Page 12 of Even After This
“And what are you treating yourself to here at the spa this morning?” he asks.
“A massage.”
“Going to try to relax before Prissy runs you around?”
And then a flicker of courage hits me. I don’t know where it came from. It’s like my flirting flip phone got charged for a few minutes and is ready to talk. I kick my lips up in a half smile and look at him. “I’m getting the massage to recover from your smooth moves on the dance floor last night.”
Something sparks in his eyes, and his shoulders shake with silent laughter. “Is that so?”
“I called downstairs to ask for their recommendation, and when I described my sore muscles, they suggested the extra-long appointment with the hot rocks.”
He cocks his head and says in all seriousness, but with a glint in his eye, “I think maybe that means we need to practice more.”
“I—I—um...”Mayday. Mayday. The flip phone has failed. Step awayfrom the conversation. I repeat:Step away from the conversation.The flip phone has cosmically failed.“I can’t dance in a robe.”
My skin is on fire.
“Meredith.” He does that thing again where his eyes soften, but this time they’re filled with amusement and ... affection? “Are you okay?”
My flirting flip phone shorts out completely, and my flustered self blurts, “I need to go find my happy place.” I suck in a breath, stand, and turn on my heel to leave.
Only to have the most beautiful, deep laughter follow me out of the room.
“I don’t think I want a golf course in my backyard.” Looking out the bay window of a Broadmoor West Residence condo, my arms crossed, I stare at color that would make the fields of Ireland jealous.
My first property viewing is a mirror to my life.
It’s fine. It just doesn’t feel quite right.
“Colorado’s Front Range is behind the golf course.” The ultimate businesswoman, my realtor makes this obvious statement without an insulting tone.
“I know,” I say. “But it feels a little manufactured.”
“People pay significant amounts for this view.”
“Yes.” Turning to her, I nod. “But I bet they actuallyplaygolf.”
At this point, I consider joking that I am the problem client, but I’m afraid the statement might hold some truth.
Besides, Prissy Prestidge is too professional to appreciate that kind of comment. She epitomizes efficiency. My guess is her assessing gaze means the cogwheels in her brain are calculating how to find my dream property.
She offers a curt nod. “Of course. This isn’t right for you. Let’s drive to the next option.”
Prissy’s deceiving name is her first line of defense. Her reputation as a bulldog real estate negotiator is legendary. But at this moment in time, I covet her ability to wear a suit. How can someone look so fabulous in what I consider the dress code for the FBI?
I need to rethink my entire wardrobe. In spite of the pashmina I added to spruce up my outfit, the pink cashmere sweater and black NYDJ ankle-length pants don’t hold a candle to Prissy. I’m underdressed to be a passenger in her car.
After we meander through Colorado Springs for viewings at three other Broadmoor estates, the final one we hit is perfect.
In theory.
Leaning against the marble countertop in the state-of-the-artkitchen, I imagine cooking in front of the island’s six-burner stove and gazing across the open floor plan to my extended family seated in a giant, comfy sectional framed around the tall stone fireplace.
Prissy’s high heels click on the textured, wide-plank hardwood floors. She reaches the custom windows and pulls the curtains to capacity, exposing the full glory of the mountains. “What do you like about this house?”
I cross the room to the hearth. “This wall of ledgestone is inviting. You can come home, throw your jacket on the back of the couch, and take a load off. Whereas the fabric-covered walls in the last house wouldn’t allow you to relax.” Twisting my torso, I glimpse back at her.
Her eyes narrow. “What do you dislike about this home?”
