by G. K. Brady
“We’re not staying long, right?” he asked. For the fifth time since they’d left the house.
She stifled the urge to grit her teeth. “I have to stay long enough to be polite. Besides,” she waved a hand at the luxury cars, “maybe I’ll pick up a big-money client today. The way the remodels have been dragging, I could use a fat commission check to tide Anderson Homes over.”
He grunted an acknowledgment.
It was late July, and Marty and Claudia had finally settled into the house she’d sold them. Paige had never been invited to an open house at one of her projects, and she was anxious to see how they’d stamped it with their personalities. She’d debated leaving Adrian behind, and right now she was revisiting that decision. Social gatherings with her people excited him as much as a root canal without medication, and he was an expert at making it clear. But he was only in town for a few days, and she wanted to spend time with him, try to close this schism between them.
Claudia, an athletic strawberry blond with milk-chocolate-colored eyes, greeted them with hugs and invited them to take a self-guided tour. Adrian declined, heading for the outside bar instead, so Paige struck out on her own, delighted at everything she took in. She wound up in the basement rec room, filled with spectators clustered around a pool table, and she squeezed her way past them into the home office, where she paused in front of built-in shelves. She ran her hands over books and hockey memorabilia. Adding these shelves was a great call. Pat on the back to me.
Something was burning a hole in the back of her head. She pivoted and was caught up short by a pair of bright blue eyes belonging to a very tall man leaning against the door frame. A very tall, very striking man. One side of his mouth curled up, and he pushed off and walked toward her, hand extended.
“I owe you an apology.”
She blinked an image of a glorious six-pack from her mind. Unfortunately, it left a blank space. She shook his hand.
“You already apologized.”
“So you remember me from Marty’s office? The guy you called ‘shit-for-brains’?”
How could I forget? “Yes, I remember you,” she stammered, “but I don’t remember calling you that.”
“Well, technically you didn’t, but the meaning was clear enough. And DU? I’m afraid I remembered you too late.”
But you did finally remember. She smiled in spite of herself. “I still owe you breakfast and a ride in the snow.”
“I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations is up.” He grinned.
He took a pull from a brown beer bottle. A young woman bounced in, all smiles. “Beckett Miller,” she cooed, seeming to startle him. Tall and reed-thin, she had luscious straight hair that spilled down her back like a dark waterfall. Thick-lashed brown eyes set in mocha skin fluttered at him. The complete package resembled all those women in all those pictures.
He held a finger up to Paige. “Just a sec.” He turned to the woman and gave her a polite half-smile. “If you don’t mind, I’m having a private conversation with …” he glanced at Paige, and the smile broadened, “my shrink, Dr. Anderson.”
The girl’s eyes flew wide. “I’m so sorry.” Crestfallen, she turned away.
Beckett rolled his eyes. “Do you have a napkin or something?” The woman handed him a purple paper plate, and he asked her name. He wrote a message, scrawled his signature and handed the plate back to her.
“Thank you,” she gushed, looking from him to Paige, as if Paige had something to do with the gift of Beckett Miller’s autograph.
“That must happen a lot,” Paige said after the girl had melted back into the rec room crowd.
He shrugged his broad shoulders. He was dressed in flip-flops, jeans, and a pale blue-and-yellow plaid button-down rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms crossed with corded veins. “Not so much at a party like this. Overall, it’s fallen off lately, which is not a bad thing.” Another pull on the beer bottle. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks. My, uh, escort is getting me something now.” Escort? Why hadn’t she said “husband”?
“So …” she said to fill the awkward silence, “I read you’re no longer with the team. What are you doing now?” She’d seen where his contract had been bought out; he was done with the Blizzard, or they were done with him, as were the Hawks. So far no one else had picked him up. Paige had learned way more about hockey—and Beckett Miller—than she’d ever wanted to, courtesy of Katie’s unending prattle on both subjects. Whatever she missed, Gwenn filled in.
“Still trying to play professional hockey. I just got back from Europe, where I skated in a few games. Maybe the KHL will pick me up.”
