Now it’s my turn to look incredulous. “Who the fuck are you? ‘Ladies love their Loubis’?”
“I told you, I’m fucking Cyrano. And you should listen to me. Tomorrow morning send your lady a pair of glass slippers for the ball. It’ll make her happy and fucking guarantee you some crazy monkey sex. Win-win for everyone.”
“Oh, yeah. You’re Cyrano, all right.” I shove him toward the door. “You’ve got romance written all over you.”
“Geez, when’d you become such a hater?”
“About the same time my best friend lost his mind. Go home. Get some sleep so you can do your job tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Always worrying about yourself.” But he shoots me a grin and a peace sign before taking off down the outside corridor.
“Don’t forget!” he shouts, just as I go to close the door. “Shoes!”
Chapter 17
Emerson
“Hey, what are you doing for lunch today?” Alice asks as I restock the Keurig cups at the coffee bar.
“Probably eating the granola bar I brought from home, why?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re in the middle of making a gigantic deal. Way bigger than anything I’ve done in the three years I’ve been an agent. Don’t you think we should celebrate with something a little more exciting than a granola bar?”
“Maybe, but until I get paid, a granola bar is pretty much all I can afford. Besides, the deal isn’t done yet.”
“It’s going to be. They came back with a counteroffer and now you’re countering their counteroffer. It’ll be a done deal by tomorrow, I assure you. And then Kerry will have to get off your ass.”
She says the last in a furtive whisper while glancing over her shoulder, as if she expects Kerry to pop out of the wall like the bogeyman or something.
“Or fire me,” I tell her as I crouch down and pull a bunch of coffee cups out from under the sink, then arrange them next to the bright red coffeemaker. “Which is a distinct possibility when she no longer has to worry about making Hunter unhappy.” I was protected from her ire this morning, since he insisted on driving me to work. But I’m not naïve enough to think that’s going to continue.
“I don’t know. She may be vindictive, but she’s not stupid. You just made the agency a shitload of money and you’ve only been working here three days. She’s been trying to close a deal with Hunter for two weeks and couldn’t get it done. She has to keep you.”
“We’ll see.”
I check to make sure the sugar and creamer are good—they are—then nod for Alice to follow me back to my desk. I can’t be away from the phone for longer than a couple of minutes at a time.
Sure enough, I’ve barely settled behind my desk when the phone rings. “Good morning, thank you for calling San Diego City Living. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi.” A rich male voice comes through the line, loud and clear. “I’m looking for Emerson Day.”
“This is Emerson. How can I help you?” I’m more than a little confused as I wait for his answer. Except for the people I phone to set up appointments for Kerry, no one knows to ask for me when they call. And since I’ve got everything lined up for the week—all with people who don’t sound like this guy—I have no idea what he could possibly want.
“This is Shawn Wilson. I’m looking for a beach house on Coronado and Hunter Browning gave me your name. Said you could hook me up.”
I’m so shocked I nearly drop the phone. Shawn Wilson is on the phone. Asking for me. Shawn freaking Wilson, who happens to be one of the best wide receivers on the planet. And he’s on the phone. My phone. Wanting to talk to me.
I must look as shocked as I feel because suddenly Alice is in my face, hands up in a “what’s going on” gesture.
I frantically shake my head at her even as I scramble to pull a notebook out of my top desk drawer. “Yes, of course. I’m happy to help you find a house, Mr. Wilson.”
He laughs. “Call me Shawn or Wilson. I never answer to the ‘Mr.’ part.”
“Okay, Shawn.” Alice’s eyes go wide as she puts the names together and figures out that I’m talking to another one of the Lightning’s biggest players. But having her here is breaking my concentration, so I shoo her away. When she doesn’t go, I turn my chair around to face the wall even as I will my racing heart to calm down. “Can you give me some idea of what you’re looking for?”
We spend the next few minutes talking about his specifications—at least six bedrooms plus a guesthouse, beach access, room for a basketball court and a tennis court if it doesn’t already have it and a number of other things that put the house in the really exclusive category. We’re talking about another fifteen- or twenty-million-dollar house here, maybe more, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I mean, sure, I’m excited. Who wouldn’t be? But when Hunter sent him my way, did he do it because he thinks I’m a good agent? Or because we’re sleeping together and he’s trying to score points? Or worse, because he saw where I live and he feels sorry for me?