“What’s the market like in Glenvar Heights right now?”
I almost missed Aaron’s question, my attention skittering between the sexy memories and the nasty images I was trying to counter them with.
“Uh…” I moved to the other side of his neck. “What are you thinking about? A house or one of those townhomes by the mall?”
“I don’t know. Something less than two-fifty, if I can help it.”
“I’m assuming you want something you could fix up?”
“Preferably.”
“I’ll pull listings and send them to you this afternoon. But honestly, I’m not sure you should be buying anything right now.” As much as we needed the commission, Aaron needed to take a beat and see how he handled running his company without Becca’s help, and how the chips fell into place after this divorce. “If you could live with Chelsea for a year and save your money—I’d rather put you in something better, that will appreciate more.”
“I’m taking Elle’s side on this one.” Easton navigated around the edge of the counter and to the back door. Opening up the slider, he called Wayland’s name. “Damn dog,” he muttered. “He’s in your bougainvillea bush.”
I groaned and let out my own shriek of Wayland’s name. Before me, Aaron winced at the sound. “Sorry.” I kneaded along the upper border of his shoulder blade.
“Keep doing that and you can make me deaf.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head to one side. “God, Elle. Your husband know how lucky he is?”
Easton met my eyes and gave me a wink. “I do. Now get up. It’s my turn.”
5
Four days later, I sipped cheap champagne in a sea of my peers.
“Dr.Witter is the best.” The woman jumped in place, her magnificent cleavage bouncing in an impressively realistic fashion, and the surrounding cluster of Realtors cooed in approval. “But you’ve got to get in his books early. I had to wait nine months for these babies.”
I took a sip of my champagne and eased around the group, fighting the urge to stare at the woman, who was turning sideways in an attempt to show her lack of facelift scars. Pushing sixty, she had the breasts—and face—of a thirty-year-old. I glanced down at my own chest briefly, then dismissed any thoughts of enhancement.
My breasts were one thing I’d always been happy with. Big enough to fill out a bathing suit, but small enough to avoid back pain. Back in Ocala, they’d earned me a spot on the homecoming court. At Florida State, plenty of admiring looks poolside. In Miami… I walked past a well-timed cluster of tan double-d-sized agents pecking at the open house’s lunch buffet.
In Miami, I was considered flat. I tried to resist the urge to compare myself with the naturally endowed Cubans, or the cosmetically enhanced bikini models, but my bras had grown more padded, more push-up, and I’d moved my thinking from an after-baby reconstruction to an after-baby reconstruction with size upgrade.
Assuming I ever had a baby.
“God, this place is a disaster.” Tim Rowland appeared beside me, his own champagne flute tight against his Vineyards Vine-clad chest. He peered down at the listing flyer. “Five bedrooms and only two baths? No wonder they’re bribing us with alcohol and lunch.”
“I can deal with the two bathrooms.” I nodded toward the living room. “It’s the decor that’s going to kill this. They need to move out all the furniture, paint the place, then re-list.”
“Honey, old people in Miami love this shit.” He set down his drink and picked a gold monkey off a nearby console table, examining it. “I bet this thing cost a fortune.”
Maybe he was right. I tried to look at the house through different eyes, but I couldn’t find a single thing that appealed to me. All the furniture was pastel. Everything. Lamps, sofas, rugs, art, pillows, and curtains. What wasn’t pastel was gold. Gold light switches. Gold kitchen fixtures, lights, doorknobs, and appliances. Where had they found a pink and gold fridge? I could have possibly dealt with the palette if it had been offset with white, but they’d chosen black as the staple color. Black painted concrete floors. Black marble countertops. Black wood accents on the furniture. It was Miami Vice dipped in noir.
“At least the view is nice.” I looked through the sea of realtors and out at the Intracoastal.
“True,” he drawled, setting down the monkey. “If you like staring across at someone else’s backyard.”
“Well, we can’t all live beachfront.” I poked him playfully in the side. “The beggars can’t be choosy.”
Tim dismissed the dig with a careful sweep of his freshly highlighted hair. “I work for that view every night. Don’t you forget it.”
“Please.” I held up a hand. “I really, really don’t want the details.”
Tim picked his champagne back up and winked at me. When I’d first met him, I’d assumed that the Porsche Carrera and Patek Philippe watch were family money. And they were, but not his. He was three years into a relationship with Fredrick Mount, III. To an outsider, he was a boy toy of the handsome and older shipping heir. But I’d spent enough time around them to realize they had a deep friendship and were truly in love, despite the thirty-year age gap. And Fred took Tim’s real estate career seriously, supporting him both financially and emotionally as Tim worked his bubble butt off to grow his business.