“Is that better than the AHL?” Maybe Katie’s lessons hadn’t all been wasted.
Shaking his head, he closed the distance between them. “It’s the top league over there, but the quality’s on par with the AHL. Getting paid can be a little iffy, and living in Russia … I think I’d rather be in the AHL. Besides, you play more games in an AHL season.”
She backed up, nearly colliding with the desk. “So why not stay in the AHL?”
“My agent’s been trying without much luck on that front.” He gave her a wistful smile and held her gaze as he took up station where she’d been standing. Aping a nonchalance she didn’t feel, she part-leaned, part-slid along the desk’s width.
He cleared his throat. “So … I need to clean out my real estate portfolio, and I’m looking for someone to sell my house here.” He raised the beer bottle. “I thought of you.”
She tried to hide her shock. “Oh! I don’t do that.”
“What? You don’t sell houses?”
“I don’t list for other people. Just my own stuff.”
“But you’ve got the credentials, right? So there’s nothing to stop you listing mine?”
Only the fact I don’t want to. She crossed her arms. “Well, nothing except my schedule. Summer’s really busy.” Liar. Not this summer. But still, working for Beckett Miller wouldn’t be worth it.
Beckett looked over her head. “Either I’ve pissed someone off, or your date is heading our way. Maybe both.” He grinned.
Paige whirled. Adrian, his head bent like a charging bull’s, fisting two drinks, was making his way through a cluster of people. Was he jealous? If only.
“I’ve been looking all over for you, Paige,” he scolded. Not jealous, then. Handing her a sweaty gin and tonic, he looked Beckett up and down. “Who’s this?” Adrian was not a small man, but he looked it next to the broader Beckett.
Before she could utter a word, Beckett stuck his hand out. “I’m Beckett Miller. I’ve been trying to convince your girl to sell my house. I’m disappointed to hear her dance card’s too full for a commission on a two-million-dollar spread in Cherry Hills Village.”
Adrian swiveled his head to Paige. “But I thought you said—”
“Thanks for the drink.” She placed her hand on Adrian’s arm. “Beckett, this is my—”
“Adrian Paulson. I’m Paige’s husband.” Adrian grasped Beckett’s hand.
After the usual small talk, Adrian turned back to her. “Paigey, why don’t you take a look at this man’s place?”
God, she hated that. Paigey. Couldn’t he just call her “Darling”? “Goddess Divine”? “Muse of my Wet Dreams”? She hadn’t been able to make him stop. Should have made it a condition of the prenup.
Paige glimpsed a twinkle in Beckett’s eyes. “I … It’s not my area, Adrian. I’m sure he could do better with an expert.”
“What do you mean, it’s not your area? You’ve worked in Cherry Hills before. Besides, you might pick up some new clients.” Adrian winked at her.
She would strangle him later. “I’m not cheap, Mr. Miller,” she huffed.
“The best never are. I’ll pay you more than your usual rate. Figure out what percentage would make it worth your while.”
Paige began calculating. Eight percent would bring her portion to at least a hundred thousand. Wow! And ten pe
rcent? Even better, but was it enough to put up with this jerk? Her mind ran on, suddenly drunk with possibilities. Twenty percent! Fifty!
“I’m not a high-profile Realtor. I’m not sure why you want me to represent you.”
“Because Marty and Claudia say you’re the best. They trust you. That’s what I care about.”
She wasn’t sure why, but she found herself grateful he’d not mentioned knowing her at DU. It was something she’d never shared with Adrian or Katie; they might have twisted it into a big deal, which it never had been.
Adrian elbowed her. “C’mon. Just take a look.”
She would definitely strangle him later.
“I tell you what, Ms. Paulson. Come over, look around, and if it’s not to your liking, no hard feelings. Deal?” Beckett beamed his magazine-layout smile.
She blew a breath out of her nose. “Deal.”
