Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Right, I forgot.” He turns away from me, but I catch his smile, and my own lips tip up, but I quickly wipe my grin away when we get to the front door where I stop to put on my shoes. After we get outside, I lock up, then blink when he takes my keys from my hand.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m driving.”
“Yeah, you’re driving your car.” I try to get my keys from him, but he holds them up above his head. I don’t even attempt to jump up and get them, because even in my heels, I’m short as hell, so jumping around like an idiot would be pointless.
“Come on, or we’re going to be late.” His doors slide up, and I let out a breath and stomp over to his car. I fall into the seat without grace, snap my seatbelt into place, then cross my arms over my chest, his chuckle only serving to annoy me more.
“Where are we going?” I turn my glare on him, and he relaxes back in his seat like he has all day. With a growl, I reach into my bag he placed at my feet, grab the file folder I put together, and pull out the listing for the first one, plugging the address into my phone. Once the directions pop up, I hand him my cell, then shove everything back in my bag and turn to look out the window once more. Without another word, he backs out of my driveway, then shoots off down my street and heads for the highway. Not seeming bothered at all that I’m bothered which is also annoying.
Thankfully the car ride is short and when we arrive at the house, I notice a blue BMW convertible parked in the driveway and shake my head. “I wonder if another realtor is doing a showing right now,”
“Maybe the owners are still here,” he says, and I shake my head.
“No, no one lives here. The owners recently moved to Iowa.” I check the time. “We’re not that late, so if there was a showing before us, the clients must really like the house if they’re still here.”
“It looks like a great house.”
“It is a great house,” I agree, handing him over a copy of the information sheet and going into realtor mode in an instant. “It’s four thousand square feet, all one level, sits on two acres, with a pool, pool house, and a private lot in one of the most desirable neighborhoods in Brentwood. Plus, it was all recently remodeled and doesn’t kill your budget.”
“Maybe we should go in before they have a chance to put in an offer.”
“You really like it?” I look at the white house with its stone walkway and red door. It’s cute—maybe too cute for a guy like him.
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah, but it wouldn’t be my house,” I point out while grabbing my bag, then shift around to try to figure out how to open the door but stop when his hand wraps around the back of my neck.
“Didn’t take you very long to get over being pissed at me.” His gaze roams over my face.
“Right now, you’re my client, not the guy I slept with who annoyed me this morning.” I attempt to pull away from him, and his fingers give my neck a squeeze.
“Your attitude runs as hot as your pussy, babe.” He uses his hold on me to drag me closer, and my belly dips as his mouth gets close to mine. “And you have a really fucking smart mouth.” He nips my bottom lip, then soothes the sting with his tongue before he kisses me wet and deep. When he pulls away, my lashes flutter open, and I meet his dark gaze, my mind a whirlwind of emotions—lust, excitement, confusion, and anxiousness being the four most recognizable.
I haven’t had a moment to really think since I walked up to him at the bar last night, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “We should go in.” I lick my lips.
“I need you to let go of me in order for us to do that.” I release him quickly, and he presses a button, and both doors slide up. I get out and meet him at the hood, then we head up to the walkway. I see the lockbox for the key on the mat, so I open the door and walk inside. The lights are off, and the house is quiet, which seems odd, but every realtor has their own set of rules for a showing. Or maybe the clients took off and whoever is here is in the process of locking everything down.
“Hello,” I call out as I flip on lights, my heels seeming eerily loud as I walk across the cool white marble tile toward the dark kitchen. I flip on the light, then go to the stack of realtor cards on the island to see who might be in the house, and Meghan Dame’s card is on the top of the pile. She’s a realtor I’ve hung out with in the past at a couple of events, a cute brunette who is pretty new to town and totally reminded me of one of my sisters every time I’ve seen her.