I bark a laugh. “He’s got jokes.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
I sigh, going for it now, fully committing. “Fine. I’m on the hunt for a place of my own. I almost have enough for a down payment, so I like to spend my weekends going to open houses. Get a sense of the market. There’s an open house I want to go to nearby.”
“That’s…” I see him rolling words around in his mouth, tasting them. “…impressive,” he manages.
This stings. “What, that I can get my shit together enough to manage something like that?I’m surprised you know how to count, Ms. Baker, much less balance a budget,” I say, in a poor imitation of his deep voice. Fuck it. I’m honestly sick and tired of men. I don’t know what I was thinking.You don’t know what you’re doing,Jake always said. “Forget it?—”
“Hey,” he stops me, stepping closer, his carved face softening slightly. “Stop projecting. I wasn’t being disparaging. I’m serious. I really am impressed.”
I search his face, looking for any sort of maliciousness, but I only see a hint of worry. Concern. I also find flecksof gold in the light of his eyes, bits of yellow and maybe green in what I thought was more of a pure caramel color.
He runs his tongue between his teeth and his lips. “Let’s go,” he tells me.
“Really?”
He shrugs. “I finished my shopping.”
“You’re sure this won’t interfere with your meticulously scheduled agenda for the day?”
“I have exactly,” he glances down at his watch, “one hour, thirty-six minutes, and forty-two seconds until my next appointment.”
“More than enough time,” I say, smiling and already walking away. I head east. He inexplicably follows, and we begin our weird little field trip.
We meander our way through the sleepier blocks of Fort Greene, mostly silent, my boss a steady, solid presence beside me. I note the way he walks, confident and striking, always ensuring that I’m on the inside of the sidewalk, away from the street. I wonder if he knows he’s doing this.
I finally stop in front of a majestic four-story brick townhouse, which, now that I’m seeing it in person and not on Instagram, is frankly one of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen. A sign on a post outside indicates the open house. A well-dressed, well-groomed couple walks out the front door, the woman carrying a Birkin bag.
I turn and eye Mr. Flores with a dare on my face, testing him.Say it.
He meets my eyes, unflinching. “You can afford a down payment on what has to be a ten million dollar home.” He says it as a statement, not a question.
“Fourteen million, actually,” I say.
He hums, giving me nothing, but I sense he is doing some quick math.
I do it for him. “Twenty percent down is almost three million,” I offer.
He blinks. “Making themonthlymortgage payments and fees approximately the amount you make in one year as a public school teacher.”
“Yep.”
“Okay.”
We study one another for a moment.
I break first, exploding into giggles, but he’s not far behind me. His eyes crinkle at corners, his soft smile revealing that dimple I’ve only noticed once before.
“I really am saving up for a down payment,” I manage. “Just not here, though. Probably over ten miles from here. Far, far away.”
“That’s great.”
I nod, unreasonably giddy with this man’s more positive attention. “But want to go in and pretend to be a bajillionaire with me?”
He looks down at himself, at his worn flannel. The jeans he’s wearing have a permanent imprint of his wallet on the left pocket. It matches the hole in the right leg of my leggings. “Absolutely,” he tells me.
I am grinning like a lunatic now. I loop my arm through his and drag him up the stairs of the stoop. “All right, dah-ling,” I say, in a poor imitation of a posh English accent. “I don’t suppose this will meet our standards, but perhaps we take a peek,” I say.
