Her fingers fly over the keys and fifteen minutes later, I’ve got a total of eight appointments set up to show houses this afternoon. A little thrill surges through me at the knowledge that I might be about to sell Hunter his dream house. And in doing so, make my dreams a little closer to coming true, too.
We barely finish in time, because Kerry strolls in just as Alice is logging out. She eyes both of us suspiciously, even as she wishes us good morning. Alice starts to ask her something, but she waves a dismissive hand and heads down the hall without another word.
I freeze as Kerry gets close to the printer—we might be logged out of the database, but we printed all the housing information and appointment confirmations out as we made them and they’re still sitting on the printer. Judging from the look on her face when she saw Alice and me sitting together, I’m pretty sure that she’ll know who they’re for. The last thing I want is to get her in trouble, especially since she went out on a limb to help me. Her license number is all over the appointment registration, even though my name is listed as agent.
But Kerry doesn’t even look at the printer as she storms into her office, all but slamming the door behind her. I lift my brows at Alice as the sharp sound echoes through the office. But she just shrugs, then starts to giggle as I continue to stare at her.
Soon I’m laughing, too, though my laughter has a tinge of a hysterical edge to it. I never dreamed that my first job out of college would have me at such odds with my boss—especially not on the second day.
“Still think the house sale will make enough money to get me back in her good graces?” I ask in between giggles.
“Honestly? You could sell houses to the Lightning’s entire offensive line and I’m not sure it will be enough to make her like you.”
“Well, that’s encouraging.”
“Actually, I think it’s really encouraging. Think of all the money you’ll make if Hunter hooks you up with a couple of his friends. I mean, seriously. Getting to sell one house in this price range is awesome. Getting to sell three or four? You’ll be rolling in it.”
I start to tell her I don’t want to be rolling in it, but I stop because…come on. It’s pretty amazing that I landed Hunter Browning as a client my first time out of the gate. Especially since yesterday had started out so badly. If I could land just one of his teammates, I would be set for a long time. More than long enough to really give myself a chance to get my stuff on the radar of the California art community.
It’s that thought that has me shuffling through my notes again after Alice leaves to meet a client. That has me scouring the MLS listings in between fielding phone calls and doing assistant work for Kerry, looking for any house I might have missed on my search last night.
I only find one, and that’s because it was just listed this morning. I fall in love with it right away, not just because of its location—on some of the most prime La Jolla beachfront there is—but because of its lines. Unlike most of the modern mansions around it, this home is stately. Old-world Mediterranean without being fussy. Beautiful, with its creamy white stucco and bronze metal balconies and rounded architecture. It has soaring windows on each of its three levels and a million high-end amenities, but as I flip through the pictures I’m impressed with how warm it feels. With how much it feels like a family home.
The fact that it’s also on the water—like, the property ends where the beach begins—is a huge win. Its price tag, a whopping $23.5 million, makes me wince, but it’s within the range Hunter gave Kerry. And, best of all, I can call and make an appointment to see it instead of having to go through that damn database.
I have a feeling in my bones that it’s the one, so I try to set up an appointment early in the day—even if it means having to cancel one of the ones I already set—but I can’t get one until seven in the evening. On the bright side, the other three appointments I set up in La Jolla were also at the end of the day, so at least we won’t have a lot of extra rush-hour driving to do. And it’s only about twenty minutes from the stadium when traffic is good. All in all, it’s a huge win and I’m thrilled it hit the market today.
The next couple of hours drag by, despite the fact that Kerry keeps me busy making her appointments (using her license number) for the week, setting up open houses and vetting a couple new real estate staging companies. Despite the fact that she’s only putting up with me to keep Hunter happy, I am glad that I get this chance—however short it will be—to work for her. She may have a myriad of personality flaws, but she’s a great real estate agent and I’m already learning a lot from her.
This may not be my first choice of career, but it’s something that can potentially support me as I pursue art, and I’m grateful that I’m getting the kind of on-the-job training that I am. Even if I get fired next week, I’ll still know a million times more than I did when I was hired last Monday.
Kerry keeps me so busy, in fact, that one o’clock sneaks up on me. I’m securing the last appointment for her Friday client when the main office door opens and in walks Hunter.
Somehow he looks even hotter than he did yesterday. He’s dressed in a red, vintage Aerosmith T-shirt that really works with his green eyes and is just form fitting enough to show off his well-muscled chest and tight, tight abs. Not to mention his freaking amazing biceps and the stylized dragon tattoo that makes up one of the most beautiful sleeves I’ve ever seen. His jeans are so faded that they’re bleached white and fraying at the cuffs and he’s wearing the round black diamond earrings that are one of his trademarks.
In other words—cliché or not—he looks so smoking hot that I’m surprised the office hasn’t caught fire. A quick glance behind me says I’m not the only one who feels that way. Alice is staring at him with her mouth open and the only other female agent in the place right now might need to wipe the drool from her chin.
I can’t judge either one of them, though, not when it’s taking every ounce of willpower I have not to lick my lips. He’s still the guy who soaked you with water, I remind myself as I reach into my desk drawer to pull out my purse. Still the guy who couldn’t even summon up a decent apology.
Still the guy who kissed you until your panties were soaked through, my suddenly wide-awake libido reminds me. And damn it, it’s all true. He might have a tendency to be a jerk, but the man can fucking kiss.
“You’re right on time,” I tell him as I push back from my desk. I wore one of my most conservative outfits today—a black wiggle skirt that hits me mid-calf and a purple peplum blouse with long, tight sleeves, a sweetheart neckline and a bow that delineates my waist. It’s a far cry from a suit, but it does cover more of me than almost any other outfit I have, so I figure that has to count for something in Kerry’s book. The fact that she looked me over for flaws numerous times today but never found anything to complain about makes me feel like I actually look professional—not just an artist’s vision of what professional might look like.
“One of my trademarks,” he answers laconically.
He looks me over—it’s subtle, way more subtle than yesterday, but it’s hard to miss the way his gaze runs over me from my head to my toes. His eyes are warm and it’s obvious he likes what he sees and I’m not sure how I feel about that. More receptive than I did yesterday morning, certainly…but that’s not saying much. Especially when Kerry’s words—along with a million gossip columns and sound bytes—are on a loop in my head, each one reminding me that men like him take what they want and then get out quick.
The last thing I want is to become one of Hunter Browning’s dates for a night. As the best—and best-looking—quarterback in the NFL, his prowess with the ladies is pretty much legendary. As is the fact that he rarely has one on his arm, or in his bed, for longer than a night or two.
With the way he kisses, if he was a normal guy, I might be tempted to sign up for a night or two in his bed. If it was only between two consenting adults who had the hots for each other. But becoming just another notch on superstud Hunter Browning’s very public bedpost? Definitely not on my agenda.
“Can you drive again today?” I ask as we head out to the street. I hope he says yes because my car is still dead as a doornail. I want to have her towed to a garage, but until I get my first paycheck, I can’t even afford to do that.
“Of course.” His hand goes to my lower back as he leads me to the absolutely beautiful gunmetal silver Aston Martin cozied up to the curb. The thing glistens in the early October sunlight and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to ooh and aah as he gets the door for me.
“No truck today?” I ask a little snidely. I don’t want him to think this gorgeous specimen of automobile impresses me. Even if it does. The man might think he’s God’s gift, but there’s no denying he has really, really good taste.
“I just wanted you to be comfortable,” he answers with a smirk. “I noticed you had a little bit of trouble climbing down from the truck yesterday.”