Page 9 of The Fireman and the Flirt

“Uh, yeah. Yes. I mean, you and your friends used to bring it in. Cal and I would sneak a few chips when you weren’t looking.”

“We figured.” A hit of nostalgia flickered in me. Life used to be as easy as ordering subs with friends after school. “It was a thank you for not tattling to my folks that we were getting high in my bedroom.”

“You guys were smoking up? For real?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No!”

I full on guffawed out a laugh, probably my first one since I was back in town. My friends and I thought we were geniuses for exhaling into a toilet paper roll covered with a dryer sheet…and it turned out we were.

“Thanks for inviting us to join!” Cary teased.

“Hugs not drugs.” I wasn’t going to let my little brother or his weird friends get high. “It’s not as fun now that it’s legal.”

“Next time, you’ll have to invite me up to your bedroom. Shit. No, I mean. That was a joke.” Cary sputtered as he tried to put back on his professional voice. “I meant if you were still doing drugs, I would gladly partake. Shit, no that’s not it either.”

Keep being weird, Cary.

“I know what you mean. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll text you details.”

“Cool. Good night, Cary.”

“Clockwise. I mean, likewise. Likewise. I should probably go before I shove my foot deeper in my mouth.”

I shut the light and plugged my phone in. I found myself smiling as I drifted off to sleep.

4

CARY

Today was the day. The moment of truth.

I woke up thinking of Derek and his growly, sleepy voice. Were sex operators still a thing because he would make a killing.

Oh, this would not be good.

In all my years as a real estate agent, I never fell for a client or crushed on a client or had any sexual spark for a client. They were clients, i.e. potential income. I wanted to be the best in my field and show my bullies that their names and teasing didn’t keep me down. That didn’t happen by fawning over clients and messing up potential sales.

The Prescott Realty Group’s office was located smack in downtown Sourwood. It was a prime location in the center of town, pretty much equidistant to any houses for sale. The office’s front windows overlooked the bucolic perfection of our town square all decked out for Christmas. Strands of garland curled around lamp posts and lined the perimeters of store windows. Strings of lights criss-crossed above the main intersection, giving the streets an ethereal glow. People were in a better mood during the holidays. We were getting gifts, buying chocolate, and receiving year-end bonuses.

And as an added bonus, the office was next door to Caroline’s, a greasy spoon diner with French toast so yummy it made regular toast embarrassed to be seen in public.

As I walked to the PRG office, I gave my morning middle finger to the bench ad with the two stupid, punchable faces of the Morris brothers. We were all associates for PRG but rival franchises. Real estate was funny that way. We were on the same team yet wanted to crush our teammates to be the number one franchise. Tad and Chad Morris loved to play up their clean cut, good ole boy image. They were on boards for different charities, where from what I heard, they didn’t do anything but take pictures with disadvantaged people for social media clout. And they played dirty. Hiding listings from agents. Poaching clients. They claimed it was all in the name of delivering a premium experience for their clients. I called it being fucking assholes.

I swept into the office and waved to my co-workers. Fortunately, the Morris brothers weren’t in yet, so I didn’t have to be fake nice to them. I headed into my office cubicle, which I shared with my partner Hannah.

“I have to get my shit together,” I said as I clicked my cup against hers. It didn’t matter how cold it was outside. A day could not start until we had our frigid cold, iced coffee. Hannah still drank Starbucks, despite my interventions to get her to break the habit. Friends didn’t let friends drink Starbucks.

We had partnered together ten years ago, and it was a professional match made in heaven. We could divide and conquer, going after different demographics. Hannah was great with young families, as she had three kids under seven. She could give the whole lowdown on Sourwood’s school system and overall family-friendliness. My strengths were with older people in life transitions: the newly divorced, empty nesters downsizing. I had to be part life coach.

“You have your shit together, Cary.” She swirled her iced coffee around, letting the cream flood the entire cup. Hannah had what I called a Gone Girl aesthetic. She was a pretty blond woman with a sweet smile and extensive J. Crew wardrobe. But underneath her basic white girl veneer was a killer saleswoman who knew how to nudge buyers into making an offer. I loved her, I was terrified of her, and I wanted to be her.

“You say that, Hannah, but do I have my shit together? Do I really?” I checked my hair in the mirror. I’d chosen a slim fit shirt to accentuate what little muscles I had. The shirt’s color was a shade of red called oxblood, which made me feel more imposing. I preferred bold colors in my wardrobe. They projected confidence. “Maybe I’m just pretending.”

“Honey, we’re all pretending.”

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