Page 11 of The Sky in Summer
“Your destination is on the right,” the GPS app says with a British accent.
Gotta mix it up, and my clients love the touch. Sometimes you need a little talking point. You have to entertain. It’s not just showing homes and quoting square footage. No. The whole picture is what counts. How you present. How you dress, how you speak, and how relaxed and good you are at the details of your job. They want to think their realtor could afford the luxury properties shown them, because they have sold so many. It’s subliminal. Above all, a realtor must be good at proving you have their best interests in mind.
Shit, there’s other cars here already and the open house isn’t till tomorrow. Thought Mindy offered me a pre-showing. I grab my cell and get out of the car. Just as I do, a text sounds. Chloe. Not now. I fire off an excuse and head up the walkway, checking out the landscape and hardscape. The home is being staged and looks like it’s still in progress. The young guy rolling a dolly with a large glossy black planter looks up as I approach. He is practically hidden by the huge plant.
“Hey.”
He doesn’t acknowledge my grunt greeting. Asshole. Walking through the open door, Mindy has already spotted me coming. At fifty something she looks hot as fuck. The blue dress, shoes, and jewelry all right. Good calves and arms. Although, I am not going there. Oh no. She has diarrhea of the mouth. It never stops, the regurgitation of every fucking thing that comes into her mind. That would drive me nuts. Bet she could recite the Pledge of Allegiance while she’s blowing you. Better that I admire her silently and leave it at that.
“Van! Glad you came. I wanted to give you first look. You look handsome today, honey. Nice suit. But then, you always look good.”
She is staring like I am a piece of meat, which is something I usually like. Not today.
“Hi. Thanks. So show me around. Good entry.”
The attempt to keep it professional is only so successful. I see the look in her eyes, so I put some space between us. Mindy has been known to slip an arm through men she wants as she showcases a home. Then you become a captive audience.
Two workers place a large heavy urn by the fireplace. Its sharp lines look good in the modern space. As we move slowly through the room Mindy fills me in on the deets.
“It’s forty-two hundred sixty-seven square feet. Thirteen-foot ceilings in most rooms.”
“Nice.”
Passing into the kitchen, there’s a lot to take in.
“The owners did a remodel of the kitchen this year. Miele appliances, custom cabinets. These are enameled lava counters.”
“Very cool,” I say, running a hand over the surface.
As she recites important details, I am already thinking of a couple of clients that might be interested in seeing this one. The Glass family maybe.
“The staging is good. Really sharp.”
“I’m using someone new. This is the third house she’s done for me. And I love the way she manages her employees. Just today…”
The unnecessary soliloquy, in response to a simple statement, is interrupted by a voice from the next room. Sound traveling down from the second floor.
“Jesse! Try that on the opposite side of the fireplace.”
Am I imagining this? That’s her voice.
“What’s your stager’s name?”
“Layla Silver. Silver Staging. I just love her work! Want her card?”
I nod, as she goes on and on, but I’m tuning out most of the words. I take the card and walk around the room casually, making my way to the other entrance to the kitchen. Away from the shark that keeps circling.
“Okay. Let me explore a little and I’ll come back, and we can talk. I looked at the stats online and may have someone who would be interested. An all-cash buyer. Quick escrow.”
“Better tell them to jump on it if they are seriously interested. Tomorrow’s open house is going to be a good one. The response has been great. This one is gonna go fast.”
She lost me at better. We both know real estate. I don’t need her to tell me the house is going to go quickly. It’s priced realistically, ripe for a bidding war in this market.
All words fade as I walk out of the room, and head for Layla. Motor mouth follows, ignoring my attempt to put distance between us. Rounding the corner, I’m met with the sight of an impressive backside. This is becoming a theme.
She’s on the second floor, top step of a tall ladder, changing a bulb in a modern light fixture. I’m fully lit with the look of her ass. Damn. It sits high and firm, filling her yoga pants like twin balloons a little overfilled. The long hair is caught in a ponytail, but it sweeps the workout top and exposed shoulder blades as she looks up.
“I think we’ve met,” I say, speaking to her butt.
