Wait a minute…does he think this makes us buddies again? Screw that. “It’s not a big deal.”
Our eyes meet; his get darker and he’s fighting a frown. He’s right, though; I’ve always thought about Zoey. But in recent years it’s become more of a mythical thing, like she was something that didn’t actually exist, something I dreamed. Only she’s one hundred percent real again, and I’m as excited as Levi thinks I am. I just don’t want him to know it for some reason.
“Well, you should invite her to Darby’s,” Levi says, ignoring the elephant that lives in the room with us constantly now.
We both stand and walk—although it’s always more of a waddle on skates—out to the rink. He’s right. I should invite her and I will. I just have to find her again.
7
Zoey
“Yeah, I completely understand,” I say into my phone in the calmest, sweetest voice possible, even though inwardly I want to shriek like a tantrumming child. “Well, if it doesn’t work out, or you have any other real estate needs, please keep me in mind.”
He says he will, but I don’t believe him, and then I hang up. Marti is watching me from her desk. And before I can even tell her that the Haight couple I had been wooing to sign decided to sell with another agent, she says, “Fuck them. You’ll snag an even bigger client. Just watch.”
“I hope so,” I reply and try not to look as devastated as I am. Since starting with Golden Gate Realty I’ve only had three clients. One small condo—which I sold, yay!—one that’s still on the market, and one buyer who, no matter what I showed her, couldn’t find what she wanted. The divorce settlement, according to the pre-nup, meant I would get the house and five hundred thousand dollars. I was planning to pay off the mortgage on the house and use the remaining seventy-five grand as a buffer while I built up my business here, but now that Adam is delaying everything I don’t know if that plan will happen. I need more clients now. “In the meantime, I need to find some more clients who want me now.”
Marti gives me a sympathetic smile. “Something will work out.”
I nod. I love real estate, but I hate this stage of it—scrounging for listings—but I know this is temporary. I’m going to have to use my last bit of available credit to make more flyers and pay for postage. Ugh. Still, I love residential real estate way more than I loved commercial. Homes, especially in San Francisco, have such character and history, and I love getting to know my clients, analyzing them and finding them places that make their eyes light up. It’s addicting and makes me feel great.
I flip open my laptop and watch as a petal from the already wilting flowers I bought the other day tumbles to my desk. I take a deep breath and repeat my morning chant.
Today is going to be a good day. Today is going to be a good day. Today is going to be a good day.
My email icon is blinking as I wait for Photoshop to open, so I click on it. I have an email from Morgan. He says Ned’s cousin’s wife is a divorce lawyer, and she’ll take my case and she’s good. There’s a number and a name—Cordelia Van Pratt. Okay, then. I have a divorce lawyer. I guess that’s a win.
The receptionist buzzes my phone. I pick it up. “Hey, Anastasia.”
“There’s a Mr. Braddock here to see you.”
“What? No, there isn’t.”
“Umm…yes. Yes, there is,” Anastasia argues quietly. “He’s a hockey player for the San Francisco Thunder!”
She whispers that last part excitedly. I scoot my desk chair over so I can stare down the long hall toward the reception area. And yes, there is Jude Braddock, looking all Jude Braddock-y in a pair of jeans and a khaki-colored shirt that’s hugging him the way I think Anastasia probably wants to. Oh Mylanta.
“Yeah. Okay. You can send him over. Please. Thank you. Okay.” I hang up and scoot my chair back over to my desk, where I frantically dig through my purse for a compact to check my makeup and hair. I look okay, I guess. I mean, my hair is good. I couldstand to reapply my lipstick, which has faded a little thanks to my morning chai, but I don’t have time. Ugh.
I shove my compact back into my purse and look up as Anastasia leads him through the open space. She didn’t need to do that, and she’s never done it before. It’s a loft-like area for all the agents, so she usually just walks the guest to the main entrance and points at the right desk. But there she is, walking him all the way to me. His eyes find mine immediately, and he grins a slow, sexy smirk of a grin that I can feel touching every part of me. Hot dang.
Every single agent in the room looks up from whatever they’re doing. Not because he’s talking or because Anastasia’s heels are clicking on the wood floor, just because he has this presence—he creates this incredible shift in the atmosphere when he enters a room—and you can’t help but look at him. It’s been that way since he was a kid, before he even realized it, but now I know he realizes it. I can’t help but wonder if he uses his powers for good or evil now that he knows he has them.
“Mr. Braddock,” Anastasia tells me as they land in front of my desk. I just nod. She puts a hand on his forearm gently. “If you change your mind about that coffee or that water or anything, please just let me know. I’d be happy to make you more comfortable.”
Did she really just say that? I bite my lip to keep from laughing, but a smile tugs the corners of my lips up awkwardly, so I dip my head toward my desk. I can’t look up for fear of laughing. I’m honestly not laughing at Anastasia. It’s cute that she’s flirting with him and also very reasonable. I mean,look at him. “Thank you, Anastasia, that’s very sweet. I’ll let you know, but it’s doubtful I’ll need anything more than Zoey.”
Did he just say that?
My head flies up now. Our eyes meet. He knows exactly what he said, and its double meaning, and he’s darn proud of himself. God, it’s sexy, even though it makes me blush in embarrassment.
Anastasia gives him one last flirty smile and then saunters back to her post. She’s swaying her hips like a supermodel, hoping he’ll look back, but he doesn’t. He’s still locked on me. I grin at him and laugh. He walks around the desk and pulls me into a hug. It’s brief, but it feels incredible. “Hey, Sunset.”
“Jude.” I step back, but only because I’m at work. Otherwise I would keep my hands on his shoulders and probably try to put a lot more body parts on him. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see how you’re doing,” he explains, his blue eyes shifting to my desk. “I hope you’re better than your flowers.”
I laugh again. “Yeah. I’m better than my flowers.”
