“I’m not in the contract,” I tell him. “But I respect the confidence.”
We head into the kitchen, and he leans against the island while I point out the finishes. “Marble counters, soft-close cabinets, upgraded appliances.”
“Translation?” he says.
“Very expensive and very hard to ruin.”
“Perfect. I’m not great at domestic disasters, but I try.”
I glance at him. “That’s not reassuring.”
“I once set off a smoke alarm making toast.”
I laugh despite myself. “Okay, that one happens to the best of us.”
“See, we’re bonding already,” he smiles.
Sir, please stop being charming. You’re laying it on so damn thick, but it’s not bothering me in the least. We continue the tour, and he actually asks thoughtful questions, about HOA fees, dock maintenance, resale value. Real buyer questions, not just pretty-man nonsense.
“So,” he says as we head down the hallway, “do you always work open houses alone, or did I just get lucky?”
“Depends on the listing,” I say.
“Smart. I’d probably forget what I was saying if someone like you walked into my workplace.”
I give him a look. “Flattery will not get you a price reduction.”
“Worth a shot,” He smirks.
The master bedroom gets the expected reaction. “Okay,” he admits, walking toward the windows, “this view might’ve just sold me.”
“Most people fall for the tub,” I say. “But I respect a man who appreciates natural light.”
He turns back to me. “You do this all day? Convincing people to fall in love with places?”
I shrug. “Pretty much.”
“What about you?” he asks casually. “You ever get tempted to buy one yourself?”
The question catches me off guard. “Uh… maybe someday. Right now I’m more focused on helping everyone else find their dream homes.”
He studies me for a second, softer now. “Who’s helping you?”
I open my mouth, then close it again, surprised by the question. “I… manage.”
He nods like he hears more than I said. “Still. You deserve good things too, Brooke.”
Back in the living room, he checks his watch. “I should probably let you finish your workday, but I’m really glad I stopped in.”
“Me too,” I admit, then immediately regret the honesty. “For professional reasons.”
He smiles like he doesn’t believe me. “Right. Of course.” He hesitates, then straightens like he’s made up his mind. “Okay, I’m going to risk being that guy. Would you want to get dinner with me sometime? Not business, not a showing. Just dinner.”
My instinct is to deflect. I always deflect. But then I think about how quiet it is at home, and how my sisters are building families, and how I just told myself I was ready for something more. “Dinner,” I say slowly. “Yeah. I think I’d like that.”
His grin is instant. “Perfect. Let me give you my number.”
We trade phones, and when he hands mine back, his fingers brush mine again, deliberate and warm. “Text me,” Grant Whitaker says. “I’ll pick somewhere nice.”
