He turns his gaze on me then, fire burning in the depths of it. “I need a house, Emerson. And I need it soon.”
I nod even as my mind races. There’s something going on here that I don’t know about, and whatever it is isn’t good. “I’ll find some options as soon as possible. Can you go out looking tomorrow?”
“I’m at the stadium until one tomorrow. But I’m free after that.”
“Okay, then. If you give me a little more time today—I want to narrow down exactly what you’re looking for—I’ll set up appointments at as many houses as possible tomorrow afternoon and evening. If we’re looking, we’ll find something that fits. Sound good?”
He studies my face, like he’s trying to figure out whether or not to believe me. I’d be offended, except Kerry’s failed him so completely that I can see
why he’s wary. No wonder he was ready to break the contract today. I’d probably do the same thing if I were him.
We walk back to his truck at a much more reasonable pace, and I take the time to ask more questions about the kind of house he really wants. That it also distracts me from the fact that he’s eased us across the street and we are now walking entirely too close to the ocean for my comfort is a nice side benefit.
We cover the pool question—as long as the ocean is outside his door, he can take a pool or leave one.
The acreage question—he wants a decent backyard.
The style question—he wants something comfortable, where he can kick back and relax and not worry about getting dirt on the pristine white walls.
It’s only when I get to the number of bedrooms and entertainment spaces that he falters, his laconic smile dropping away as he stares moodily out to sea. “At least three,” he says, his voice hoarse.
There is so obviously something more to the story that it takes a lot for me not to push. But he’s a client and—despite the admittedly legendary kiss we shared—this is not a date. Just because he suddenly seems a lot more human than he did this morning when he was looking me over suggestively and calling me sweetheart doesn’t mean he isn’t still that guy. Everyone has personal problems and Hunter Browning’s are definitely none of my business.
Chapter 8
Hunter drops me back at the office at a quarter after one. I’m starving—the granola bar I had for breakfast wore off a while ago. I’ve got an apple stashed in my bag, and I think about digging it out and eating it before heading inside to face the music, but I’ve barely closed the door on the truck when I notice Kerry lurking near the big picture window at the front of the office.
No chance of putting this confrontation off, then. I take a moment to square my shoulders and get my head in the right space, as if that’s even possible, then head for the front door for the second time today.
The fact that there’s no gorgeous quarterback to hassle me this time around is something I am both thankful for and a little sad about. I don’t make it a habit of hiding behind a big strong man—I can stand on my own pair of red pumps, thank you very much—but it would be nice to have Hunter as a buffer right now. If Kerry was focused on him and the very big payday his house will bring to her agency, then she’d have less chance to tear me a new one. As it is, I’ve got one shot to convince her not to fire me.
One very long shot, I acknowledge as a hush falls over the office when I step inside. There are only a few people in here now—the rest are presumably showing houses—but every person in the main room is staring at me. Some with scorn, some with pity…either way, I’m not the least bit surprised when Kerry looks up from where she stands by my desk, pretending to be busy.
“Welcome back, Emerson.” The words are as ice-cold as her smile. “Do you have a few minutes to step into my office?”
I want to tell her no, but that’s not an option so I just nod and follow her down the hall. As I walk, I’m totally aware of the people who continue to watch me. Watch us. At least they’re being more surreptitious now, glancing at me from under their lashes instead of doing the full-on stare they were giving me when I first got here.
As we get closer to her office, I try to block out the looks and murmurs and concentrate instead on what I’m going to say to Kerry. On how I’m going to save my job when every step of her ice-pick heels against the Moroccan tile floor seems to sound my death knell.
I want to laugh at myself, at the overly dramatic description, but I can’t. Not when my job—my whole survival as an adult on my own—hangs in the balance.
Once we get to her office, Kerry ushers me in first then firmly shuts the door behind us. I stand there awkwardly for one second, two, as I wait for her to tell me to sit down. She never does. Instead, she moves behind her desk to sit in her beautiful and incredibly uncomfortable-looking chair. And then she just stares me down, like a bug under a microscope. Or worse, like a big cat with its prey, her eyes tracking my every breath. My every blink.
And like a big cat, Kerry is definitely the type to play with her food before she eats it.
That thought, more than any other, stiffens my spine. Has me moving toward one of the chairs positioned on this side of her desk and sitting down without an invitation. Yes, I was late this morning. That’s on me. But everything that’s happened since has not been my fault and I’m not going to sit here like a whipped puppy—like prey—and let her take me apart. If I’m going to lose this job, I’m going to lose it fighting.
She watches me sit with her red-taloned hands crossed on her desk and her impossibly blond, over-plucked brows raised. I’m not sure if she’s surprised at my audacity or annoyed by it and right now I don’t give a damn. Which is why I take my time settling into the chair, crossing my legs, resting my bag on the floor.
She waits as I settle in, not saying anything until I have nothing else to do but look her straight in her beautiful, if pinched-looking, face. Then she purses her lips and asks, “So, how did the house hunting go?”
“It went well,” I answer cautiously. Which isn’t exactly a lie, considering I now know what kind of house he’s looking for. That’s progress, though I’m not so sure Kerry will see it that way.
“Excellent. Which of the houses does he like?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “He likes the Magnolia one, doesn’t he?” she says, naming the one with the all-white foyer Hunter refused to step beyond. “I knew he would.”
“He appreciated the detail in that one,” I answer, struggling to be as diplomatic as I possibly can. “But he’d like to go out again tomorrow afternoon, see some more houses.”
Her brows go impossibly higher, though her forehead somehow doesn’t move at all. I watch with a paralyzed kind of fascination. How much Botox has this woman had injected?