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I snort. “I’m not a closeted lesbian. Though, I admit I considered it once when I first started here and met Nikki.”
“Girl, I hear that.” A burst of laughs leaves his lips. “Someone needs to get her to spill the details on her skincare regimen because, I swear, she looks airbrushed.”
Nikki Fellows is a fortysomething goddess who is one of EllisGrey’s top-selling agents. She doesn’t look a day over twenty-five, and her skin always has that dewy, vibrant glow you only see on high-fashion models in makeup commercials. It’s almost disturbing how perfect she is.
I honestly don’t know if it’s Botox or good genetics or some super-secret fountain of youth she has in her background, but homegirl is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my life. And she’s smart and nice too.
“Maybe the next contract re-up, you should consider adding that into Nikki’s requirements.”
“You’re diabolical. I love it.” He smirks and takes a sip from his coffee. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to catch up on some emails or else Thomas will turn psychotic.”
Thomas is the Grey half of EllisGrey. And while Damien is mostly laid-back, relaxed, and cool, Thomas is a Type-A nightmare. Very nice but very demanding. Truthfully, if I were working under him, I’m not sure I would’ve lasted in my career.
It’s not like your career is exactly stable right now as it is…
Damien’s eyes are already on the screen of his computer and his fingers move quickly across the keys, but I continue to sit there, still uncertain about the whole reason I came into his office in the first place.
“So…uh…New York?” I question gently, and Damien’s gaze lifts to mine.
“Doll, I’m a gay man whose favorite movie is You’ve Got Mail,” he answers with a cheeky grin. “Like I’d ever stand in the way of soul mates.”
My shoulders sag, and a whole double-lungful of toxic air I didn’t know I was holding floods the room in a rush.
“Though, I want you to finish planning out the staging on the Santa Monica, West Hollywood, and Beverly Hills properties. I figure that’ll take you at least the week, and then you can go.”
That’s another two weeks of work, but leaving in one is better. Even that feels like an eternity in “anxiety years.” I’m just going to have to fit it all in somehow.
“Of course.”
“And most of the listings you’ll be working on will be mine. Not Thomas’s. So don’t let that demanding bastard force too much work on you.”
I nod, more than happy to agree to that stipulation.
“Update Carrie on your temporary transition to the East Coast,” he adds, and I know that’s my cue that this conversation is done.
But as I leave his office, I can’t deny that relief isn’t the only emotion I’m currently feeling. Even a week is a hell of a lot of time to lose when I’m supposed to be showing that Flynn and I are a married, in-love couple.
Most newly married couples don’t live on opposite ends of the country. They live together. In the same state, same city, same house. So, how in the hell are we going to show proof of our relationship when we’re thousands of miles away from each other?
It’s not long before I’m pulling my cell out of my jacket pocket and firing off a text.
Me: We need to talk. Call me as soon as you can, please and thank you.
And then, when I think about the awkward way I ended our last conversation—when I found out his hot bod was only covered by a damn towel and proceeded to ramble like a moron—I type out a second text and hit send.
Me: Also, please don’t FaceTime me when you’re in a towel again because this is a serious, non-towel-wearing conversation.
Once my words fill our text box and I reread what I wrote, insta-mortification sets in.
Oh my God! Why did you send that?! Fix it!
Me: Ha. I’m kidding, obviously! Call me in whatever you like! Fully clothed, balls out, rocking out with your cock out! Doesn’t matter!
Ha-ha-ha, I’m an idiot.
Me: Holy hell. Can you just go ahead and ignore all of that?
Me: Oops. Besides the call me part. Still do that. Okay. Bye.
Daisy
After spending ten minutes on self-loathing and theoretical questions about life brought on by my text faux pas with Flynn, I eventually invested myself in finishing my staging plans for one of the properties Damien wants done before I relocate to New York, and my workday just sort of flew by.
I didn’t have time to sit and stew, and for that, I’m thankful. Because now that I’m done with my task list for the day, each and every one of my thoughts about those messages has come back with full force.
Hindsight is a bit of a bitch, and I realize now that my messages probably came off as a confusing combination of weird-as-hell and oddly serious. Not exactly the impression I’m going for, which, of course, makes me want to fix it. The solution teasingly seems like it rests in more messages. But thankfully—in part because of my age, and in part because I’m a lifetime member of the foot-in-the-mouth club—I know that’s not actually true. It will, however, probably make me sound like a crazy, nagging shrew to a man who’s done nothing but try to help me, and that’s the very last thing I want.
