I handed her a flyer and let her wander the house, her tentative steps pattering across the carpeted floor toward the first of three small bedrooms. Moving back into the kitchen, I clicked on the touchpad of my laptop, awakening the screen, and watched the live video of her movements.
On my second ever open house, a glamorous couple in Burberry and Chanel pocketed an iPad and a jeweled figurine. I’d realized the theft early because it was my iPad, left in the master bathroom to charge. They hadn’t filled out the visitor’s form, and I’d had to pay for the figurine myself. The next morning, I purchased the cameras and—of course—hadn’t had another theft since.
On video, the woman paused before the vanity table and adjusted her braids, then tugged at the front of her shirt, smoothing the material over her generous and potentially pregnant stomach. Lucky bitch. Glancing back down at my planner, I considered resuming my list.
The cons side felt a lot more daunting, and I could feel my subconscious resisting the task. My mother would instantly peg the action as evasive and say that I didn’t want to face the consequences of my actions. It was true. I didn’t want to write the cons down because they would far, far outweigh the pros.
Which was probably why I was writing this list now, and not four days ago, when I could have pre-evaluated the action and squashed it. Then again… four days ago I wouldn’t have been able to definitively list the positives. I wouldn’t have expected the act to make me feel closer to E. I would have put a giant question mark next to the word hot. I would have…
“Excuse me. Do you know the R values of the floors?”
I closed the laptop before the woman had a chance to see the screen, then turned to face her. I’d been wrong. Curious neighbors didn’t give a damn about insulation values. “Absolutely.” I smiled. “It’s R13. And the air conditioner is brand new. Let me show you the utility room where you can take a look at it.”
Ushering her toward the back of the house, I left my list behind, that pesky con column still incomplete.
3
“Here’s to your offer.” Easton lifted his Corona and I shook my head.
“First off, it’s bad luck to toast with water and secondly…” I straightened at the glimpse of an approaching waiter with two strawberry margaritas. He veered off to another table, and I slumped back against the sticky booth.
“Secondly?”
“Secondly, it’s a low offer with a three-month closing period. My seller probably won’t even respond.”
“You’ll work it out.” He grinned at me as if it was done, that commission in the bank, and the issue with wholeheartedly believing this visualization crap is that it doesn’t work.
“Two frozen strawberry margaritas?” A man in a saggy sombrero paused at our table, a platter in hand, and I practically swooped forward.
“Yes, right here. Both for me.” I cradled the huge glasses close to me, eyeing both before deciding to start with the right one.
Easton chuckled.
“Shut up. I’m drowning my stress.” I picked up the right goblet and lifted it toward me. “Plus, I’ve got you here to keep me from hitting on waiters or doing the Macarena butt naked in the middle of this restaurant.”
He dipped a chip into the cheese. “It’s been a long time since I saw your naked Macarena. Can I let you do it, and just keep anyone from filming it?”
“Not if you expect to get a sloppy blowjob on the way home.”
He crunched through the chip quickly and held his hands up in surrender. “Deal. I’ll make sure your clothes stay on, and keep all your secrets.” He winked at me.
I set down the giant glass. “If you could just keep our one secret for the rest of your life, I’ll be happy.”
“Ah, so it was a one-time thing.”
I very carefully moved my straw around the glass goblet, stirring the contents without spilling them out. “Potentially. I made a pros and cons worksheet during my open house today.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t get a chance to finish. Jury’s still out.”
He pushed his phone toward me, and I watched as the device spun across the surface and ran into the bowl of salsa. “Read the text messages from Aaron today.”
I picked up the phone quickly, before the offer was gone, and keyed in his passcode. Scrolling down his texts, I found the conversation with Aaron and clicked on it. There were only a few, starting at eleven this morning.
Last night was insane. She’s so fucking hot.
You’re officially the luckiest man in the world.
Also, Becca is a bitch and she’s texting me photos of her with that asshole.
Chelsea has fucking Playboys in the bathrooms. Send help.
I bit on the edge of my cheek and set down the phone, nudging it back to his side of the table. “Hmmm.” I glanced at him and found him studying me, an interesting smile playing across his features. “What?”