Finance Manager, Savannah Real Estate Firm
Tel: 1-232-234-5667 - Fax: 1-232-234-5666
“Finance manager?” I question. Just the guy for me.
“Yeah, I’m a numbers guy,” he says, coyly.
“Well, it's a good thing because now I have your number,” I joke with him, trying to pull off the flirtatious wink without looking like something is stuck in my eye.
“Exactly,” he says, releasing a heavy breath. “Well, again, if you need anything … give me a ring.”
I smile and wait for him to take a step away from the door before I close myself inside, alone.
I place the rose down on the coffee table and go to pull my phone out of my back pocket, but the doorbell rings again.
Seriously. This isn’t funny. Why are all the men courting me like I’m the last woman on earth?
I open the door, finding a mail carrier with an envelope. “Are you Ashley Spencer?”
“I am,” I answer sincerely, and yet, curiously.
“Good luck,” he says, handing over the envelope.
I didn’t agree to this living situation, I sing to myself. Again, I close the door and toss the envelope onto the coffee table.
I yank my phone out of my back pocket and scroll through my contacts, slapping my thumb against Bradley’s name before holding the phone up to my ear.
How many rings does it take to get to Bradley’s voicemail? Let’s see ...
A one, a two, a three ... it takes three rings to get no answer.
“Hi, you’ve reached Bradley Spencer. I’m not available to take your call right now, but if you would like to leave your name and number, I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you!” Beep.
“How could you do this to me? I’m your sister. Shoving me into a living situation like this is along the lines of ... you being a pimp. How are you going to fall asleep tonight knowing what you conned me into?”
I hang up.
Bradley and I have gone through phases of pranking each other, but nothing to this degree. I can’t even think of a suitable retaliation.
A text comes through, and it’s from Bradley. “I’m on another call right now, but hang in there. You’ll thank me someday. I swear.”
Just to add the whipped cream on top, the doorbell rings again.
“I’m not home!”
A knock on the glass slider pulls my attention to the other side of the house.
“Leave me alone!”
I’m feeling borderline trapped as I send off another text, but this time, to Gracie. There’s not much she can do for me from New York, but I need to share this absurdity with someone.
I tap the message out.
Me: Hey girl, I’ve got a bit of a problem.
Gracie usually has her phone adhered to her body in some fashion, which makes her dependable for a quick response.
Gracie: A problem? Lady, you’re living in paradise for free. What could be wrong?