“I have one of Paige’s cards.” Adrian rummaged around in his shirt pocket and flipped out a card between two fingers. He handed it to Beckett, who entered her number in his phone before slipping the card into his wallet. Paige clenched her fists, though she showed only her most pleasant public smile.
Consulting their calendars, they arrived at an appointment time in two days for her walk-through. Adrian would be on the road again, freeing her up.
Standing in the main floor living room a few minutes later, Paige watched Beckett hug Marty and Claudia good-bye, trot across the street, climb into the dented Chevy pickup, and drive off. Not the driver she’d expected for that truck. Not the vehicle she’d expected for that man.
Beside her, Adrian said, “You got a client. Can we go now?”
.~ * * * ~.
Two days later, Paige pulled her Tacoma into a sweeping drive and parked before a set of massive arched mahogany-and-glass doors covered in iron scrollwork. Very elegant, very masculine, very saleable. Twelve percent. God, that’s too high! No, no, he’s loaded, and he said whatever I wanted to charge. Twelve, with nine percent to me. Would it be worth it? A hundred and eighty thousand dollars would smooth out her company’s rough spots for a while.
With deliberate movements, she ran her fingers through her hair, tugged her favorite mint-green top—the one that matched her eyes—smoothed her best jeans, and gathered up purse and portfolio. Deep breaths, Paige. You can do this. Twelve percent. Twelve. Ten. Twelve. Will he have his shirt on when he answers the door? God, I hope so. Twelve.
Her high-heeled sandals click-clacked over the wide stone entry steps. She was searching for the doorbell when a blur appeared behind the frosted glass and the door opened, revealing Beckett Miller, fully clothed in jeans and a faded Corona T-shirt. He stood—no, towered—in the entryway and swept his hand to the side.
“Come in, Ms. Paulson, please. Welcome to my not-much-longer home.”
She stepped in, her head moving up, down, all around as he latched the front door. Marble floors, hand-troweled walls, tall windows. Light, elegant, beautiful. Somebody’s got good taste.
He looked her over and raised his eyebrows. “You grew.”
“I did?” She glanced down at herself. “Oh! I’m in heels today. Do you want shoes off?”
“No, you’re fine. Can I get you something to drink?”
Her throat had gone dry. “Water would be nice.”
“Follow me.” His bare feet slapped across the floor.
She did and found herself in a gourmet kitchen that made her want to search out recipes. After accepting the water, she traipsed after him as he narrated a tour through the five-bedroom, seven-bath mansion, complete with theater, bar, wine cellar, indoor pool, and full-sized gym. In the background, Hall and Oates sang about someone having what they wanted, about them being hard to handle, and a flame burning a candle, yeah, yeah.
“Speakers wired throughout the house?” she asked.
“Yep. Outside too.”
As they passed from one room to another, their footsteps echoed off empty walls through empty spaces. Where were the furnishings? At the master bedroom double doors, she hesitated. It seemed so … well, personal. She forced her feet across the threshold into a simply furnished room with tasteful masculine accents in gold and indigo. The walls were empty, and shapes where pictures had been appeared darker than the surrounding paint.
“It looks like you used to have artwork hanging up?”
“Not really artwork,” he replied. He had a deep, whiskey-smooth voice. She hadn’t recalled that about him. “Hockey collectibles. A signed Gordie Howe jersey, autographed pictures of players like Gretzky. Stuff like that.”
“And you took it all down?” She was in the closet now, surveying neatly hung shirts, jeans, rows of suits. A pleasant, spicy man-smell filled the space.
He scratched his neck. “I needed to raise some cash, so I sold it.”
“Oh. Well, I have some pictures I could loan you for staging. And we’ll want to put away the personal photos in the family room.”
“That would help, huh?”
She gave him a smile. “I think so.”
Now Hall and Oates’s dreams were coming true, oh yeah, and the song bounced through the space. She followed Beckett as he jogged downstairs, looking everywhere but at the clean line of hair at his nape, his wide back, his narrow waist, his perfect butt.
