She rings everything up and tells me Chelsea will email me over a receipt for tax purposes.
Then she busies herself with making my coffee and boxing up the croissants while we chat about the weather and what’s been happening on the property scene.
“Tell her I stopped by and said hello,” I say, saluting her with my takeout cup, as she hands me the box.
“Will do. Have a good day, honey. We’ll make sure everything is ready for collection on Saturday morning.”
“Sounds great, thanks, Sandy.” I try her name out for size, as she suggested.
“Thanks, Bradley.”
Bradley.I shake my head with a chuckle as I exit the bakery. It’s always pretty quiet first thing in the morning, but the ten o’clock rush always hits. Walking toward the car, I feel pumped for today and some new apartments I’m about to list Downtown in Bunker Hill. They are a brand new block of twelve apartments, recently constructed and finished, and they’re just about to be staged.
We have a wide-set of listings across Los Angeles, the agency that my dad, Tristan Lucas, started and grew years ago when we were kids has grown tenfold these past few years. It was natural that my two brothers and I would follow suit because we all love the process of buying and selling houses. We’ve watched and learned from Dad over the years, and honestly, no other job really resonated with me. My brothers feel the same, too.
Mom and Dad, who split when we were teens but still remain good friends, were always supportive of whatever we wanted to do. But working in the family business gives us all flexibility when we need it, and unlimited income. It’s never a set nine to five, and there is rarely a free weekend, but the benefits are totally worth it.
I buzz my car open and rest the croissants on top of the roof while I lean inside and slot my coffee in the cup holder. It’s then I notice Chelsea’s mini-van two doors up from mine. I know it’shers because it’s red and she has the number platesConfetti. How fucking cute is that.
My brothers have been giving me stick for months about having the hots for her, and while I can’t deny she’s a very attractive woman, we’re just friends. We’ve only ever been friends, well, apart from Jimmy Taple’s party as juniors, when we got locked in the cupboard for “seven minutes of heaven” as part of a silly party game. Back then, I wasn’t exactly the stud I am now, but the memory of it sure makes me smile.
Securing the box on the seat next to me, I glance over to Chelsea’s car again and notice she’s just sitting there in the driver’s seat making no attempt to get out. I frown. Climbing back out of my car, I push the door shut and stroll over there to say hello.
It’s only when I get closer I see her head in her hands and she’s slumped forward on the steering wheel.
Oh shit, is she crying?
Not wanting to startle her, I pause, but it’s almost like she senses someone close because she lifts her head and looks straight at me. I lift a hand to wave hello, but it’s too late, I see the tears. She quickly dabs her eyes with a tissue, as if I haven’t just caught her bawling, and my frown deepens.
My first instinct is Deaton, but surely she wouldn’t be sitting here if there was something wrong. We’ve shared a glance now, so it isn’t like she can pretend she didn’t see me. I walk up to the driver’s side and I hear the click of the door unlocking. I bend to reach for the handle as she opens her door; I hear the intake of her breath before I see her face.
“Chelsea, what’s wrong?” I immediately ask.
“Hey, Brad,” she says, as brightly as she can. I move back so she can step out of the car and sling her bag over her shoulder. “It’s just my allergies.” She waves it off.
I search her pretty face for any other signs of what could be wrong, but I’m no mind-reader. Perhaps it really is allergies? Her eyes are red-rimmed from crying, as well as the edges of her nose, too. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course I’m sure.” She smiles.
Hmm, a little too bright for my liking.
“I just put in an order for Saturday,” I say, to fill the sudden void of silence more than anything. “And I’m sorry to say I wiped out the chocolate croissants. It’s a wonder I don’t weigh three hundred pounds.”
Trying to make her laugh is all I care about in this present moment. I don’t like seeing women cry, and I especially don’t like seeingthiswoman cry. Allergies or not.
She laughs into the soggy tissue scrunched in her palm. “Everything great starts with butter.”
“Nice tagline.”
“I guess I know what I’m going to be doing for the rest of the week. Thanks for the order.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Deaton is okay?” I ask, hedging around any further clues to what could have caused her tears, other than ‘allergies’.
“He’s great. I just dropped him off at school. Then I had an appointment.”
Oh, the bank, her mom said. I open my mouth to say something, but then let it close again. That’s really none of my business, no matter how long we’ve been friends. Surely a trip to the bank couldn’t have her in tears with her head on the steering wheel — or could it? Does she need money?
“I really need to get some more hay fever tablets,” she laughs, but I’m not buying it.
