Chapter One
“You look like you could use a drink.”
I glanced up to see Christine leaning against the door of my office and grimaced. “I could use a hell of a lot more than a drink.”
“Rough day?” she asked, pushing off the doorframe.
I laughed, but it was without humor. “Rough week.”
And I didn’t see it getting easier anytime soon. “Wolfe keeps changing his mind on what he wants. I’ve shown him no fewer than twenty properties. Shelly is still out on maternity leave, and the city is fighting me on the plans for the new property on Sycamore.”
I leaned my head back against the chair, sick of all the drama, the bullshit. I loved my job, had worked my ass off to get to this point in my career, but it never seemed like enough. There was always another challenge to conquer—a newer, bigger client to court, more money to be made.
I used to think that if I had five hundred dollars in the bank, I’d be set. Now, I had five hundred so many times over, I’d lost count. Despite the number of zeros in my account, it was never enough.Iwas never enough.
I was always running from one thing to the next. Hair appointments to cover the premature gray. Spa appointments to keep my skin firm and glowing and my bikini line clean. The gym to stay in shape. Client meetings. School conferences. Plays. The list went on and on.
“Wolfe will be happy in the end,” Christine said, breaking me out of my thoughts. “You’ll find the perfect property. You always do.”
Deep down, I knew she was right. But sometimes it felt like I had to sell my soul to get there. Like I wasn’t just selling the client a property with every deal, but a little piece of myself.
“Thanks,” I said, and I meant it.
Christine was my employee, and she was a good sounding board. She was a hard worker, good at her job. She reminded me a lot of myself at her age.
“I’m sure you’ll find your footing with the developmental side,” she said. “You just need to make the right contacts.”
I nodded. I’d been wanting to branch out to developing properties for years. I’d waited until Sophia was in school full time. And with her visiting her dad for the summer, I’d finally felt confident enough to take on the extra work it would entail. It was a big gamble, but I was hoping it would pay off.
My phone rang, and I glanced down at the screen to see my ex-husband’s name. “I have to take this,” I said to Christine before connecting the call. “Cal.”
“Alexis, hey.” I knew that tone—he needed a favor.
“What do you need?”
“This huge opportunity came up, once in a lifetime, really.” I could hear people talking and laughing in the background. Loud music. He was probably in a bar.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. I knew what was coming next. And I was tempted to hang up the phone just so I wouldn’t have to hear it.
“I got a music gig I can’t pass up.”
I blew out a breath. I wanted to be happy for him, honestly. His passion for music was one of the things that had initially drawn me to him. But over time, I’d realized he would always put it above everything—and everyone—else.
And I’d had enough of playing second fiddle. I’d had enough of feeling like a single parent, working to support our family while he was off galivanting. Off chasing his dream. Divorcing him had helped—our relationship was better now than when we were married. But he would always be an artsy free spirit, and I would always be the worker bee; the bad cop to his good.
“Cal,” I chided. “Sophia’s all packed, and she’s so excited to spend time with you.”
“Maybe I could—” He was quiet, but the background noise was overpowering. “Maybe she could come with me for part of it, since I’ll be touring for the next eight weeks.”
My eyes went wide. “Eight weeks? That’s the whole summer.”
In my business, summer was selling season. I often moved more properties during the months of May to July than the other three quarters combined. With the school year over, families were looking to move. And properties showed well during the summer, when most buyers were generally more relaxed. Plus, I’d been counting on having this time to iron out some of the issues on my Sycamore property.
“I know, babe. I’m sorry. But I could still take her for part of it.”
“Absolutely not,” I ground out, standing so I could close the door to my office. “Our six-year-old daughter is not going to be a groupie.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right. The tour bus is going to be crowded as it is.”
