A Little Like Fate (Robin and Tyler 1)

My forehead hits the steering wheel and I just sit here, in my personalized parking spot that I completely don’t deserve. Big plastic real estate signs with my name on them crouch in my backseat, dirt still on the metal frame from where I ripped them out of the earth as fast as humanly possible in a pencil skirt and heels. The only thing worse than talking to the homeowners on the phone would be seeing them in person as I took my failure of a for sale sign out of their unsalable yard.

Does seventy-five thousand dollars mean I can suddenly suck at my job? Does it give me rights to earn the embarrassment of Worst Realtor in Houston award? Not that there is such a thing. Maybe they will invent it just for me.

I take a deep breath, pull my forehead off the steering wheel and stare at the patch of sunlight peeking out through clouds in my sunroof. This isn’t normal Robin Carter behavior. This whole, wah-wah my life sucks and I suck at everything and I’m getting too fat for this skirt and maybe I should just quit everything! feeling in my head, it isn’t me. I’m confident. I have a radiant, four-thousand-dollar smile that can be seen from billboards across town. And I can fit in this skirt when I don’t eat McDonald’s for breakfast.

I sell real estate like a motherfucker. It’s the only damn thing I’m good at. I definitely don’t date because dates turn into fiancés who cheat on you. And I don’t bother with girlfriends because all they do is fake caring about you and then sleep with your fiancé.

No, I’m not bitter about it or anything.

That house on Mike Street just wasn’t good enough for m

e. 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.