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“He’s for me,” I say, standing at the door of my office, smoothing the front of my skirt and white button up blouse that is definitely not Armani. I cock my head to the side and speak loudly enough for Maggie to hear from her office. “I may have just sold the McMullen Loft.”
“McMullen Loft?” Jen’s eyes are about to burst out of their perfectly lined smoky eyelids. “That’s a thirty thousand dollar commission.”
“Indeed it is,” I match her awed tone. The McMullen Loft has been on the market for three years, an outstanding fail in today’s housing market. Upscale Houston lofts rarely last thirty days without being sold, sometimes for over asking price. Millionaire architect and idiot Derek McMullen, however, shot himself in the foot when he designed and built an extensive six thousand square foot monstrosity on the outskirts of Houston’s poorest neighborhoods.
Every agency in Texas has had their go at trying to sell it, and despite the terrible odds, Grandpa spoke with Derek McMullen at an Irish pub one night, got totally drunk and promised him his granddaughter would have the place sold in a month.
Granddaughter being me, although Maggie has been going behind my back trying to find a buyer for it from out of state. She’s wanted the commission ever since her divorce, and even with Grandpa’s inheritance, I’m sure she’d still kill me to make the sale herself. We don’t know why Derek chose to stay with Carter Properties after Grandpa’s promised timeline had passed; but I think it has something to do with the fact that no other reputable agency wants anything to do with a massive property that won’t sell.
Jen stares at me with a childlike admiration. With her strawberry blond hair tied in loose pigtail braids, she almost looks like a child instead of a recent college graduate. “I officially want to be exactly like you when I’m a full agent.”
I throw my arm around her shoulder. “If anyone can do it, it’d be you.” Claire whirls around, her bottom lip jutting out. “And you,” I tell her, laughing in a way that almost makes the butterflies in my stomach go to back to sleep.
Claire’s eyes focus on the floor while she thinks. “Thirty grand? That’s like a half a million dollar sale?”
I nod, and the butterflies are back. A dark feeling casts a shadow on my excitement, making me second guess this meeting with my buyer. This would be the first sale I’ve made since I made that silly promise to Grandpa on his deathbed. Why does the biggest sale of my career have to be the first sale I make after a three week hiatus and my grandfather’s death? I can feel the smile singed into my face, but my whole body is terrified. Some guy from Arizona in an Armani suit, who I happened to have drunk sex with, is about to sign on the dotted line and suddenly, I have no idea how to do my job.
“Fuck me,” Jen says under her breath. “Thirty grand in one sale.”
Though she says nothing, Maggie’s chair makes a loud squeak like it does when she’s leaning back trying to hear what’s going on out here. A satisfied smile spreads across my face. And then it vanishes when she clears her throat. “Robin, I need to see you in my office, please.”
Jen’s eyes go wide even though this has nothing to do with her. Sometimes I think she’s more scared of my sister than I am. Not that I’m scared of her. “I’m busy,” I call back, only a few feet away from her office but refusing to walk up to her door.
“It can’t wait.” Her voice sounds so much like Mom’s. I cringe and trudge over to her door. She’s sitting at her desk, arms folded over a stack of papers, reading glasses tipped at the edge of her nose. Her long acrylic nails tap on the desk in an annoyed rhythm. Pinky, ring, middle, index, middle, ring, pinky.
Jen flutters away from the window and makes frantic arm circles toward the door. “He’s almost here! What do we do?”
“You let him in, offer him a drink and tell him to wait in my office.” I turn around. “And do something with her,” I say, pointing to Claire who is still awestruck and stuck to the window. That wouldn’t make a good impression, now would it?
Around the corner, I rest my hands on either side of Maggie’s doorframe. “What do you want?” I ask, glancing sideways at my oversized Rolex. “I’m busy.”
“Did I hear you say you’re selling the McMullen Loft?”
“I didn’t stutter.”
I can tell by the look on her face that she wants to retort with something equally juvenile, but my sister knows better than to do that. She simply blinks. “To whom, may I ask? Because I showed it to two very interested buyers last week. I have a good feeling one of them will make an offer.”
From around the corner, I can hear Claire ask Jason if he wants a drink. “What are you doing showing my listings?”
She shrugs. “I was at work these last three weeks. You weren’t.”
“Fucking excuse me for mourning the death of my grandfather,” I hiss, making my voice as venomous as possible without being loud enough for Jason to overhear. Everyone else in the office is used to hearing our arguments. It’s only gotten worse since Grandpa fell sick and I offered to take over his clients. I think Maggie thought she deserved first dibs on them.
Maggie’s lips are a thin line, the pink skin white where her teeth bite into it from insid
e her mouth. “Your client is waiting,” she says, shoving one hand in my direction in a signal that clearly means go away.
I pop into my office, smiling the entire time as if I’ve just had the most glorious chat with my elder sister, and let the door swing shut with a satisfying click. Jason sits in the chair across from my desk, his fingers swiping madly across the screen of his tablet. A steaming cup of coffee rests on my Texas-shaped coasters. Is that really an Armani suit? With Jason’s gorgeous jawline, five o’clock shadow and broad shoulders, he could be wearing a garbage bag for all I know.
“Jason, hello,” I say, extending my arm across my desk to shake his hand. It wavers in the air a fraction or two long enough to make me sufficiently awkward before he finally takes his attention away from the tablet to shake my hand. I catch a glimpse of the screen before he turns it off and slides it into his briefcase – he was on Facebook.
That status update better say: MEETING WITH ROBIN CARTER TO BUY A LOFT. WILL PROBABLY ASK HER OUT FOR A DRINK LATER.
Jason tips his fingers under his chin and surveys me, making me completely aware that my skirt is not Armani, or anything close to it. And I wish my top showed more cleavage. Something about me must have made him come back. Or, you know, maybe it was the loft. And maybe I need to get laid more than once every blue moon with a stranger-slash-client. Just because I’ve sworn off relationships doesn’t mean I have to swear off sex. It would sure help with the way my brain turns to mush when I’m around him. When his eye-assault on me is over he says, “It’s great to see you again.”
“I uh, er, you too,” I say, smiling so much it makes my face hurt. I sink into my chair. Jason rolls his chair closer and rests his elbows on the desk across from me.
“I’d like to offer four-ninety. Do you think they’d accept that?”
