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The building stands like a beacon in the distance, and it doesn’t take my tired, currently swelling feet too much longer to get there.
My client, however, is already standing outside.
Shoot.
Sweat drips from my brow, and I reach up to discreetly wipe it away before Mrs. Allistair sees my approach. She’s one of those women who’s kempt at all times, no matter the weather, and while I appreciate working with people who smell good, it’s not always easy to maintain my laundry-fresh scent when it’s one hundred degrees outside and I’m carrying the next world-record-sized baby.
I don’t actually know, of course, how big this baby is going to be, but I’m kind of doing the thing you do to figure out the tip at a restaurant—you know, taking the number of weeks and doubling it? That puts the baby’s poundage somewhere in the seventies.
That’s how I feel, at least.
There’s a part of me that wishes I knew whether I have a little boy or little girl inside this belly of mine, but the need to honor Isabella’s wishes has been too strong to deny. She wanted to be surprised, so looks like I’m going to be surprised whenever this baby makes his or her big debut.
And to think, that surprise is going to happen really damn soon…
Mentally, I’m well aware my due date is forty-eight hours away, but at the moment, I’m mostly just trying not to think about what I’m going to do when this baby is born until, you know, the baby is born.
Some might call it unhealthy avoidance, but I prefer to think of it as a woman trying to cope with the insane cards she’s been dealt. I mean, if you show me a psychology textbook that provides the “correct” way to handle a situation like mine, I’m certain it’ll be the day pigs can fly.
After crossing the street as fast as my waddling hips will let me, I wipe the dampness from my hands on the straight line of my maternity pencil skirt and face the real estate music. “Mrs. Allistair!” I call her attention, jumping up on the curb with a spryness I definitely don’t feel and sticking out my hand for her to take. “So good to see you again.”
“Does this building have on-site parking?” she asks instead of greeting me back and completely ignoring my outstretched hand.
I smile and cock my hand back to my hip. It’s always the rudest clients with the deepest pockets. Every insult or dismissal might as well be a dollar sign.
“Yes. There’s an underground garage with twenty-four-hour valet and security. You won’t have to worry at all.”
“Good,” she says with a nod and an almost-smile.
Ah, she’s warming slightly. I, however, am well past warm. If I wrung out my bra, I could probably fill a freaking bathtub.
“What about a concierge?”
“There’s no official concierge, but the front desk manager Lukas has assured me that he handles many tasks for the residents of the building as an inclusion in your monthly fees.”
“I suppose that would do.” She doesn’t look back as she heads for the front door of the building, and the doorman jumps to pull it out of her way. I smile gratefully and mouth a silent thank you, and he just nods and offers a secret, knowing grin in response.
Obviously, he’s used to entitled people.
Lukas is standing behind the front desk in the lobby, but he moves swiftly to push the elevator button for Mrs. Allistair while I hold out a hand and shake his. I’ve spoken with him several times prior to showing this apartment, and he’s always been the epitome of helpful and considerate. He’s the reason we’re able to get into this apartment while the owners are away on vacation.
“Lukas. Thanks so much for meeting us. This is Mrs. Allistair. Mrs. Allistair,” I call, garnering her attention just enough that she turns to barely glance over her shoulder. “This is Lukas. The front desk manager of the building.”
She doesn’t recognize him with anything other than a blink of her eyes, and still, Lukas smiles. I take it as a good sign that the staff of this building has as many years of customer service under their belts as I do. At this point, rudeness just washes off me.
The elevator door opens with a prestigious ding, and Lukas gallantly jumps to stick his arm across the door to hold it while we enter. The mere idea of getting inside another elevator makes me hesitate for a brief moment—it has every single time I’ve done it for the last month—but I force myself to put one foot in front of the other and step inside.
Call me crazy, but getting stuck inside an elevator for a few hours in the middle of a New York blackout while you’re pregnant doesn’t exactly make you excited to step inside a cramped cart.
