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And I most definitely will not be wearing an elf hat while I do it.
I call the buyers I have in mind, and just as I expected, they’re interested. Mr. and Mrs. Swizzle are the worst kind of buyers. They come to Reindeer Falls every December as tourists, but they can’t stop themselves from swinging by my office, going on and on about how they want to “put down roots” here. I humor them, but they never actually want to buy. They’ve found things wrong with literally every house I’ve ever shown them, and Ryan’s house won’t be any different.
But none of that matters. In fact, it all makes them ideal candidates for my final revenge on Ryan.
Is it evil to subject Ryan to the Swizzles’ unending monologues about microwave placement or cabinet colors? Well, evil sounds like a strong word. Naughty, perhaps. But mostly, it just sounds like fun. Besides, he wants out of there and they’re qualified buyers, so what does he care?
Mostly, I just want the satisfaction of showing Ryan that he didn’t win. And I’ll do almost anything to get it.
I arrive within the hour at Ryan’s place, the Swizzles in tow. As soon as we get there, they’re saying the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard, as a realtor or otherwise. It’s like they’re parroting things they heard on HGTV, only they weren’t paying much attention because literally everything they’re saying is wrong.
“I don’t care for the color of the foundation,” Mrs. Swizzle is saying as Ryan opens the door. “Can the seller change that?”
Ryan’s eyebrows practically hit his hairline. “Uh, come in?”
“Ugh, just as I expected,” Mr. Swizzle says, pushing past Ryan. “Wood trim everywhere. We’d have to paint over it.”
“And a staircase?” Mrs. Swizzle says, gesturing at the gorgeous staircase near the entrance. “I wanted a two-story without stairs.”
“Maggie?” Ryan asks, looking at me, bewildered. As he should be. I didn’t tell him we were coming.
“Buyers, for your house,” I explain with the kind of smile children fake during staged family photos. “I made a one-time-only exception to the holiday selling moratorium, on account of how badly you need to get out of town.”
“Maggie—”
“I am the best realtor in town.” I shrug. “And I’d hate to violate the realtor code of ethics by leaving you hanging.”
“I thought you were the only realtor in town,” he quips. “But Maggie—”
“Where’s the kitchen?” Mrs. Swizzle asks. “I need to see if there’s an undermount sink. I can’t live without one.”
They bumble off towards the kitchen, critiquing everything from the cabinets to the new faucet that Ryan just installed. It’s a vintage reproduction, and it complements the kitchen perfectly, looking modern but still matching the vintage vibe. The Swizzles declare loudly that they’d “have to gut the entire kitchen so they could install a microwave over the stove.”
Ryan’s staring at me like I just shot a reindeer in front of him.
I force myself to look smug.
“Oh, this staircase is so brown,” Mr. Swizzle declares, coming out to tap the historic woodwork that adds to the house’s charm. Then, in a fit of inspiration, he declares, “I’ll replace the spindles with wire cable. It’s very on-trend.”
That breaks something in Ryan’s brain. I see it in the twitch of his eyes. To be fair, even I recoil, but that’s not the point.
“Excuse me?” Ryan asks Mr. Swizzle.
Mr. Swizzle shrugs. “I just hate old things.”
“Who are these people?” Ryan hisses to me.
I bite my lip. “The only buyers I could find you as a last-minute favor aren’t good enough for you, Cityscraper?”
“Why are you selling this place?” Mrs. Swizzle asks, coming out of the kitchen. “Total fixer-upper. But if you’re trying to inflate the price—”
“He’s not Reindeer Falls material,” I tell them with a pitying look at Ryan, cutting him off before he can rage at the insult that this house is a “fixer-upper.” “And he knows it, so he’ll cut a deal with you to get out of town fast.”
“What kind of a deal?” Mr. Swizzle asks, intrigued.
“Yes, what kind of deal?” Mrs. Swizzle adds, clapping her hands together. “Because I only want to use this house in December. You know, a Christmas house? Reindeer Falls is so on-trend right now. Turn-key would have been better, but we can have this place gut-renovated in time for next Christmas.”
“Excuse me,” Ryan says, struggling to keep his voice steady. “You only want to use the house in December? My uncle’s beloved pride and joy? This house is on the Reindeer Falls historic registry. As a licensed architect I can assure you you won’t get approval for a gut renovation, which the house doesn’t need.”
The Swizzles blink at him, confused by most of the words he just used.
So he simplifies it down to two.
“Get out,” he says, pointing at the door. And then, just to me, he shakes his head. Like he has the nerve to be disappointed in me.
