make me sufficiently awkward before he finally takes his attention away from the tablet to shake my hand. I catch a glimpse of the screen before he turns it off and slides it into his briefcase – he was on Facebook.
That status update better say: meeting with Robin Carter to buy a loft. Will probably ask her out for a drink later.
Jason tips his fingers under his chin and surveys me, making me completely aware that my skirt is not Armani, or anything close to it. And I wish my top showed more cleavage. Something about me must have made him come back. Or, you know, maybe it was the loft. And maybe I need to get laid more than once every blue moon with a stranger-slash-client. Just because I’ve sworn off relationships doesn’t mean I have to swear off sex. It would sure help with the way my brain turns to mush when I’m around him. When his eye-assault on me is over he says, “It’s great to see you again.”
“I uh, er, you too,” I say, smiling so much it makes my face hurt. I sink into my chair. Jason rolls his chair closer and rests his elbows on the desk across from me.
“I’d like to offer four-ninety. Do you think they’d accept that?”
Derek the architect would probably take a carton of smokes and a five-dollar bill for the loft by now, but Jason doesn’t need to know that. Call it my repayment for the way he took my personal cell number and never called me for another late night hookup. “Sounds decent,” I say. I tear my gaze away from Jason’s gorgeous baby blue eyes and glance over the paperwork Jen had prepared for me months ago. It’s a standard offer form with the loft’s address and information already filled in. Somehow, I feel like I don’t know what I’m looking at. But I do know. I’ve known for years.
With my favorite Sharpie pen, the one with the chewed up cap, I write a four and a nine and one zero. My eyes blur and I blink to clear them but it doesn’t help. Come on, Robin. Three more zeros, then a signature here and here and it’ll all be done.
Grandpa would be proud. He’d tell Derek the architect that he knew I could sell the loft, I just needed a little extra time. He would smile and hug me, and—
Is that what he would do?
My hand shakes as it hovers over the paper. Three more zeros. Why can’t I write three zeros? A rush of images flies through my mind, bending and twisting every bit of my subconscious until I can’t think straight. Memories of the night grandpa died.
“Promise me you’ll never sell another house,” he had said. Why? Why couldn’t I sell another house? I shake my head to clear the thoughts, but it only makes them grow louder in my mind. Just write the three damn zeros, Robin. You can do this. You’ve been writing zeros all your life. With an extreme amount of mental focus, I write one zero and then two more so close together it looks like an Olympic logo. But at least it’s done.
Why is my vision still blurry?
I glance away from my desk, trying to focus on something farther away. Jason eyes his watch, rubbing his finger over the massive glass face. I can see him, but I can’t somehow. He’s out of focus, and my heart runs cold and fast and does something – something weird.
I’m having a heart attack. I gasp for a breath as my left hand slaps over my chest. I’m feeling for a pulse, for a heartbeat, for anything to assure me that the soaring pain under my ribcage isn’t real.
“Are you okay?” Jason’s closer to me now, but I still can’t see him clearly. My nose tingles and my face starts to go numb. I promised Grandpa I wouldn’t sell any more houses. It was a lie, but still. I said the words and he believed them. And I’ve never believed in ghosts in my life but right now it feels like he’s right here, shaking his head at me in brokenhearted disappointment.
The pain in my chest turns to a light fluttering as I push out of my chair and race for the closed door. Everything goes purple and splotchy and I’m going to pass out. I will pass out right here in front of Jason, who’s seen me naked but hasn’t seen me sprawled out dead on the floor, in my non-designer clothing with my ugly panties because the rest were dirty, and oh freaking god.
I cry out for help, I think. I don’t know what I say. My heartbeat hurts my eardrums. Someone’s arms wrap around me and squeeze me tight. Someone’s voice whispers in my ear and says nice things. I don’t know what the fuck is going on. I still can’t see and my whole body is numb.
All I know is that I will not be selling this property. Or any property, ever again.
Chapter 4
My condo is cleaner than it was the day I moved in. Everything has a place now, where before it didn’t. Unopened mail and opened mail in neat filing trays, nail files that rested between the couch cushions now have a jar. That stupid exercise ab rolling machine has been retired as a clothes hanger and now sits folded up under the bed where it’ll hopefully stay for eternity. I’ve never cleaned so much in my life, and I’ve never been so ridiculously depressed. It’s almost midnight and I’m not tired at all.
After my panic-induced dose of insanity a week ago, everyone insisted I stay at home and not come to work until I got my shit together mentally. Maggie oh so very kindly offered to take over on Jason’s offer and the seller accepted. They close next week. I get zero commission, because taking half of Maggie’s six percent would be admitting I did something right.
Everyone else is business as usual, and here I am, Robin Carter, self-induced ex-Realtor. My condo has never felt so small.
Is this all I am? All I’m worth? Selling real estate wasn’t ever my passion in life, but it was in the family and I was good at it. After my shitty engagement fell though, I poured my heart and soul into selling real estate. I was Houston’s top Realtor. Grandpa taught me everything I know, and I had thought he was proud of me.
I did not tell Maggie why I had my panic attack that day. I sure as hell didn’t tell Mom either when she called demanding to take me to the hospital just minutes after the ambulance decided I was healthy and would live through the night. Who knows what they would have said if I told them Grandpa made me promise to quit my career while he was on his deathbed. Mom would think I was lying probably, and Maggie would try to turn it around and bitch that Grandpa always loved me more and of course he would tell me some life-altering secret while they were sleeping in the hotel next to Hospice care.
I stare at my nails, their cuticles perfectly manicured since I had nothing better to do this morning. A lump rises in my throat and I try to swallow it down, but it doesn’t work. It hasn’t worked all week. This is the sort of thing that a girl needs her best friend for. I have no best friend. I’m sure she’s happily curled up with a post-blow job smile on her face while lying in my ex-fiancé’s bed. You’re supposed to be able to count on friends. And family. I can’t count on anyone but myself.
In my Victoria’s Secret sweatpants, oversized Texas A&M sweatshirt, I look like a pink oompa loompa rolled up on the couch.
Oompa, loompa, doompidy dailure.
Robin Carter is a total failure.
Grandpa’s watch is set thirty minutes ahead of the actual time. I’ve gotten used to referencing it and automatically subtracting to find the real time. Sometimes I wish it really could see into the future. What will I be doing thirty minutes from now?
Will I suddenly have an answer to my problems? Will I fall asleep and see Grandpa in a dream where he can tell me exactly why he made me promise what I did?
The Fate Series Box Set (Robin and Tyler Book 4) Page 2
