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11
Carm
Someone tell me I never woke up this morning. That I’m in some twisted dream.
I pinch my wrist under my cufflink to be sure I’m actually awake. Yep.
“Greg, you’re aware that I’m not a full-service brokerage, right? I only work with FSBOs, so you only get your property listed on MLS, whereas Carmelo would handle everything.”
This is definitely a dream. Bella Scott is selling me over herself? Hell has frozen over. I glance out the windows to see if pigs are flying too. Nope.
“I’m aware, Bella, and thanks for the disclaimer. I’m sure we have some intern or lower-level employee who can show prospective buyers the units. You’re Linda’s daughter and I know you’re starting out. Don’t think of this as a handout, but…”
“It is,” I say before the words travel through my mind to be stopped by the bullshit filter in my brain.
Greg tilts his head. “Not that I don’t think it’s an excellent idea. I just had a client this week who’d been toying with going the FSBO route and decided to try things out with Ms. Scott.”
I lean back and sip my coffee with the hopes that my outburst is forgotten, but I feel Bella’s eyes boring into the side of my head.
“I’ve always wondered if you brokers really work for your cut.”
I smile and set down my coffee. What an asshole he is if he thinks I don’t work for my commission. My lack of a social life and the fact that my weekends are like weekdays should give him a clue. I won’t even add in the money I spend on advertising and stagers and photographers, or the bullshit I take from clients, prospective buyers, and brokers alike. I’m in the only profession where people pay you for your expertise then fight you on everything you say. No one goes to the mechanic or the doctors and argues with them about how to fix the problem. But my clients don’t want a time sheet for hours worked and a record of expenses paid. In the end, they all think brokers make too much money, even when you’re making them more money.
“I guess you’ll find out in two months,” I say with a smile.
“I said three,” he says.
“I know.” I sip my coffee and let it hang in the air.
A huff leaks out of Bella to my left.
“You’re cocky,” Linda says across from me.
I wink and smile. “For good reason.”
“Oh.” She looks at her daughter with wide eyes. “He’s dangerous.”
Bella rolls her eyes, then straightens her back. Our breakfast arrives and the waitress sets my omelet and fruit in front of me, followed by Bella’s yogurt and granola. Greg’s eggs Benedict and Linda’s quiche are delivered next.
“So it’s three months and we each have our own floor? Interaction between the two of us will be minimal?” I ask.
Greg chuckles, holding the dripping egg with hollandaise above his plate. “I wouldn’t say no interaction.” He slides the eggs Benedict off his fork and sets down the utensil as he chews.
I glance at Bella. She hasn’t touched her food.
“This isn’t nearly as good as mine. Try this.” Linda holds out her fork to Greg.
Surely, he’s not going to eat it off her fork in front of us? Bella might be quasi-family, but I came for a business meeting.
But sure as shit, he opens his mouth and allows Linda to feed him.
“You’re right,” he says. “I told you, let me open you a place here.”
Bella coughs, and we all glance in her direction to find her choking on something. Her eyes water and her face is red, but she recovers and swallows a good amount of ice water.
“You okay, sweetie?” Linda asks.
Bella nods, plastering on her fake smile. “You’re thinking of moving here?” she asks with concern in her eyes.
