Page 14 of The Confidentiality Clause
I want to help my clients find their dream home. The place they want to raise their kids or start anew as empty nesters. Even when I dabble in commercial real estate, it’s all about finding the perfect place for the business. No compromises. Houston just wants to make his commission, and he’ll say and do whatever it takes to add more zeros to his bank account. That’s fine–a little heartless, but it wouldn’t bother me as much if he weren’t stealing my paychecks.
“If I had even one tenth of his audacity, I could become president,” Bethanne says.
I laugh. “I could run the entire world. Too bad I have a heart.”
“Too bad indeed. You’d look great in a crown.”
I grin. “I would, wouldn’t I?”
“I’m convinced you’re a princess in disguise. No one walks in six-inch heels the way you do without royal training.”
I shake my head, still wearing a smile. While I didn’t have any formal training, I did practice a lot. As a young girl, I idolized the tall, supermodel-like business women who strutted around the city in sky-high heels and perfectly tailored outfits. I knew that when I grew up–no matter what profession I chose–I’d wear heels every day. Now, I exclusively wear heels with my work outfits, and I’ve become so accustomed to them that I could run in a pair if I needed to.
“It just takes a little practice is all,” I tell her, though I know it’s no use. Bethanne wears ballet flats every day. She has a pair in every color of the rainbow, and thinks that heels were made by a man who hated women. The flats suit her, but I prefer my heels. I like a little height. It boosts my confidence when I have to negotiate for a client or deal with my pain-in-the-neck coworker.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Bethanne says predictably. She shakes her wrist to un-bunch the bracelets on her arm and looks at her watch. “Do you want to grab lunch together? I’ve got a showing at one, but I should be able to hit a spot downtown and still make it.”
I spin toward my monitor to check my calendar. I have to go take photos of a house I’m helping sell later this evening, but nothing other than paperwork and making calls for the rest of the day.
“Sure, that sounds good.”
“Cool! I’ll grab my bag and then we can leave.”
Her head of hazelnut-colored curls ducks behind the wall. I slip my handbag off the hook I installed beneath my desk, then stand and adjust the belt of my wide-leg trousers.
Bethanne appears at the opening of my office.
“Let me lock my computer, then I’ll be ready,” I tell her, turning to do just that.
Not that it matters. I can’t recall a time I’ve left my computer unlocked since I started working for Marvin and Clarke Realty. Houston must be the real estate genius Bethanne thinks he is, or he’s figured out my password. While I don’t want him to get any credit, I really hope it’s the genius theory. My password is not something I want Houston armed with. Firstly, because I use the same password for everything, so he could literally hack my bank accounts. And secondly, it’s the kind of code you don’t want anyone else to see. No one needs to know that I was so obsessed with country music star Wyatt Parker in college that I made my passwordMrsWyattParker1and haven’t changed it since. He might be a few years older…and married…with kids, but hey, a girl can still dream.
“Let’s go drown this bad morning in chips and queso,” Bethanne says, linking her arm in mine. She’s tall compared to me, which is another reason she says she doesn’t need to wear heels. And when I’m in mine, it puts us at almost the same height.
“Sounds like a great plan.”
I muster a smile as we walk through our shark tank of an office. Houston isn’t the only one with a taste for blood. There are other agents who would do a lot to get on the good side of our CEO, Marveena. She recently took over the position from her dad, Marvin–yes, she was named after him–and the power went straight to her head. It became awhoyou know, notwhatyou know workplace overnight. But it’s all okay. This is just a job, and at the end of the day, I get to go home to my nice house in mycute little neighborhood and curl up on the couch–all alone. My smile falters. I shouldn’t have thought about that part. It always gets me into trouble. And by trouble, I mean signing up for yet another dating website hoping it’ll be different.
Newsflash: it never is.
“Where are you two ladies off to?” Houston’s over pronounced southern drawl grates on my eardrums.
He begins to walk with us, much too close for comfort.
“Lunch,” I reply in a tight voice.
“No invite for me?” he asks with a smirk.
Bethanne squeezes my arm. I stay silent.
He waves a hand. “That’s all right. I would have turned you down anyway. I’m having a celebratory lunch with the Thornes at their son’s restaurant. I told them we shouldn’t take up a table in such an exclusive place–the waiting list is months long, after all–but they insisted on account of how grateful they were to me for finding their dream home.”
Maybe I should take Brock up on his offer of hiring out one of his MMA fighter clients. It would significantly improve my happiness to witness Houston getting punched in the face.
“Have fun,” I deadpan.
Houston opens the front door to the building and holds it for us. Bethanne murmurs a quiet thanks to him because she was raised by her southern grandma to be polite no matter what. I was raised to be polite too, but my mom also speaks her mind loudly and often. It’s gotten me into trouble once or twice.
“Oh, I will. I even managed to turn this into a tasting lunch for the gala next month. Marveena is thrilled that the renowned Ciel wants to cater our charity gala.”
