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And that was how I first encountered Brad De Luca. Butter on my cheek, a sticky fork in hand, my mouth full of pancakes.
“Brad De Luca.” He extended a hand and I struggled to get off the stool, a wedge of dry yet sticky food stuck somewhere in my gullet.
I swallowed hard. “Elle North, with Blanton & Rutledge Realty.” I wiped my hands on a crumpled paper towel and shook his hand, which swallowed mine whole.
The online photo I’d swooned over hadn’t done him justice. It hadn’t captured the power of his stare or the wave of charisma and masculinity that radiated from him. I tore my gaze away from him and somehow made it back to my chair without whimpering.
Whimpering. Why in all holy hells would I be fighting the urge to whimper?
“She’s testing the syrups,” Julia explained, wiping the back of one wrist across her forehead, a spatula still in hand.
Brad glanced toward the stove. “Oh, no. You cooked these?”
I shifted on the stool and wondered when the house tour would begin. Should I be instigating that? They seemed to have no concept that I was here to list their property.
“Here. Taste.” Julia broke off a piece of her latest creation and I winced at the audible snap that the action made. Pancakes had never, in my experience, snapped. She held a piece toward his mouth and he stepped closer, his jaw flexing open as he took it from her. It was an intimate moment and I looked down and sawed off another wedge.
“Wow.” He chewed slowly and rigorously. “That’s terrible.”
The laugh burst out of me, along with a few bits of pancake. I clamped my hand over my mouth in an attempt to contain the damage and saw Julia smack his shirt with a flour-covered hand.
“Don’t be mean. It’s not terrible!”
“Babe.” He glanced around the massive kitchen, which she had somehow managed to cover in flour, syrup samples, and batter. “How many of them have you tried? And where’s Martha?”
“I’ve tried some,” she defended. “And you go talk to Martha if you want her to cook. It’s Friday.”
“Ah, right.” He moved past her and I watched as his hand trailed over her ass with easy ownership. Opening the fridge, he pulled out a bottle of water, then turned to me. “So, you’re the one who’s selling this beast?”
I wiped my mouth and nodded in my most professional manner. “Yes, sir. It’s a prime location. Should sell quickly.” Quite possibly the most idiotic three sentences anyone had voiced so far today.
“Privacy is a concern for us.” He twisted off the bottle’s cap and glanced in his wife’s direction. “And security. I’d like to limit and control the number of people who have access to the house.”
Over breakfast, Easton and I had discussed whether or not I should acknowledge or bring up his family. We had decided against it, and I struggled to keep my features bland and unsuspecting. “It’s customary with a house this size for me to be present at any showings, but I’m happy to do anything that makes you feel more comfortable. Was there anything specific you have in mind?”
“Why don’t we give her a tour?” Julia suggested, moving to the prep sink and washing her hands. “Then she’ll see the control room.” She looked at me for agreement and I nodded, as if I knew what a control room was.
“But first,” she gestured to my plate. “Eat up.”
“Oh yes,” Brad intoned. “And if any of those syrups make those pancakes even remotely edible, I’ll write a blank check right now because that’s bottled magic.”
She flung a pancake toward him and he swung the water bottle at the incoming missile. The two connected, and there was a sharp crack as the stiff cake hit the front of a cabinet.
“Go ahead,” Julia urged, flashing a breezy smile in my direction. “Try the bacon-flavored one next.”
* * *
The house was gorgeous. Everything I could have ever wanted in a listing. Vaulted ceilings. Lots of light. Updated bathrooms. A spacious and flowing floor plan. And… a few extras I didn’t expect. Deadbolts on bedroom doors. Wired sensors in every window. A panic room with a cluster of monitors that showcased every square inch of the property. I stood at the entrance to the tight space and stared at its interior. There was a wall of guns and ammunition. Three different phones. Nine video screens attached to a laptop. A first-aid kit the size of a mini-fridge.
“We’d like this room’s existence to be kept confidential.”
“So, you don’t want this shown during a property tour? What about in the listing photos?” I consulted my notepad as if it contained instructions on navigating this minefield.
“Just pretend it doesn’t exist. We can show it to the buyers after closing.” Julia ran a hand over the wall and the light in the panic room dimmed.