“So what room do you spend the most time in?” she asked for no reason other than to distract herself.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “The gym.”
Yeah, with that physique, I should’ve guessed.
“And here,” he added as they walked back into the kitchen.
“You cook?” She tried to keep the disbelief from her voice.
He smirked. “Yes, and before I sold it, I had a baby grand. I didn’t play it well, but I could bang out a few tunes. I’m not all thug, Ms. Paulson. My mom insisted my brother and I cook, do our own laundry, and play a musical instrument. Anytime I balked, she lectured me about balance so I didn’t turn into a total goon.”
“Your mom actually called you a goon?”
He laughed. “No. I think she used the word ‘Neanderthal’ more than once, though.”
“She sounds lovely.”
“She was, yes. Very lovely.”
Paige’s preconceived notions about Beckett Miller were being dismantled. There was still that whole sex machine thing, though.
“So,” he said with a hand slap on the granite slab counter, “How much are you going to cost me?”
There it is. So he’s not dismantling all my assumptions.
“That sounded really bad, didn’t it?” He grinned.
Is he blushing?
“Let me rephrase that. What are you going to charge me?”
Have I decided to take him on? For twelve percent, heck yes!
“The standard is anywhere between five and seven percent, which is typically shared with the buyer’s agent,” her evil twin said.
He brought a water bottle to his lips and tilted his head back. His Adam’s apple twitched as he swallowed. Even his neck was muscular and beautiful, like something from an ancient sculpture of the perfect man. Adonis. Paige threw back her own water.
He set his bottle down. “Okay. Then how about I pay you eight percent?”
She glanced around at the blank walls. “That’s too high. How about six?” Her evil twin again. She’d have to instruct herself that one negotiated to one’s benefit, not the other way around.
He half-frowned, half-smiled. “I don’t want to screw you, Ms. Paulson.”
She opened her mouth and closed it again. The Eagles were singing “Tequila Sunrise” now.
He laughed. “Oh sh—I mean, I’m really sorry. Everything seems to be coming out of my mouth the wrong way again. What I meant was—”
“You want to be sure I’m well-compensated.”
He pointed at her. “Yes! Thank you for articulating what I’m incapable of at the moment!” In a rich baritone, he picked up the Eagles’ thread of wondering why the right words
never came.
Paige warbled along before she could stop herself, making them both laugh.
“Mr. Miller, I will take your listing for six percent—and two tickets to a hockey game.”
“Done. You do realize we’ve crossed that most intimate of lines, right?”
Oh, here we go.
“I mean, singing together and all,” he said. “We have to get back to a first-name basis. You used to call me Beckett—at least to my face, though you were perfectly entitled to call me a boatload of other names, just as you’re entitled now. I’d still like to call you Andie.”
She scrunched her brows. “Why Andie?”
He put his hands on top of his head and shrugged. The Corona T-shirt inched up, flashing a stripe of skin covering hard muscle. Paige refrained from fanning herself with her hand and tore her ogling gaze from his abs.
“I don’t know. It suits you. But I can always call you Paigey.” He winked a baby blue.
“I prefer Andie.”
He left his front door open and walked her to her truck, singing softly, absently, along with the song drifting from the speakers. It was about hungry eyes. More like swimming-pool-blue eyes. He opened her door and closed it after she got settled. As she pulled away, a riot of thoughts swarming her brain, he waved to her in her rearview.
The property wasn’t in her usual wheelhouse, but it was saleable and would be a boost to her business—definitely a listing she was excited to have. So why did her stomach feel as though an Oklahoma twister was raging there? Clearly, it wasn’t the home causing her inner roiling—which left its owner, a virtual grab bag of contradictions packaged in physical perfection. Until their meeting, “multi-faceted” wouldn’t have been among her descriptors for Beckett Miller, yet it was the one label that persisted in her muddled mind. Likewise, she wouldn’t have described him as “down on his luck” before today, but his empty house had screamed otherwise, and she hadn’t been able to go through with twelve percent. She was a businesswoman, not a mercenary.
