“I don’t like it. I know that already,” he replies calmly, and I’m a little taken aback. “It’s stunning. It’s the right neighborhood, and it’s got great views.”
“And enough space. Three bedrooms.”
He nods. “Yeah, but it’s a condo.”
“With a doorman.”
“I was hoping for a house. A row house or a townhouse or something.”
“They don’t have doormen.”
“I don’t care about the doorman. It isn’t on my must-have list.”
“If you had a doorman now, you probably wouldn’t have to be moving,” I explain. “You just put them on a list and a doorman doesn’t let them in.”
“Who on a list? The sorority?”
I laugh and run a hand over the marble countertop. I can’t believe he doesn’t want this place. “Not your sisters. The clingers.”
He looks like he’s been slapped, he’s that startled. The boyish smirk drops like a lead balloon. I know he’s stunned, but I can’t tell if he’s angry or otherwise upset by me bringing up the fact that he has girls come back for seconds, like he’s an all-you-can-eat buffet.
“Are you only showing me listings with doormen today?”
I nod.
“So that my…what did you call them? Clingers? Won’t show up unannounced?” I still can’t read his face, which is really stressing me out, because Jude is usually an open book.
“Yes.” Like I usually do when I feel like somehow I stuck my foot in my mouth, I start to explain even more. So I can add an ankle in with the foot. Why not? “I realize that if you move, you’re not going to give those previous girls a forwarding address, so you’re safe there. But I mean future women you take home could do the same thing, and then you’re moving again. And I know you can afford it, but we both know it’s still a huge hassle.”
“Future women?” He looks like he’s been slapped again, and I want to think it’s a good thing. Because I want him to be horrified by the thought of any other women besides me. I really, really want that, because I still have endorphins pumping through my system from the best orgasm of my existence. But I’m still looking for a doorman building because some deeply rooted insecure and broken part of me believes I was just another number to Jude, who clearly got so good at giving orgasms by handing them out to thousands like samples at Costco.
He crosses his arms over his very wide chest and the shoulders of his short-sleeved button-down stretch at the seams. Mylanta, if he busts out of that shirt, my restraint is going to rip like that fabric. “So you think I’m going to bring random women home to my new place for sex. Because you think I’m going to continue to have one-night stands?”
“I’m not…saying I…know…you’re going to…do that,” I sputter, the words coming out with oddly spaced gaps of silence in between them, like English is suddenly not my first language. “A great Realtor picks up on needs a client doesn’t even see themselves and satisfies them.”
I just quoted a seminar from a Realtor conference in San Diego I attended three months ago. Seriously? But at least it came out of my mouth in one fluid sentence, so I decide to go with it. “Like you need a central vacuum system. Because you’re a neat freak. Probably the neatest bachelor I’ve ever seen, and your current place doesn’t have that, so I’m also looking for a unit that has that.”
I point to the vacuum outlet on the wall by the edge of the vanity.
“I have a Roomba that runs by itself every day at three and a maid service that comes two days a week,” he explains, arms still crossed and no sign of that grin of his anywhere on his kissable mouth. “Now let’s get back to the one-night stand thing.”
“Do we have to?” I mutter.
“I’m just trying to figure out if you’re doing this because it doesn’t matter to you if I keep having one-night stands or if you just assume it matters to me that I keep having one-night stands,” he says, and he lets one arm fall to his side while he reaches up and rubs the back of his neck with the other.
“What do you think?”
“I think I haven’t thought about it,” he replies, dropping both hands to his sides now and looking at me longingly. “Because all I’ve been able to think about is how good it felt to finally have you and how much I think I need to have you again.”
“Sweet snickerdoodle,” I whisper.
“Zoey? Jude?” Marti calls out, and I actually jump. “Are you still here?”
“Oh crap,” I say, panicked like she’s about to catch us doing something we shouldn’t be doing. Jude finally flashes that smile of his, and reaches out and grabs my hand.
“Relax. We’re clothed.” He pauses, then calls out, “In here!”
I hear clicking—heels on the hardwood—and then Marti pops into view. She’s in what she calls her lucky red wrap dress because she always sells a house when she wears it. She smiles brightly, but after a second on me, her eyes go straight to Jude. “Hey! Checking out one of the guest suites, huh? Isn’t it huge? And the other guest suite is the same size with a matching bathroom, which you probably already know. Are you in love? You must be in love.”
