to have someone on my side. Can you be that someone?”
“Good luck getting cell phone reception under a bridge.”
He gave her a wry smile. “That’s more like it.”
The photographer tapped on the open door. “Hey, Nick, I think I’m done.”
He left to review the man’s work.
Leila leaned against the wall, caught in exquisite turmoil.
She could be that someone.
* * *
On the drive back to the office, Nick said he hadn’t eaten all day. “There’s a place on Washington I like. Would you mind hanging out with me?”
“I don’t mind.”
This was the perfect opportunity for them to talk. She reached for her phone, sending a quick text to cancel her happy hour plans. She was supposed to meet a guy, a medical resident at Jackson Memorial, whom, after a few chaste dates, she’d started referring to as Dr. No. He was nice enough, but maybe that was the problem.
“If you have plans, I can take you back to the office,” he said. “You’re off the clock.”
“I don’t have plans,” she replied. “Not anymore, anyway.”
“Are you—?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’d rather have dinner with you.”
That sounded more personal than she’d intended.
“I’d rather have dinner with you, too.”
He said nothing else until they arrived at the restaurant. The hostess greeted Nick by name and showed him to a table on the terrace. He ordered the house burger and a beer. She ordered tuna sliders and a glass of Pinot. They shared an order of parmesan fries and he told her his plans for the Bayshore property.
“The listing goes live tomorrow. I want to hold the broker’s open on Thursday night. That house was built for parties. I want a bar by the pool, a DJ, everything.”
“I should take notes.” Leila reached for her phone, swiped past a text from Dr. No and opened the notepad app. She typed “Thursday, bar by pool, DJ, catering.”
“Do you have a caterer in mind?”
“We’ve used this place before with decent results.”
She lowered her hearty slider to her plate and offered some advice. “When I’m trying to look good at a party, the last thing I want is heavy food. Why not taquitos and margaritas?”
“I bet you don’t have to try to look good, Leila.”
She took it as a compliment and thanked him.
“How old are you?”
“Old enough to do this job.”
He’d caught her off guard and the lame one-liner was all she could come up with. She had a complicated relationship with her age. According to the scoreboard in her mind, she was trailing the home team by a lot. She’d gone from pageant girl to shop girl and now to office temp all in the time that her high school friends had earned advanced degrees and jump-started bona fide careers.
“But are you old enough to drink?” he asked, pointing to her half-empty glass of wine.
“Very funny. I’m twenty-three, soon to be twenty-four.” She paused. “Does it matter how old I am?”
“I’m just trying to get to know you.”
“Sorry. I’m a little jumpy.”
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “I’m thirty, and I like the tacos idea.”
“Taquitos.” She typed the word into her phone.
“Are you seeing anyone?”
Leila went still and laid down her phone. “That’s kind of personal.”
“Extremely personal,” he said. “Someone should’ve warned you about me. I’m about to hijack your whole life.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Someone did.”
He wiped his mouth with a black cloth napkin. “You can tell me to go to hell at any time.”
“You’re harmless,” she said, even though his eyes said otherwise. “And, yes, I’m dating someone. Sort of.”
He didn’t ask for specifics, leaving her disappointed. Instead he asked, “Will he mind if you have to work late?”
“I don’t know. I don’t usually ask a boyfriend before making career moves.”
“So, he’s a boyfriend.”
“I only meant—”
He reminded her that she was under no obligation to apologize or to explain. She could tell him to go to hell. That option was still open.
“We’ve got some time,” he said, again consulting his watch. “Is there anything you want to ask me?”
She reached for a fry and the opportunity to ask the one question burning inside her. “Whatever happened to Monica?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “How long have you been wondering about that?”
“Since day one.”
Nick took a sip of beer. His long fingers had a firm grasp of the frosty glass. “She got into it with Jo-Ann and things went south from there. She should’ve let me handle it, but Monica won’t back down from anything. We were together three years.”
Together three years...an odd way to describe a working relationship.
“I doubt we’ll be together that long,” she said.
“Planning to ditch me?”
“What I really want is to learn the business.”
“So this is a short-term thing?”
Leila worked to keep her voice steady. “Does that bother you?”
“I’m fine with it.” He leaned closer. “I know you have retail experience. Anything else?”
“No.” She’d worked at designer boutiques, selling sunglasses, scarves and handbags.
“Selling is selling,” he said. “But what drew you to real estate?”
“My aunt sold her home last spring. Her agent was my age. When I found out what she made in commission... I figure if I can sell pricey handbags, I can definitely sell condos.”
“Overpriced handbags.”
Leila’s
