Page 1 of False Start
Madelyn
I wondered how big his cock was.
It was an entirely inappropriate thought for a real estate agent to have about her new client, but standing in the middle of the vast mansion with marble floors, high ceilings, and a striking view of Mount Rainier, it was all I could think.
Because this smelled a lot like overcompensating.
My guess was the guy wasn’t even serious. I’d been alerted at two in the morning by a real estate app that someone wanted to see this house, and since I hadn’t slept through the night since I was a kid, I was easily the first agent to respond to the request. It was a nearly four-million-dollar home, which got my attention, because even if it was likely just a prank, the possibility of that commission was life changing and too good to pass up.
I’d also learned that in today’s day and age, most people preferred to be texted rather than hounded on the phone.
So, I’d sent a text right away, saying I had availability today and sending over my times. My mystery client had picked the first one, and so here I was, tea in hand, standing in the middleof a seven-thousand-square-foot home and wondering who the hell could possibly need this much space.
I sighed.
It was probably a joke.
I’d dealt with enough of those in my five years as an agent. People loved to play that trick, pretending to be interested in buying just to see the inside of a nice house. Most of the larger homes required some sort of background check before allowing anyone in to see, some sort of proof that the client had real intent to buy. But, sometimes, like in this case, anyone could request a viewing.
The listing was new, and my guess was the sellers would learn their lesson to put some parameters in place soon enough.
I glanced at my watch, noting that the guy was already twenty minutes late. Of course, it could be a woman. It wasn’t fair that I assumed it was a man. But judging by the house listing boasting aman cavecomplete with an indoor golf simulator, I guess you could say I had a pretty good hunch.
The name they’d given in the app request wasNunya Biznaz, which either meant this wasabsolutelysome nosy prick who just wanted to see inside a mansion, or that it was someone high profile who didn’t want the media snooping on their real estate inquiries.
Both were plausible in Seattle.
I was just about to break my text-only rule and call the guy when a loud engine alerted me to his arrival.
That overcompensating thought came rushing back.
Slapping a smile on my face, I let my stiletto heels carry me toward the front door, the softclick-clacka bit soothing as I did. I’d left the door open, so I stood in the foyer, ready to greet my client — who’d just pulled up the stone drive in a forest green Aston Martin that still purred even while idle.
The engine cut, and the door opened, revealing one long leg and a very large sneaker.
My theory on overcompensating went out the door when the man stood.
He towered over the tiny sports car.
In fact, I was trying to figure out how he fit in that carat allas he smoothed a hand over his long-sleeve shirt, his eyes surveying the house in front of him like it wasn’t measuring up to be what he expected.
He wasinsanelytall, at least six-foot-seven, but built like a tank. His waist was lean somehow, but his shoulders broad, his arms thick and corded with muscle that strained against the fabric of his shirt. He wore a pair of light-gray joggers that stretched over thick thighs, thighs I didn’t have to study long to know were just as muscular as his arms. He also didn’t have to turn around for me to know he likely had an ass to match.
His hair was hidden under a beanie, but I imagined it matched the brown of the stubble lining his jaw. That wasn’toops I forgot to shavestubble, either. It was purposeful, neatly trimmed, the kind of stubble that drove a woman mad if she thought about what it would feel like brushing her neck.
Myneck heated with that thought, one I hadn’t had in years, a feeling I thought was dead stirring to life deep in my gut.
The man was dripping in sex appeal, from his casual attire to his hot sports car.
And though I wanted to be immune to it, I wasn’t.
My thighs clenched, and I tried to fend off the electricity buzzing in my veins by standing a bit straighter as I waited for him to climb the steps. He wore sunglasses, even though it was too early for him to need them, and his thick lips were in a sort of unamused pout as he scanned the yard.
“Good morning,” I said, my voice a bit raspy. It felt like it’d been that way for years now, as if all the lack of sleep and latenights crying had permanently changed it. “You picked quite a beautiful home to see today.”
My smile felt even more forced, but I kept it plastered on as the man sauntered up the stairs, still looking around at the house. He walked with a swagger only someone with ridiculous money to spend could, like the breathtaking architecture of the home didn’t impress him, like this wasn’t even close to the nicest view he’d ever seen.
“I’m Madelyn Hearst,” I said, extending my hand when he hit the top stair.
