Page 5 of Flirty Thirty

“You’ve got this.” I hip check my office door open with a grin. “Oh, and leave the Chai will you?” I’ve got plans for it that may or may not involve ruining my Ann Taylor blouse. The commission will make up for it.

Sarah sets the tea down on my very unruly desk, next to a stack of business cards that just came in on Friday. I pluck one up and tuck it into my jacket pocket. I don’t usually need the card, but it’s always good to have a backup in case I’m not memorable enough. The last time I snagged a highly-sought-after buyer, the couple didn’t even make it to Parks’ office before hiring me. What can I say… when you give up on marriage and family— the life I’d always assumed I’d have at thirty—you get really good at your job because it’s pretty much all you have.

Sarah tosses the cup holder into the garbage, taking the hazelnut coffee and putting it to her lips. She reassured me months ago that she always orders something she wouldn’t mind drinking. Her first week I agonized over being one ofthosebosses. Thankfully that guilt is nonexistent for the time being.

I take one more pull from the cappuccino before swapping it for the tea, adjusting my blazer and popping the top from the cup just enough that if someone were to… say… run into me… Whoops! There goes my drink.

Hey, it may be an oldie, but it’s proved effective.

Sarah gives me an encouraging sort of look, showing me all the whites of her teeth. “Good luck.”

She doesn’t say it out loud, but she knows that I really need this one. It’s been an extremely slow month, and there is a certain vacation I plan on taking when I can afford it— after all, a girl only gets one Dirty Thirty, and I don’t mean the mess my niece left on my coffee table last night.

Mr. Parks’ office is two floors above mine, and since there is no logical reason for me to be up there, I have to either make one up, or force the buyer onto my floor. Oh, there is a science to this ploy, and I’ve been conducting experiments and concocting hypotheses from the moment I witnessed Atticus Lovell swivel his way into a quarter-million-dollar-based commission seven years ago. He was a real estate god, retired at fifty-three, with homes in Paris and New York. He wines and dines nightly, never tied down—Atticus’ only love was his 105 pound pit mix—and living out exactly what I’d like in life. I imagine some chic version of a cat lady in my case, however.

I take the stairs down to the lobby, peeking at the empty front desk. Our receptionists don’t come in until quarter to nine—when they’re on time—so I casually stroll to the floor indicator right next to the elevators. It’s surprising they don’t have these locked up after all the times I’ve pulled this move. I must be stealthier than I thought.

The metal screeches as I slide the name plate of my CEO and switch it with the realty offices. After a quick text, Sarah will head down and put them back in their correct placeholders before the offices are officially open. None will be the wiser.

I take a step back, a satisfied sigh floating from my smiling mouth. Images of what I could do with a commission like this flick through my head like a movie montage—sunbathing in Tahiti, drinks in Cabo, perhaps. Places warm and free of noise and family pushing me into relationships. Oh, I’m not saying I’ll be alone in paradise. No… finding a tanned Adonis would be ideal, someone who I flirt and play with for a week before heading back to my house for a stay-cation. I’ll tell my family I’m still out, and I could park my booty on the couch, make every day a Naked Sunday, and watch guilty pleasures with Tom and Kat.

The elevator dings, and I shake out of my Tahitian fantasy. I hold the door open with my Coach heels and swap the name plates in there before sending it to the top and doing the same thing with the twin elevator. My phone buzzes, letting me know it’s 7:20, and I need to get back upstairs.

I take the stairs, careful with the accident-ready tea, and position myself to be casually walking by the elevator when the doors open. That’s step one.

Step two: The bump. Get Chai all over Ann Taylor.

Step three: The apology. Laugh it off, and if he’s gracious, he’ll be polite about it. If he’s not, apologize tohim.

Step four: The lending hand. Pretend confusion when he says he’s looking for Parks’ office. When he indicates he’s on the right floor, enter the elevator with him.

Step five: The shut in. Keep up conversation until the doors have closed you inside with buyer.

Then it’s all up to the gods. If I’ve been charismatic enough, I seal the deal. All I’m doing now is beingmemorablewithout seeming pushy. It may be a little unorthodox, but it works, and I’m not technically breaking any realtor code.

I blow out a breath and watch the clock on one of the front desks tick the minutes away. My heart beats a little harder the closer it gets to the appointment time. Being a punctual person, when people aren’t at least five minutes early, it gives me the annoyance itches. It’s come to the point that I need to tell my siblings an inaccurate event time due to the fact that they do not share this particular peeve. A few years back I got into quite the quarrel with my sister Julie over this topic. She was ten minutes late for a dinner partyshe’dset up so I could meet whatever guy it was that time around. The fella and I had no chemistry, and I was left to my own awkward devices while we both waited for her and her husband Nathan to arrive. During the traditional bathroom trip after the main course, I lost it, letting her know that I was tired of being disrespected every time she showed up late. She then broke down and said I didn’t know what it was like, waiting for the sitter, going over emergency protocol, worrying every second if being out meant being a bad mother. I chalk that argument as the moment of striking realization that my sister and I led very different lives. It was a blow at the time. I’m happy to say I’m content in the life I’ve chosen now. Not as resentful.

My newly manicured nails drum lightly against the to-go cup in my hands, my foot tapping in an impatient rhythm as the clock ticks from 7:30 to 7:31. If the buyer wasn’t a brilliant paycheck, I’d probably ditch out. Yes, I really am that neurotic about punctuality.

The elevator dings, and my heart stops its unusual pattern. Before I took an interest in real estate, I’d been fond of the stage, so my acting isn’t completely amateur. I learned that it’s a key ingredient in my salesmanship.

The doors open, and I wait until I see a grass-stained Reebok step onto the floor. Interesting choice—I expected shiny and polished footwear. Maybe this isn’t the buyer… and I curse myself for realizing the flaw in this particular plan; I’d completely spaced asking Sarah for a physical description.

I flick my gaze up to his face, hoping for a lost puppy look in his expression, only to come to a complete halt.

There is about a single day’s old scruff on his chin, he’s donning a baseball cap over his dark blond locks, and he’s wearing a shirt. But other than those few details, he’s a dead ringer for my drive-by kisser. His blue eyes slowly swivel around the floor, thick brows pulling inward. It’s the lost puppy, but I’ve suddenly forgotten my entire five-step program.

In a moment of brain inactivity, I turn on my heel so quickly that I do exactly what I’d intended, just not in exactly the intended fashion—the tea splashes from my cup and onto the office linoleum, making my quiet exit very noisy.

A deep, friendly chuckle sounds from over my shoulder, sending a flock of appreciative wings through my midsection. I can’t quite say if it’s attraction because I’ve been fantasizing about him for about a month, or if it’s because he’s a man and that laughter sound just does something to a girl, but I feel I have to cover a blush that’s rising up the back of my neck.

“Whoops,” he says. A swish of jeans and the thud of his feet against the floor follow. I let out a very breathy laugh before turning to face the inevitable awkwardness that is about to ensue.

He’s not looking. God has given me a pass because it gives me time to fix the expression on my face. I push away my shock and try to go about this as if nothing weird has happened between us at all. He’s pulling tissues out of a box from Phil’s desk, one right after the other quick as lightning.Swish, swish, swish.

His knees crack as he crouches down, and through my muddy thoughts I allow myself a grin. Creaky bones doesn’t always come with age; it’s usually coupled with a lack of stretching, as I discovered in my late twenties. Maybe he hasn’t gone on his run today.

He’s taken every tissue left from the box, so on top of feeling off my game, I’m now useless in cleaning up my own mess.

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