Page 8 of Riot Reunion
Our realtor doesn't know that, though. Standing in the corner of the kitchen, she shifts, huffing impatiently, annoyed by the fact that two first-year Harvard brats are wasting her time. She has that polished, well-dressed vibe that implies she's very,verygood at her job. The commission she makes on renting out these high-end Cambridge residences must be astronomical. Nothing compared to the amount she must make if she actuallysellsa place. The moment she laid eyes on Wren and me and realized how young we are, she evidently concluded that we were trying to amuse ourselves by playing grown-up, touring apartments and penthouses that we have absolutely no business touring. But Cambridge is full of wealthy families with spoiled, incredibly wealthy progeny. Surely, she must have dealt with other loaded eighteen-year-olds before?
“I do have five other showings across town soon,” she gripes, glancing down impatiently at her watch. “If you guys are having a difficult time deciding, it isn't a problem. You can always call the office and reschedule another viewing time with another realtor, who—”
“Don't you like making money, Celia?” Wren throws her a sidelong look.
She balks, sighing loudly. “Ilovemaking money. It's my favorite thing to do, which is why I'd like to get to my other showings. I get the feeling you guys might be in a little over your heads. I honestly don't have time for—”
“Call your office.”
“Excuse me?”
Wren cracks his thumb. “You’re excused. Call your office.” He walks over to the doorway that leads out into the hall, looking to his left and to his right, up and down the length of the wide walkway that leads off into the apartment’s two bedrooms and the huge room at the end—my personal favorite. The room which, without a shadow of a doubt, would be our library. The bright, open space is wall-to-wall bookshelves, with a large open fireplace and two huge windows. Below, the street is a wide boulevard lined with Live Oak trees. Their leaves are a stunning wash of burnt amber, oranges, and crimsons. I can imagine the battered, comfortable armchairs that we’d place here by those windows, and how peaceful and safe it would feel to curl up in them with a good book, the rain pattering comfortingly against the glass, a fire burning in the grate and thunder rumbling off in the distance. It's so strange to be able to envisage that so clearly. Not just how it would look to glance over and see Wren sprawled out on his back, legs thrown over the end of a battered leather sofa, the spine of a dog-eared, well-worn copy of‘The Fall of the House of Usher’resting on his solar plexus as he lazily thumbed his way through the pages. But how it wouldfeel, too. In my bones, I already know what it would be like. How beautifully familiar, and perfect, and timeless it would be to share this space with him. I want to exist here with him in perfect synchrony, whiling our days away, studying, reading, falling asleep each night together, tangled up in our sheets, tangled up in each other, dreaming our blissful dreams.
Nothing could be more heavenly.
What alifethat’d be…
“Ms. Stillwater.”
The clipped sound of my name drags me out of my reverie, pulling me away from an imaginary future that feels as if it's hovering right at my fingertips. I look up and the realtor, Celia, is glaring at me. Wren’s nowhere to be seen. “Why is your boyfriend telling me to call my office?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I honestly have no idea.”
“I must insist that we wrap things up here now. Traffic’s even worse than normal today, and I have to stop by Reggie’s. If I don't pick up some Italian wedding cookies before they sell out, there's no chance I'll close on what promises to be a very lucrative deal. Please. Hurry him along so that we can get out of here.”
“I'm afraid my boyfriend has a mind of his own. He’s not very good at being…hurried along.” I lace my tone with just enough snark to tell her how much I disapprove of her request. “If he told you to call your office, I'm sure it's for a good reason. Perhaps you should do as he asked and find out for yourself?”
“Elodie!” Wren calls my name from somewhere in the apartment. His voice bounces around the vast space, echoing through the kitchen. “Come check this out!”
Before Celia can kick up more of a stink, I sidle past her, out of the kitchen, on a mission to find my boyfriend. I locate him in an east-facing corner room with paned windows so large the drapes would have to fall from the ceiling to floor to cover them. There's a warm, cozy feel to this room, even though the space is empty, and the walls are bare. It sounds ridiculous, but it feels like ahappyspace.
“Master bedroom,” Wren states. “The bed would go here.” He gestures to the back wall that faces one of the massive windows. “A dresser here, for you. A vanity here, next to it. Andthis,” he says, spinning around, facing the other window. “This is where I’d put my easel. A drafting table, maybe. The light here will be like liquid honey in the mornings, right before the sun comes up.”
My imagination runs away with me again. I can totally see it now: waking up in the pre-dawn hours to find Wren, shirtless and ruffled, his thick hair a halo of black waves, his bare skin spackled with streaks of blue, and black, and white paint. I love watching him work when he thinks that I'm sleeping—the deep, focused concentration on his face. His brows banking together, his right hand swinging wildly from one side of the canvas to the next in a moment, only to hover over a single square inch of space the next, as he pours all of his attention and skill into the tiniest of details.
Back in the kitchen, Celia is talking, presumably on the phone. Wren hid his excitement from her, the same way he hides all of his emotions from the rest of the world. He hides nothing from me, though. His eyes dance, alive, as he takes three giant steps toward me and cradles my face in his palms. A foot taller than me, he towers over me as he quirks an eyebrow, studying my features. “What do you think? Tell me the truth. Is it a shit hole?”
“I love it.”
He grins. “You do?”
“I adore it. I adore everything about it. It's spectacular.”
“You'd be happy here?”
“Insanelyhappy.”
“I was hoping you'd say that.”
Behind him, a floorboard creaks. Celia lurks in the doorway, tapping the back of her phone with long, bright purple-manicured nails. She smiles peevishly at Wren, her lips drawing into a thin line. “We have some paperwork to take care of, Mr. Jacobi,” she clips out. “I’ve just been informed that the owners have accepted your offer, and the funds have already been cleared. All that's left to do is sign on the dotted line.”
I keep my surprise in check, if only to save it for when Celia's sour face isn't spoiling the mood; for a woman who likely just made fifty grand, she sure as shit doesn't look very happy. I guess it sucks to be embarrassed by your own prejudices. With her Red Bottoms and her Versace pantsuit, she thought she was higher up the food chain than we could ever be, but now she’s realizing that she’s the lowest rung on the freaking ladder…in comparison toWren, at least. That old Jacobi moneytalks.
He could be smug. Nothing is stopping him from laying it on thick and making her feel even stupider, but instead, he affects a bored tone and says, “We’ll be by later on this evening to sign the title deed. If you could make sure everything’s drawn up and ready to complete by seven, that’d be wonderful.”
Even I know that that's a lot of work. There must be a lot of legal documentation involved. No way she’ll be making it to Reggie’s for those Italian wedding cookies. Celia wants that commission check, though, and she wants it bad. Not to mention that the sooner she crosses the T’s and dots the I’s on this sale, the faster she can be done with the likes of us. “Naturally, Mr. Jacobi. Leave it with me. I'll call as soon as I'm—”
“We'll be over at seven sharp.” Wren’s jagged edge smile is sharp enough to cut. His tone, cold as ice, brooks no argument.
