“No law that says you can’t have both.”

“You mean besides common sense?” She bends over and picks up her folder from the truck floor, then starts rummaging around inside of it. “We should get going. We’ve got four more houses to see.”

I want to push her, want to get her to agree to go to dinner with me. But I can tell that’s not going to happen now—her eyes are shadowed, her jaw set. Everything about her, including her full, gorgeous lips, is one firm, no-nonsense line. And while I understand the value of a blitz attack—every successful quarterback does—I also understand the importance of the finesse play. Of biding my time and waiting for an opening in the defense.

Which is why I put the car in gear without a protest.

Why I follow her directions to the next listing without comment.

And why I don’t complain when my first look at the house confirms what I already know—that meeting Emerson is the only thing keeping this day, and this house search, from turning into a total shit show.

Chapter 7

Emerson

Hunter isn’t happy. He hasn’t said anything negative about any of the houses we’ve gone to, but then he hasn’t really said anything at all. After that first one, when he refused to take a step past the all white foyer, he hasn’t even been difficult. No, he’s toured all three of the houses Kerry picked out for him without complaint. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any, simply that he’s decided to stop sharing them with me.

Because of that stupid kiss.

More like because of that mind-blowing, breath-stealing kiss, my sense of honesty compels me to admit. But the fact that the man kissed me like no one ever has before—and probably never will again, I’m willing to admit—doesn’t mean anything. And it certainly doesn’t change anything. After all, he’s kissed hundreds of women. Thousands, probably. I’d be a lot more concerned if he couldn’t kiss.

Besides, just because he’s a good kisser doesn’t mean he’s a good person. My stupid toes might have curled the second he put his lips on mine, but that doesn’t mean I’ve completely lost my mind—or my sense of perspective. He’s still the same jerk who splashed water on me and then didn’t even have the decency to feel bad about it. The same jerk who offered me money for dry cleaning and then was shocked when I actually took it.

The same jerk who grabbed me and kissed me the moment I climbed back into his truck. The fact that I’ll be living on that kiss for a while doesn’t matter. Nothing does but selling Hunter Browning a house before I lose my job. Which means, kiss or no kiss, I’d better figure out what he doesn’t like about these houses and fast.

“The swimming pool in that last house was nice,” I say as we pull out onto the quiet, tree-lined street in the gated La Jolla neighborhood that boasts some of the most luxurious homes in San Diego.

“Yeah.” His voice is as flat as his one-word answer.

“And the view was spectacular, don’t you think?”

He shrugs. “Sure, I guess.”

Frustration ramps through me. These are houses that most people can only dream about and he sounds like I just forced him into a double root canal at the dentist. “Look, I get that you don’t like the houses. That’s fine. But I’m flying blind here. If we’re going to find a house you actually do like, you need to talk to me.”

“I have talked to your boss. Numerous times. And it’s made no difference. I’m about to cancel the contract—I’m sick of wasting my time.”

Frustration turns to alarm. If he kills the contract now, I’m fired for sure. And without the benefit of a one and a half percent commission to fall back on, I’ll starve to death. Or worse, have to go home with my tail tucked between my legs. And since my mom would never let me live it down—not to mention probably make giving up my art a condition of helping me out—I am so not ready to do that. Not even close.

“So talk to me!” I tell him, fighting to keep the desperate edge out of my voice. “You made a point of pissing off my boss and demanding that I be the one to show you houses. Give me a chance to do that.”

He stops at a red light and glances over at me. “You’ve spent the last two hours raving about those ridiculous houses we just went through.”

“Because I thought they were what you wanted! And because—ridiculous or not—they are absolutely gorgeous. Even you have to admit that.”

“I’m not looking for gorgeous. I’m looking—” He breaks off as the light turns green.

“For what?” I demand, exasperated. “I’m not a mind reader. How the hell am I supposed to help you if you don’t give me some kind of fucking direction here?”

“Is that what they taught you in real estate school?” he asks with a smirk. “To swear at your clients?”

“When they’re as frustrating as you, yes!”

He nods, his grin widening. But he doesn’t say anything else and I’m done trying to push him. My whole livelihood hangs in the balance here, but screw it. I don’t beg men for anything.

We drive in silence for a few minutes and I’m so mad that it takes me most of that time to figure out that Hunter is taking us in the opposite direction from my office. I start to correct him, but a quick glance at his face tells me that now might be a good time to shut up. His jaw is tight, his eyes narrowed with concentration. Even his hands are clenched on the wheel.

Wherever he’s taking me, it definitely isn’t an accident. And while a small part of me wonders if I’m about to be kidnapped by the best quarterback in the NFL, the rest of me is intrigued enough to wait him out. He doesn’t seem like the kidnapping s

Tags: Tracy Wolff Lightning Romance
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